The Last Dragonlord

by Joanne Bertin

  She couldn’t believe her ears. “Otter?” she screamed, wild with relief. “Otter, is that really you?” She staggered to her feet despite the pins and needles stabbing her legs.

  She heard him urging the horse up the bank. Moments later she felt the ground quivering under the flying hooves. “Here! We’re over here!”

  The horse came to a sliding stop in front of her. Otter flung himself from the saddle like a man forty years younger. She fell into his arms, crying.

  “How—how did you know?” she sobbed as she led the bard to where Linden lay.

  “Kief Shaeldar mindspoke me,” Otter said grimly. “He met Maylin on the other side of the river. I was on my way home when he told me as much as he knew. He’s on the ferry now. Rynna—what happened? Who were those men?”

  She shook her head as she knelt beside Linden again. “I don’t know.” She controlled her sobs with an effort. “I don’t—Otter, help me get him sitting up again. It seems to ease his breathing.”

  Together they arranged Linden so that he rested against Maurynna’s shoulder once more. When Otter tried to give her his cloak, she shook her head. “I’m already soaked. Are you certain Kief Shaeldar is on his way?”

  Otter stretched a hand out to the coldfire, but drew it away as though afraid he’d somehow hurt the feebly glowing ball. “Yes. Seems he tried to mindspeak Linden, but could sense only pain and blackness. That alarmed Kief so much he went looking for Linden and met Maylin on the way.”

  The bard brushed a lock of wet hair from Linden’s face. “All we can do is wait, Rynna. And pray.”

  The knowledge that Otter now sat across from her on Linden’s other side comforted Maurynna, even though she knew that he could do no more than she.

  She remembered something. “Linden spoke once. He said to ‘ask question.’ Does that make any sense to you?”

  Otter shook his head. “None whatsoever. You’re certain? Hm—what could it mean?”

  Suddenly the bard surged to his feet. His trained voice bellowed across the field, “Kief! Over here!”

  Maurynna looked over her shoulder. A figure ran across the wet grass at a speed that few—if any—truehumans could match. A silvery ball of coldfire lit Kief Shaeldar’s way.

  He slid to a halt by them. “Let me see him,” the Dragonlord ordered.

  Otter stepped back. Maurynna clung to Linden, reluctant to let him go. She braced herself to argue should Kief Shaeldar order her away, but to her surprise he said nothing, simply took Linden’s chin and looked closely into his face.

  At last Kief Shaeldar sat back on his heels. “Black magery!” he spat. “Get back—both of you. I need room.”

  Before she could refuse, Otter grabbed her and dragged her back. “Don’t be stupid, Rynna,” he said when she struggled. “He needs room to Change!”

  She went with him reluctantly. But it was Otter who stopped after only a few yards.

  “Ah—Kief?” he said. “Do you think this is wi—”

  “Get back, curse it!” the Dragonlord roared as he flung his cloak to the ground.

  “On your head be it, then.” The bard grabbed her hand and pulled her along until they reached the edge of the bank.

  Maurynna clung to Otter as lightning flared and a red mist surrounded Kief Shaeldar. A second bolt revealed the ghostly figure of a dragon. Her head swirled. The crack of thunder that followed nearly deafened her. She cried out and shut her eyes. From a great distance she heard the squeal of a frightened horse and pounding hooves, then Otter’s disgusted voice saying, “That tears it, Kief. That horse won’t stop until the middle of next tenday.”

  But now she fell through an unending night. And there were voices in the darkness, great golden voices, more beautiful than anything she’d ever heard. But she couldn’t understand what they said, and if she didn’t, she’d die. She didn’t want to die—not yet. She had to find out what the voices were saying to her … .

  Forty-eight

  “My lord? What will become of Linden Rathan?”

  Althume glanced at the servant riding beside him. “I’m not certain, Pol. It is truly unfortunate that those travelers came when they did.”

  Pol grunted assent. Then, “Does Prince Peridaen know?”

  “That the potion I gave Sherrine could kill Linden Rathan? No. A pity we had no time to administer the antidote, but there it is. If he dies, it will be awkward for us, true, but if the gods will it so—” He shrugged. “It will fall out as it will. I will not worry the prince with maybes and might-bes.”

