At last they reached the table they usually shared with Lleld and Jekkanadar. The other Dragonlords were already seated and with them was Otter. Pleased smiles greeted her.
“Where’s Raven?” Maurynna asked. “And, for the sake of the gods, do not ask me how I’m faring!”
Mouths snapped shut all around the table.
“I don’t know,” Otter said after a moment. “After I left you a little while ago, I went back to my rooms and told him you’d be coming to dinner tonight. Then I went to my chamber to change that broken harp string and, well, nap. When I woke up, he was gone. No note, either.”
Is he avoiding me? Damn him for an idiot, Maurynna thought as she took her place. I can’t believe he’s sulking somewhere because I wanted Linden, not him, by me after that encounter with Morlen and the other truedragons. Oh, Raven, why won’t you understand?
More Dragonlords passed by. Each asked her how she felt. Maurynna fixed a smile on her face and assured every one she was well, thank you. A sick headache, nothing more, and yes, Fiaran’s medicines had helped. Yes, wasn’t it a good thing that there was a Simpler at the Keep? One couldn’t expect a full Healing from one’s fellow Dragonlords for every little ache and pain, after all.
At last everyone seemed satisfied she wasn’t going to fall dead in front of them and left her alone. She slumped in her chair.
Linden reached over and rubbed the back of her neck. Tired already, love? His dark grey eyes were sympathetic.
Gods, that feels good, she said and leaned into his strong fingers. A little, yes. Kyrissaean is very awake tonight and that’s always draining—no, don’t stop!
But at a sudden buzz of conversation, Linden’s hand had dropped away; he looked to the high table where the Lady sat. Maurynna craned her neck to see what had caused the stir.
With a shock she recognized Raven slowly approaching the high table. He walked beside a frail-looking man, one hand under the man’s elbow, guiding his faltering steps to the seat at the Lady’s right.
As the glow of the coldfire hovering over the table fell on him, Maurynna thought the man’s face looked like a ball of crumpled, yellowed silk, all lines and creases and wrinkles. What was left of his hair—the top of his head was completely bald—was white and thin, cut unusually short.
When Raven made to leave, the man caught his arm. A brief discussion ensued with the Lady and Kelder. At its end, Raven took the seat on the other side of the man. He looked half embarrassed, half pleased, and wholly stunned to be at the Lady of Dragonskeep’s own table.
“At least he wore his best tunic tonight,” Otter sighed. Then, slowly, “So that’s Taren Olmeins.”
“The one who escaped from Jehanglan?” Lleld asked. For a moment Maurynna thought the little Dragonlord would climb onto the table for a better view.
“The same,” Otter said. “I recognize him from Raven’s description. It would seem that his tale is taken as truth if he’s asked to grace the Lady’s table.”
A Dragonlord seated at another table leaned over. “Bard Otter, that’s your grandnephew, isn’t it?” Merlet Kamenni called.
“It is indeed, Dragonlord,” said Otter.
“Ah; then no puzzle who the other man is.” The Dragonlord nodded. Her single thick braid of brown hair swung over her shoulder. “Odd that he hasn’t appeared before now.”
“A flare-up of an old illness, Your Grace, that Taren brought with him from Jehanglan, Raven told me. I would venture that this is the first night Taren’s been well enough,” Otter said.
Seeing Merlet’s brow furrow in consternation, Maurynna called, “It’s nothing contagious, Merlet. It’s also known in the south of Assantik where the swamps are. I forget the Assantikkan name for it—” She looked to Jekkanadar.
“Degwa n‘soor,” he supplied, turning in his seat to look at Merlet. “The ‘shaking sickness.’ The attacks sometimes last a tenday or so at a time. Raven said Taren was ill most of the ride north. It comes and goes, very nasty, but as Maurynna said, not contagious.”
Merlet looked relieved. “He was lucky to have your grandnephew looking after him, Bard Otter. Now, I suppose, we all wait on what the truedragons decide.”
“It would seem so, Dragonlord. But this waiting worries me,” Otter said.
