The great mouth opened; Linden felt the rumble of the flames as they passed down the long throat.
With an effort that came near to tearing him apart, Linden fought with Rathan for control of their body. He couldn’t stop the flames, it was too late for that, but perhaps—
As the great head snapped up, a huge gout of fire shot harmlessly into the night sky like some strange shooting star. Rathan bellowed, turning his rage on Linden.
Remember your vow! Linden screamed as the dragon’s fury consumed him. He writhed as Rathan tore at him. Gods help him, he never thought to die this way.
Then—peace. For a moment Linden thought he must have died. Slowly it came to him: he was alive. Barely.
Rathan said with sullen fury, *I remember my vow, humansoul. But I will also remember that thee stopped me from destroying this sore upon the body of Mother Earth. I understand why, so I forgive it. But now I charge thee to see to this foul thing’s destruction. Does thee understand, humansoul Linden?*
I understand, Rathan, Linden said, weak and shaking.
One moment he was bereft of all his senses, held in thrall by Rathan’s power. The next Rathan was gone. Linden was plunging headlong from the sky before he realized that he once more controlled their body. Only the frantic beating of his wings saved him from crashing into the ground. Shaken, he soared into the sky and drifted on the wind, numb with shock.
It was long before he came fully to himself. At first he was confused by the unfamiliar terrain below him. Then he realized that he’d drifted south and further east than he’d yet been. Below him was the shoreline.
Tall rocks marched along the edge between water and sand. But between them and the cliffs was a wide expanse of beach, wide enough for him to Change. He swooped down and began Changing while still in the air. A few heartbeats later he landed on booted feet, bending his knees to take the shock and staggering a little as the sand shifted beneath him. Then he was pulling off his clothes as fast as he could.
Linden ran down the beach and threw himself into the sea. Let the clean salt water wash away the taint of the sacrificial altar, the taste of his own mortality, the memory of the fear and pain; he wanted to be free of all of it. He battled the waves, letting them toss him this way and that, until he felt cleansed.
Gods, what a fool he’d been; he wasn’t certain he deserved to come through that so little scathed. But he was thankful he had. He hauled himself out of the water, tired beyond belief. He dressed, feeling more at peace with himself, if not completely healed.
Once again he let himself flow into Change. But this time there was a hesitation to it, something he’d felt only a few times before when he was either ill or injured. It was his magic’s way of telling him that he was not really strong enough to spend the necessary energy so freely. He would heed that warning; once back to man-form he’d not Change again for a few days at least.
Once aloft, he decided it would be easiest to follow the coastline until he found a familiar area. The updrafts from the cliffs would do much to spare his strength.
He tilted his wings and glided west along the coast. At one point he recognized the beach where they’d had the picnic. The memory cheered him a little.
Some time later he saw the standing stones guarding their headland. Wary but curious, he dropped a little lower.
The area of the headland around the stones glowed with a gentle silver light to his dragon eyes, the stones themselves brighter pillars of silver and gold. Once more he felt the humming in his bones; this time it was stronger, growing as he dropped lower. The magic here was like a balm to the seared and tattered edges of his soul. He glided over it, his wingtips almost brushing the tallest stones, grateful for the easing of the last of the pain and terror.
He gave the area of the clearing a wide berth and came down at last in the field near where the hobbled gelding waited. This time it was even harder to Change.
As he rode back to Casna, slumped in near exhaustion, Linden thought over what he’d learned. Not very much, after all, and I don’t like what I did discover. But who’s responsible for the sorcery? Does it even have anything to do with the Fraternity? And what can three Dragonlords do against it, anyway? We’re creatures of magic, not mages!
By the time Linden reached the house once more he was shaking. He guided the gelding to the stables and sat for a moment, gathering the strength to dismount.