  His only real worry was, if Linden Rathan died, how would it affect his plans for Sherrine?

  Pain blazed through the darkness. Maurynna gasped and opened her eyes.

  Why was she lying on the ground with Otter bending over her? Puzzled, she put a hand up to her stinging cheek and knew that he’d slapped her. He looked relieved and angry at the same time.

  “I tried to tell you,” he said to the brown dragon crouching over Linden.

  Oh, gods, is she well?

  The words were faint, like someone whispering up in the rigging. But they were inside her head. And she somehow knew she wasn’t meant to hear them. Well and well; she’d not let on that she could.

  And after everything I’ve said to Linden. He’ll have my head.

  The thought of Linden brought Maurynna upright, though her head still spun. “Can you Heal Linden?” she pleaded. “You can, can’t you? Your Healing fire—”

  The voice spoke in her mind once more. This time it rang as loudly as a watch bell, rough with anger and fear.

  I’m only a Dragonlord, not one of the bleeding gods! I’ll do my best, but—

  The great scaled head reared back. The mouth opened, revealing long, wickedly sharp fangs. Kief Shaeldar spread his wings slightly and drew a deep breath. Then he lowered his head once more. Blue-green flames rushed out past the deadly fangs and washed over Linden. Once, twice, three times the flames played over the stricken Dragonlord. After the third time Kief Shaeldar stepped back. His long neck and wings drooped.

  Maurynna broke away from Otter and stumbled to Linden. Without thinking, she seized Linden’s ball of coldfire. It burned a little brighter now—not much, but the light was steadier. And his color and breathing were better. For the first time she began to hope.

  I must return the coldfire to Linden, Kief Shaeldar apologized. It costs him energy that he can ill afford right now. I’m sorry; I know he’d like you to have it if possible.

  The big head dropped to her level, turned a bit so that one big eye watched her. Part of her mind noted that the iris was vertical like a cat’s. She wondered why he cared for her feelings. The coldfire disappeared from her hands.

  Help me pick him up; I’ll take him back with me. Maurynna—take my cloak; it will be a long, wet walk.

  Between them, Maurynna and Otter lifted Linden to the cradle formed by Kief Shaeldar’s front legs. The brown dragon gently closed one six-clawed forefoot around Linden, holding him securely to the scaled chest. Then Kief Shaeldar rocked back onto his hind legs, doubled his long neck back on itself, and spread his wings.

  “Come on!” Otter yelled, and pulled her away at a run. Surprised, Maurynna went without protest. She looked back in time to see Kief Shaeldar spring into the air, his neck snapping forward as if to cleave the sky above him, wings beating in short, powerful strokes.

  She dragged Otter to a halt, ignoring the rain that beat against her face. The rush of air displaced by those wing strokes rocked her a moment later; she understood then why Otter had pulled her away. Any closer and they would have been knocked over.

  Then the vertigo claimed her again and she was falling into forever. She dimly heard Otter calling her name, but was trapped inside her tumbling mind and couldn’t answer. For one glorious moment she soared through the lightning-streaked sky by Kief Shaeldar’s side; the next she spiraled into darkness.

  Forty-nine

  Althume stood as patiently as he could while the servant remov
ed his wet cloak. The long, dripping bundle in his arms felt like both a prize and a beacon. But he schooled his expression as he had learned to over the many decades of his long life, looking neither guilty nor triumphant.

  “No—I’ll take this myself,” he told the servant when the man offered to carry his burden.

  The servant bowed himself away, saying, “Prince Peridaen is in his study.”

  Althume strode down the hall, cradling the sword wrapped in Pol’s cloak against his chest. At the door to the study he pushed the latch down and elbowed the oak door open. To his relief, Peridaen sat alone before the fireplace.

  “Where’s Anstella?” Althume asked. He locked the door behind him.

  Peridaen looked up from the chessboard he was studying. “With Sherrine; the girl looked like—what is that?”

  With a flourish Althume swept the concealing cloak away. “Tsan Rhilin,” said the mage. He looked down at the sheathed greatsword resting in his arms with the fierce pride of an eagle for its nestling.

  “Good gods!” Peridaen stood, knocking his chair to the floor. “Let me see!” He crossed the intervening space in two long strides.