“As it does all of us,” Merlet said bleakly. “May the gods guide them,” she finished and turned back to her companions.
“From her lips to the gods’ ears,” Linden muttered.
Maurynna made the sailors’ sign for luck under the table. May the gods listen very hard indeed for once.
Then the servers came forth from the kitchens, moving among the tables bearing heaped platters of food. By an unspoken agreement, the conversation turned to other, less distressing, subjects.
The Lady, Kelder, and the guests at the high table had left long before. So had most of the other Dragonlords and visitors throughout the hall. Only a few small groups lingered here and there over the cheese and fruit that ended meals at the Keep.
Maurynna carved slices of the sharp yellow cheese that was their favorite while Linden cut up an apple for them. He had just handed her her half when a truehuman servant approached the table.
“Dragonlords, Bard,” the man said, “the young truehuman who sat at the Lady’s table this evening sent me to say that Taren Olmeins would like to meet his—Raven’s—friends and great-uncle this night. He asked if you would be willing to go to Master Olmeins’ quarters in a candlemark’s time.”
Maurynna thought Lleld would whoop aloud.
“Yes! Yes, indeed, Melian,” the little Dragonlord said, all eagerness. “We’ll all be there—won’t we?” She turned to Linden, sudden misgiving in her eyes.
Maurynna heard Linden’s quiet grunt. “Friends, eh? I wonder,” he said for her ears only, “if that’s meant to include me.”
“If it isn’t,” she told him fiercely, “then I shall box Raven’s ears for him no matter what you say.” To Melian she said, “Yes; we shall certainly all go. Tell Raven Redhawkson that, please: we will all go.”
Melian bowed. “As you wish, Dragonlord,” he said and went off on his errand.
As soon as the door to Taren’s rooms opened, a wave of heat billowed out and enveloped them. Linden blinked in surprise; good gods, so this was what his sick room in Cassori must have been like the night Healer Tasha decided to sweat that poison out of his system! He felt renewed sympathy for Tarlna and Kief, who had assisted Tasha. They had certainly downplayed the unpleasantness when they’d described it to him.
Raven beckoned them. As eldest, Lleld went in first; Linden saw Taren struggle to rise from his chair by the fireplace. He sank back with a grateful sigh when Lleld said, “There’s no need for that, Taren. We’re all friends here. I’m Lleld Kemberaene.”
Linden happened to catch Raven’s eye just as Lleld said “friend.” An ironic look passed between them.
“Then come and sit down, my friends, and make yourselves comfortable,” Taren said. He smiled.
It was a wonderful smile, one that welcomed you as a heart friend, that said “All is well in a world that has you in it.” It was a smile you couldn’t help answering.
Lleld introduced the other Dragonlords and Otter as they settled themselves. Raven played the host and poured wine.
When all were served, Taren gallantly inquired after Maurynna’s health, brushing aside his own illness as unimportant when asked. “It comes and goes, goes and comes. Yes, it’s worse than usual this time, but I’m fortunate to be here where I have such good care.”
They talked for a while of little things; to Linden’s amusement, even Lady Mayhem restrained herself, listening while Jekkanadar and Taren fell into a discussion of similar phrases between Jehangli and Assantikkan. Words, Linden knew, were a passion with Jekkanadar. As they spoke, Taren constantly played with a loop of white beads; Linden recognized them as Assantikkan “worry beads,” though these were not the usual blue-glazed beads that he had seen before. Perhaps this
was the Jehangli variety; more had crossed the Straits long ago than just words.
“Despite the differences, it’s clear that there was once a great deal of contact between Jehanglan and Assantik,” Jekkanadar said when they’d finished dissecting one particular adage.
“So I see now, Your Grace. I knew some Assantikkan, but until you told me the older forms of those words, I never realized how alike some phrases were in both languages. Indeed, my lord, now I wonder who had which sayings first,” said Taren.
It had to come at last, Linden supposed; Lleld had been restrained too long—a most unnatural state for her. She said, “If you don’t mind my asking, Taren, how did a Kelnethi come to find himself in Jehanglan?”