He told himself it was just reaction, that he’d be fine once he rested a little and ate something, had a bit of wine to restore him. Of course, if he couldn’t get out of the saddle … He debated calling for a groom to help him. But if the grooms were sound sleepers, he’d have to yell loud enough to wake half the house; the fewer people who saw him like this, the better.
A figure detached itself from the shadows. Surprise lent Linden a brief surge of strength. He sat upright.
“Boyo,” said a familiar voice in Yerrin, “where have you been and what have you been doing? You look like something the cat threw back.”
Truth be told, he felt like something the cat threw up. Linden closed his eyes for a moment in relief. “Thank all the gods it’s you, Otter. But what are you doing here? Wait—let me get down.”
With Otter’s help, Linden dismounted without falling. Together they led the horse into the stable. Linden didn’t argue when Otter insisted he sit and leave the horse to him.
“As for what I’m doing here, Kief mindcalled me earlier. Seems he was worried about something you were up to—though he wouldn’t tell me what; very secretive, he was. But he and Tarlna didn’t want to come here themselves because it might cause comment, their hanging about so late. But everyone knows we’re friends and that bards are unpredictable creatures anyway, so it wouldn’t seem odd if I did. Now—what in the world were you doing, you big idiot, to get yourself into such a condition?” Otter waved the hoof pick threateningly at him before going back to cleaning the gelding’s feet. “And why is Kief being so cautious about being seen here?”
Linden rubbed a hand over his eyes. Gods, but he was going to have to sleep soon. But first he had to report to Kief and Tarlna, a thing he was not looking forward to. Nor did he relish telling his tale more than once. “Let me get some food and wine before I fall down. Then I have to mindcall the others; I’ll let you ‘listen’ in.”
Otter, in the midst of hanging up the gelding’s tack, raised his eyebrows and asked, “Will the others stand for it?”
“Have they any choice?” Linden replied.
Somewhat restored by half of a cold chicken, bread, cheese, and a goodly amount of wine, Linden pulled his boots and tunic off and lay down on his bed. Otter pulled up a chair.
“Ready?” said Linden.
“Ready,” Otter replied as he tossed his cloak back from his shoulders. The bard closed his eyes and stretched his legs out.
“Very well, then.” Linden closed his own eyes and reached out to Kief and Tarlna.
The speed with which they answered told him they’d been waiting for his call. And the annoyed apprehension he felt through the link told him in what state of mind that time had been spent.
This was not going to be pleasant.
Before they could do more than exclaim, Linden launched into his tale. He held nothing back, though he did try to mute the full effect of the victim’s terror and what he himself had suffered from Rathan’s rage; Otter was no longer a young man.
As he knew would happen, the moment he finished, the other two Dragonlords heaped violent recriminations upon his head. He stood it for a few moments, then bellowed, Enough!
In the shocked silence that followed, he continued, Yes, I was a fool. We’re all agreed on that. And no, I won’t do it again. But what’s done is done, and instead of wasting time and what little energy I have left this night, let us see what we can make of this.
A moment of stiff silence followed. Then Kief said, Very well, Linden. So what do we now know? First, that there is a mage of some power about.
An
d that he—or she—uses blood magic, Tarlna added. Linden—could you tell how long ago that … Her mindvoice faltered.
I’m no mage to know for certain, but I do think someone was killed there not very long ago. Within a few months at the most; remember, what was left was nearly strong enough to catch a Dragonlord.
Tarlna said, That would seem to indicate that it was fairly recent, else the power would have ebbed away, thank the gods. Dark magery is too volatile to sustain itself at such strength when stored like that, save in a soultrap jewel—or unless another mage the equal of Ankarlyn has arisen.
Avert! Linden and Kief said at the same time.
Linden shuddered as though shaking off a nightmare. That was something he hadn’t yet considered—didn’t want to consider. Ankarlyn the Mage had been the worst enemy the Dragonlords had ever faced; though it was long before his time, the tale of how Ankarlyn had nearly annihilated their kind touched a chord in every Dragonlord. After they’d destroyed him and his following, the Fraternity of the Blood, the Dragonlords had hunted down every grimoire, every scrap of spell on parchment that Ankarlyn had written, and burned them. The thought that a single book might have escaped—or that another mage had been able to repeat Ankarlyn’s spells—made him feel ill.