  Althume laid the sword in the prince’s waiting hands.

  Peridaen studied the plain leather scabbard. “Hardly seems fitting for a sword out of legend, does it?” he said, fingering the unadorned straps. “And the sword itself—doesn’t look as if it’s magical.” He half drew it from its sheath. “It simply looks to be a well-made, serviceable blade,” he observed as he sheathed it once more.

  “It isn’t magical—not of itself, anyway.” Althume wandered to the table and poured himself wine. “There’s some Yerrin legend about Sister Moon and the sword—its name means ‘Moon Dancer’ in archaic Yerrin.” He drank a little, then finished, “Supposedly Rani eo’Tsan took it from an undead Kelnethi harper—though I never understood how he came to have it—and gave it to Bram Wolfson.”

  “And Linden Rathan had it of the Wolfson.” Peridaen ran a hand over the hilt wrapped in twisted wire for a sure grip, the pommel of silver like a full moon. “They were related somehow, weren’t they?”

  He seemed unable to tear his gaze away from the sword, plain though it was. Althume watched him with disdain. As loudly as Peridaen might prate of his hatred of the Dragonlords, he was still susceptible to the glamour surrounding them. It irked Althume that even as powerful a mage as himself needed the patronage of the nobility.

  If only a mage could seize power as in those foolish tales. Such a pity that it would take more magic than any one mage could wield.

  And who ever heard of mages agreeing long enough to league together?

  “We’ve more important things than the sword,” the mage snapped.

  That broke the spell. Peridaen set the greatsword on the table. “Gods, yes! Of course. It seems that there’s no need to ask if your mission was at least partially successful. That you have Tsan Rhilin is proof that your spells worked. But why in the name of all the gods did you take it? That was a dangerous trick, Kas. And of the rest? Did you find out what we need to know?”

  “Some.” Althume pulled a chair before the fire and sat. He stretched his boots onto the hearth; in a few moments the steam rose from them. “I’ll give him this: Dragonlord Linden Rathan is one very strong-willed, stubborn bastard. He should not have been able to move while under the influence of the potion or to resist me. Yet he did both at the end. Still, I found out some things and had others confirmed.”

  Peridaen retrieved his fallen chair. “Such as?”

  “Dragonlords cannot read minds—”

  “Thank the gods,” Peridaen murmured with a wry smile. “Else we should all hang.”

  “I would hang; you would be beheaded, courtesy of your royal birth. But as for the Dragonlords, while they cannot read minds, they can speak mind-to-mind with each other.

  “And we can now lay to rest two of the causes of endless arguments within the Fraternity: Ankarlyn the Mage did indeed find a way to loosen the bond between a Dragonlord’s souls. Unfortunately Linden Rathan had no idea how this was done, so he could not confirm what I have learned in my studies. We’re on our own for that.

  “But Ankarlyn’s spells will work against them. It was proven once and for all by the successful mix of potion and spell that I used against Linden Rathan and further confirmed by his own words,” said Althume.

  “That’s one cause laid to rest,” the prince noted. “What is the other?”

  The mage smiled briefly. “Why, that ‘idiotic nursery tale’ as some of the Fraternity’s less enlightened members call it, of course—Ankarlyn’s enslavement of a fledgling Dragonlord. This time Linden Rathan did know how that was done: using the blood of a Dragonlord—or one who has Dragonlord blood.”

  Peridaen said slowly, “One of my ancestors was the truehuman daughter of two Dragonlords. And that means—damn it all, Kas, does it have to be the boy? I’m rather fond of him.”

  Shrugging, the mage said, “Rann is endearing enough, I’m sure, but will you let even him stand between the Fraternity and success? For if we do succeed, there are many that hesitate now who will flock to our banner, my prince. Will you cast that aside?

  “Oh, gods.” Peridaen closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead as if his head suddenly hurt him. “No, of course not. It’s just … Sherrine and Rann?”

  “The gods drive stiff bargains, my prince,” Althume warned.

  “I know. But this … I’ll have to think about it, Kas,” said Peridaen.