From the corner of his eye, Linden saw Otter twitch as if the bard was about to speak. But then a glance flashed between great-uncle and grandnephew, and Otter nodded and looked down. Linden wondered, but said nothing.
Taren smiled ruefully. “I don’t mind, my lady, though I don’t come off well in this tale. Seeing me now, on the wrong side of my middle years and ailing, you might find it hard to imagine me as young, impetuous, and headstrong. Foolish, you will no doubt find easier to believe.” He paused while they laughed at this sally against himself.
“But all those things I was—especially foolish—and I fell in love with a girl. Alas for me—and well for her, I daresay—she was a sensible girl. She refused my suit. And I, certain that my life was over, began wandering.
“I lived the life of a vagabond, going first here, then there, until I found myself in the port of Tanlyton in Thalnia. I was down to my last few coppers with no hope of earning more, and wondering where my next meal was to come from, when I overheard two sailors talk of how their ship needed more hands. I signed on and rue the day I did, for a madness seized her captain and he dared the Gate of the Phoenix—what you call the Straits of Cansunn.”
“The Haunted Straits,” Linden murmured.
“Just so, Dragonlord. They are haunted in truth—by Death. Our ship foundered in a storm.”
Maurynna said, “All the others … ?”
Taren looked away, his face creased in pain.
“I’m sorry,” Maurynna whispered.
“Perhaps they were the lucky ones,” Taren said softly. “The Jehangli … Dragonlords, you must go and free that poor dragon. Not the truedragons. From what I know, his suffering is much worse than mine was, and my life was hell.”
“This is the affair of the truedragons,” Lleld said in surprise. “Even if it was Dharm, he’s surely passed on, leaving Varleren behind as a dragon.”
“No,” said Taren. “No. Dragonlords must do this thing. You must do this. You four.” His eyes shone and he trembled.
Looking at him, Linden wondered if the man had a touch of the Sight—or merely another touch of fever.
“Taren, I promise you this,” Lleld said. “If you are right, then Dragonlords will go. And if I can manage it, it will be the four of us.”
“Your Grace,” Taren said, bowing to her from his chair, “you’ve no idea how happy you’ve made me.”
A little more than a tenday after meeting Taren for the first time, Maurynna went down to the stables. She wound her way through the halls until she came to Boreal’s stall. Leaning over the stall door, she whistled softly.
Boreal raised his head, grain dribbling from his lips. The Llysanyin crossed his roomy stall and blew gently at her. His breath was sweet with grass and oats. She stretched a hand to him, wiggling her fingers. He met it and she rubbed his nose with her knuckles for a moment before he returned to his dinner. She rested her arms along the top of the stall door.
She watched the stallion eat, lost in a waking dream, letting the warm scent of horse flow over her. A stable, she decided, was a comforting place to be. Almost as good as a ship.
Footsteps approached. A glance told her it was Raven. She shifted a pace to make room for him to lean against the door with her and rested her chin on her laced fingers. Another sideways glance made her smile.
For Raven’s mouth hung open as he stared and stared at the dapple-grey stallion. She remembered how she’d felt the day she’d met Shan. For here was a thing out of legend and song: a Llysanyin. One of the children of the wind, the mount of a Dragonlord.
“Gods, he’s beautiful. Just look at him! And he really belongs to you?” Raven managed to say at last.
Boreal’s head came up at that. The stallion turned his head so that one large, dark eye regarded Raven without blinking.
“Say, rather, that I belong to him,” Maurynna said. “For it was he picked me, not the other way around.”
Boreal nodded sharply. One large, feathered hoof stamped as if to emphasize the point. The stable floor vibrated; like all his kind, Boreal had legs like young tree trunks.
Raven’s eyebrows went up. Maurynna laughed at his chastened expression.
“Yes, he understood all that. Mind what you say about any of them.”
“I’ll remember that. My apologies,” he said to Boreal.
Boreal tilted his head as if debating with himself, then nodded once more. Then he was all horse again, dropping his nose into his feed bin and whuffling in the corners, his clever upper lip digging out the last stray bits of grain. His tail swished contentedly. Maurynna blew him a kiss.