And the thought that such a mage might be working for the newly reborn Fraternity made his very soul tremble.
But we don’t know that this mage is attached to the Fraternity said to be in existence here in Cassori, he said.
True, Kief said. There have been, after all, no attacks on us. It could be some mage garnering power for his own ends and nothing to do with events here in Cassori.
Just so, Tarlna said. After all, it was not magic that caused the storm that sank the queen’s barge.
For some reason the mention of the barge made Linden remember Maurynna’s amusing description of the ungainly vessels. “They wallow like pregnant cows in the water, but—”
Dear gods! he exclaimed, interrupting something Kief was saying. Maybe we’ve been looking at it all wrong!
What do you mean? the others demanded. This time even Otter, who’d remained discreetly quiet during the conversation, joined in.
We’ve always looked at the storm as the cause of the sinking, he said in a rush, lest the half-formed idea surfacing in his mind vanish before he could share it, and wondered if it was mage-born. But the storm was the work of nature and nothing else. It wasn’t even that bad of one, I’ve been told.
He went slowly now, feeling his way through unfamiliar concepts and language. But it wasn’t the weather that made the barge sink. What caused that was her stern going under. Which it shouldn’t have; another sailor told Maurynna that it was only a small following sea—he saw it. And she once remarked that, clumsy as the barges are, even they shouldn’t dip their sterns low enough to founder in such a sea.
Another conversation came back to him. Gods, even Healer Tasha once said that the barge had weathered worse.
A long, thoughtful silence followed his words. Then …
A storm might well be out of our mage’s powers, Kief began.
But causing the end of a boat to dip just low enough for waves already there to swamp it … Tarlna continued.
Is well within the abilities of the mage that I sensed tonight, Linden finished.
And who benefited the most by Queen Desia’s death? Whose way to the throne was made clear? Duke Beren. That same Duke Beren who had revealed time and again his antipathy to the Dragonlords. In his mind’s eye Linden saw once more the duke’s livid face as he and Linden confronted each other on the beach.
He let the other three follow his thoughts and felt their wordless agreement, then listened as Kief and Tarlna discussed what they could do, for they still had no proof the mage who used the altar was even connected with the queen’s death.
All at once he couldn’t stay awake any longer. Please, I must sleep now.
Understood. Rest well, Linden.
The others withdrew from his mind. Sighing, he let himself sink toward sleep.
A hand on his shoulder startled him awake. His eyes flew open; Otter was bending over him. Gods help him, he’d forgotten the man was still here! He began an apology.
The fury in Otter’s eyes stopped him. Linden had never thought to see the bard so angry that words would fail him. He saw it now.
“Don’t,” Otter said, his voice tight and flat when he could finally talk once more, “you ever, ever do something like that again. Damn it all, boyo! We could have lost you!”
Linden began feebly, “But I had—”
Otter snarled, “And what would have become of Maurynna? Tell me that, you bloody idiot! Oh, ho—you’d forgotten that there’s not just yourself to think of now, didn’t you? Then you’d best get used to the idea and right quick, do you hear?”
There was no arguing. Otter was right; he’d been even more of a fool than he’d thought. The thought of what his death might have done to his soultwin sickened him.
Otter must have seen it in his face, for the bard straightened, a grim, satisfied smile on his face. He picked up his cloak from the chair and slung it over one arm. “No—you’ll not be repeating that bit of arrant stupidity any time too soon.” He paused at the door and said with rough affection, “Go to sleep, you ass. You’re done in.”
There was no arguing with that, either. Linden nodded and once more closed his eyes.
He was asleep even before the door closed.