  Peridaen’s tone lit a warning beacon in the mage’s mind, but he decided against pursuing the subject. Instead, he said, “Now, it may be possible to develop other spells to use against Dragonlords, but I’m not willing to spend the time. We can’t drag out this regency debate for much longer, though I think we have a way to prolong it now.” Althume leaned back in his seat and folded his hands across his stomach. “And there is a fledgling Dragonlord; I asked just to be certain. That seemed to frighten Linden Rathan; it was then that he fought the enchantment so hard that he came near to breaking it.”

  The mage raised his goblet in mock salute to the absent Dragonlord. “As I said, a stubborn and strong-willed bastard. I was amazed; I didn’t think it could be done. The effort must have cost him dearly.” He drained his cup and wiped his lips.

  “I might have been able to subdue him again, but as bad luck would have it, two late-night travelers happened upon us.”

  “What! Who?” Peridaen demanded. “And did they see you well enough to recognize you?”

  “I don’t know; all I could see through the rain were two cloaked and hooded figures. By the same token, that would have been all that they could see as well. One charged us with a blade—whoever he is, he’s used to using it. Rather than risk a wounding and awkward questions, I judged it best for us to get away.” He held up a hand to forestall the question he knew Peridaen was about to ask. “Remember—neither Pol nor I were armed. The casting of spells that powerful will not tolerate the presence of cold iron. By the time the travelers found us, we had most of what we wanted—and that besides,” the mage said, nodding at Tsan Rhilin lying on the table.

  “Yes, that. And what shall we do with that? We can’t leave it here. If one of the servants finds it—Blast it, Kas, you’re taking too many chances! This wasn’t in our plans.”

  Althume smiled one of his wintry smiles. “Plans are for changing, my dear prince. And stop worrying; this treasure will remain hidden until the proper time.”

  Low, urgent voices and the sound of people running up and down the hall woke Maylin. She sat up, startled by the thickness of the featherbed beneath her, the feel of finer linen sheets than any she’d ever known. Memory returned in a rush and she tumbled out of bed onto a richly carpeted floor.

  Hiking up her borrowed nightgown so that she wouldn’t trip, Maylin hurried to the door and ran into the hall. She was just in time to see Kief Shaeldar, water streaming from his clothes, reach the top of the stairs and t
urn into the hall. He carried Linden Rathan as if the big Dragonlord weighed no more than a child. A bevy of servants draggled behind him like lost chicks. One caught her eye; a blocky-faced man with a hard expression.

  Didn’t I see him somewhere tonight? No; I couldn’t have. He’s not been out in the wet. Then, My gods—Dragonlords are strong, aren’t they? No one as small as Kief Shaeldar has any business being able to carry someone of Linden’s size that easily.

  Any other time the image of Linden’s long legs dangling over Kief Shaeldar’s arm would have been funny. But not tonight. Maylin ran down the hall as the door to one of the bedrooms opened.

  “In here,” Tarlna Aurianne said from inside the room. “Hurry.”

  Maylin caught only a glimpse of Linden’s face as Kief Shaeldar hurried into the room. She reached it in time to have the door shut in her face. For a moment she debated knocking. But whatever grace being Maurynna’s cousin earned her, she didn’t think it stretched that far. So she turned and dragged her feet back to her room.

  This time the big bed felt lonely; she wished Maurynna, her mother, or even Kella, were here with her. She tossed and turned, pounded the pillow, counted sheep—but nothing would drive away the memory of Linden’s face: still, slack, and grey, with dried blood crusted around his lips.

  Fifty

  Three desperate faces looked to Tasha for answers she didn’t have: the Dragonlords Kief Shaeldar and Tarlna Aurianne, and Linden Rathan’s friend, Otter.

  “Can you help him, Healer?” Kief Shaeldar asked.

  Tasha shook her head. “Your Grace, you told me that you used a dragon’s Healing fire on him and it did little good. How can a truehuman Healer do any better? Especially with so much time gone by; if only I could have crossed the river last night. All I can tell you is that he looks to have been poisoned, unlikely as it seems. And if you’re right that there was magery involved …”

  She spread her hands helplessly. It was a feeling that she was all too familiar with these days and heartily sick of. “The best I can do is to try to counteract the symptoms with herbs and make him as comfortable as possible.”