“You’ve met Miki and Hillel, haven’t you?” she asked, naming Lleld’s and Jekkanadar’s Llysanyins.
From the corner of her eye she saw Raven nod. “True, but I’m still trying to imagine you with an ordinary horse, let alone someone like him.”
She laughed and thumbed her nose at him, then rested her chin on her hands once more so that she could watch Boreal.
From the other halls in the warren that was the stables came the the sounds of the grooms and stablehands working, talking to each other and their charges. She and Raven were alone in this row of stalls. There was no speech between them now, but they were old enough friends not to fill every moment of silence.
Maurynna was content. It seemed Raven had finally accepted that they were no more than companions. She’d hardly seen him lately, for he’d spent most of his time closeted with the refugee from Jehanglan. Perhaps Taren had talked some sense into him. If so, she thanked the man.
Together they watched as Boreal pulled wisps of hay from his haynet. Then—Was it her imagination or had Raven inched closer? Maurynna decided imagination.
Raven asked, “What’s his name? I heard it once, I think, but it won’t come to mind. And did you choose it? There’s no way he could have told you what he calls himself.”
She nodded. “I did choose it. His name is Boreal.”
“Why that?” said Raven.
She admitted sheepishly, “It was the name of Bram Wolfson’s horse.”
Now it was Raven’s turn to laugh, which he did, loud and long. At last he wiped his eyes and said, “Of course; you would still remember those stories about him and Princess Rani. But why didn’t you name him after Rani’s horse? You would never let anyone else be her when we played at being them and their mercenaries as children.”
“Because her horse was a mare and Boreal made it clear he didn’t want to carry a mare’s name, the silly creature.”
Boreal flicked his long tail at her. “Stop that,” she said, smiling fondly.
Raven grinned at her, his eyes still laughing. Then something crossed his face, something she couldn’t put a name to, it was gone so fast. “How do you know that it was Boreal? I don’t think my great-uncle ever told us.”
She blinked in surprise. “Linden told me, of course. How else? Remember—he knew them. And he doesn’t forget them.”
“I see.”
The silence fell between them again. But it was no longer comfortable; if she could touch it, it would spark. She sighed, lost in thoughts turned gloomy.
What happened next took her by surprise. It shouldn’t have; she should have been expecting something like this. Raven was no more one to give up on a dream t
han she was.
Before she could think what was happening, his arm was around her waist, his mouth seeking hers. Shocked, she did nothing—could do nothing.
At least, not at first. Then she pulled away, exclaiming in surprise. One hand shot out and seized the front of his tunic. Before she knew what she did, before she remembered her Dragonlord’s strength, she lifted and heaved. Raven flew backward through the air.
Luckily it was not one of the stone pillars that broke his fall. Instead he landed in one of the piles of fresh bedding that would be used when the stablehands reached this row. Still, for one moment Maurynna’s heart leaped into her throat. Raven lay so still in the pale golden straw that she was certain she’d killed him.
Then he was on his feet. He said nothing at first; simply stared, his bright blue eyes flashing with a rage she’d never seen in them before. “That wasn’t necessary,” he said at last, his voice too quiet and cold as ice.
Maurynna shook her head. “I’m sorry; I—I didn’t mean to do that. I forget … Raven, you shouldn’t have—”
He turned on his heel and strode off. As he reached the intersection with the main aisle of the stable, he nearly collided with Linden turning the cornmer.
Raven halted, a heartbeat’s hesitation as if he would speak to Linden. Or strike him. But Raven did neither; just shoved past his startled rival and stalked off.
Maurynna wrapped her arms around herself. She felt cold and sick. True, she and Raven had quarreled aplenty in the years they’d grown up together. But never had she seen him so coldly angry.
And gods help her, she could have seriously injured him. She had no business forgetting her unnatural strength. She was a Dragonlord now, no matter how inadequate. She slumped against the stall door, waiting for Linden to ask what had happened.
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