Forty-two
During the noonmark break from the council meeting, Linden decided to wander out to the garden where Rann played when he felt well enough. Perhaps it would wake him up. He was still tired and feeling more than a touch mind-fogged from his adventure, even though he’d spent most of yesterday napping when he wasn’t in the council. Kief and Tarlna had given up trying to discuss anything with him after he’d fallen asleep for the third time.
It would be a long, long time before he tried something like that with Rathan again.
But in a few candlemarks he would see Maurynna again. The thought lifted his spirits as nothing else could have done.
He turned the corner of the hall and saw the Earl of Rockfall coming toward him. He raised a hand in greeting, feeling a little guilty that Sevrynel had gone through all that trouble for him—and for nothing.
So when Sevrynel greeted him with, “Dragonlord! A moment, please!” he stopped.
“Yes, my lord Earl?” he said. “I’m sorry I missed your gathering the other day. Both Kief and Tarlna told me much about your new mares.”
The little earl joined him. “I’m sorry, too, Your Grace,” he said, sounding truly disappointed. “I would dearly love your opinion on them. Did the other Dragonlords tell you the mares are of the Mhari line?”
That caught Linden’s interest as nothing else could have. “Indeed? Then I’m doubly sorry I missed them. Perhaps another time—” Such as after we figure out what to do about this damned mage … Moved by guilt—and too tired to think carefully about what he promised—Linden said, “I swear I shall attend your next gathering without fail, my lord. Will that do?”
Sevrynel beamed. “Indeed it will, Dragonlord—for the next one is this evening!”
Linden could only boggle at him. Tonight? But—
The earl must have noticed his hesitation, for he waggled an admonitory finger, and with a roguish grin, said, “Ah—remember! I have your sworn word, my lord. Tonight.”
And with that, the earl bowed and continued on his way. Linden stared dumbfounded at nothing, mentally berating himself for his careless tongue.
He had to go to that cursed gathering now; he’d given his word. And that would make him late for the tisrahn. Maurynna would have his head.
“Oh, bloody hells,” he said, suddenly disgusted with the world.
Well and well, he’d just have to do the best he could. At least he had until moonrise to get to the tisrahn.
Maurynna paced back and forth in the upper hall, her shad
ow on the wall following her in the glow from the rushlights. “Where can he be? Surely the council meeting ended hours ago. I can’t see those fat nobles missing their suppers.”
“Will you stop,” Maylin snapped. “You’re making me dizzy. And we can’t wait any longer. The moon’s going to rise soon. You’re one of the sponsors—you have to be there on time. If we don’t leave now—Someone’s here!”
Both young women gathered up their skirts and ran to the top of the stairs. Maurynna paused at the first step.
Please let it be Linden!
Maylin crowded beside her. They spied as Merrisa, one of the young clerk-apprentices, answered the door.
But the man who stood there was not Linden. For one thing he was far too old. And he wore royal livery. He and Merrisa had a hurried discussion, then the apprentice disappeared down the hall. The cousins exchanged glances, puzzled.
“Do you think he’s sent a messenger warning you to go ahead?” whispered Maylin.
“Let’s find out,” Maurynna said and descended the stairs.
The man looked up at her, but beyond a polite nod paid her no attention.
“Sir,” she said, her voice trembling. “May I ask your business here?”
He weighed his answer for a long moment. Then he said, “Prince Rann wishes Bard Otter Heronson to sing for him, young mistress. He’s feeling poorly tonight and Healer Tasha thought it might help.”
“Ah. There was—um, no other message?”
“No, mistress.” The lined face was bored.
She felt a fool but had to ask. “None from Dragonlord Linden Rathan?”
Puzzlement replaced boredom. “No. All three Dragonlords left the palace early this afternoon to attend a dinner in their honor at Lord Sevrynel’s river estate.” He eyed her, no doubt wondering what mad fancy had taken her that she thought a Dragonlord would deign to send her private messages.
The Last Dragonlord Page 29