Lleld cocked her head at him. “Shall we?”
Linden sighed and took a last look around the small sitting room. He’d been hoping for a quiet evening and early to bed, but now … For a moment he was tempted to let Raven deal with the mess the boy had landed himself in. Then his conscience prodded him; it was for the sake of a truedragon, after all, that Raven was now in trouble.
He sighed again. The gods only knew where the son was, but he could go reason with the father. “Let’s get it over with.” He led the way to the door.
Maurynna rounded the hedge and halted. Before her stood three men: Raven, cloakless, his shoulders slumped in despair, but his feet planted wide in defiance, shivering with the cold; Uncle Kesselandt running the fingers of both hands through his hair as he always did when facing a difficult and unpleasant task. And Uncle Darijen, as arrogant as ever, sneering at Raven, snug in a thick wool cloak.
“Getting above yourself, aren’t you, boy, playing tagalong to your betters? Did you run crying to Maurynna when your Yerrin kin had the sense to throw you out? And now she’s tired of you tagging after her and her soultwin and brought you home like a runaway cur.”
Maurynna’s fists clenched. Idiot Raven might have been lately, but by the gods he’d been a friend too long for her to let that slander pass. She took a deep breath to steady herself and forced herself to take the first step.
But Darijen wasn’t finished; there was yet more venom there. “I suggest you crawl home to your father and beg him to take you back. He might find you a place as one of his shepherds, though I don’t see why he should, you ungrateful—”
“Enough,” Maurynna said. The words—and the courage to say them—came from somewhere deep inside. She spoke quietly but with a snap like a whip. All three men jumped. “That will be quite enough, Uncle Darijen.”
She bore down on them, feeling like a stranger to herself. Who was this woman who strode so confidently along the winding path, ordering to silence a man whose poisonous tongue she had feared all of her life?
She halted in front of Darijen. But as he turned his withering glare upon her, the bold stranger inside quailed beneath the weight of memories. Maurynna’s mouth went dry and the words died on her tongue.
She looked to Raven for support—and found none. There was only despair in his eyes.
“Where is he?”
The speaker pushed past the hapless servant who, all unsuspecting of what lay beyond, had opened the door to the sharp knocking. Redhawk surged into the foyer as Linden reached the bottom stair, Lleld by his side. Jekkanadar paused on the step behind them.
Linden quickly glanced around for Maurynna. Luckily she was nowhere in sight; Redhawk would likely vent his ire upon her before remembering what she was now.
Redhawk’s eyes lit upon them in that instant. Linden saw that the man’s face was red with fury; vengeance glittered in those blue eyes so much like Raven’s. Wherever the boy was, Linden devoutly hoped he stayed there. However much a pain in the ass Raven could be, he didn’t deserve a homecoming like this.
Redhawk looked ready to storm through the house in his search for his errant son. Two long steps and Linden stood before him as if by chance, blocking his way to the lower reaches of the house. Lleld and Jekkanadar stayed on the stairs, she leaning nonchalantly on the newel post, he against the wall. But Linden knew that if Redhawk thought the tiny woman and the slender Assantikkan no obstacle, the man was in for the rudest awakening of his life. Which, considering his churlish behavior so far, was likely no more than Raven’s father deserved.
“Where’s my son?” the man snarled, looking at each of them in turn. The riding whip he carried in one hand quivered as if it wished to lash out at one of them.
“Master Redhawk!” the servant gasped. “These are Dragonlords! Please, you mustn’t speak to them so.”
But if Redhawk heard the warning and the servant’s anxiety for him, he gave no sign. Indeed, Linden feared the man was so caught up in his anger that he would strike one of them—and the gods help Redhawk if he did. He had no wish to see a kinsman of friends face what would come of it.
Redhawk took another step as if he would push past Linden. Linden held his ground.
The blue eyes burned with rage, and the whip came up to strike.
Her braver self did not desert her after all. Maurynna went on, “Everything you’ve just said is a lie, uncle. Raven’s Yerrin kin did not throw him out. He never even went to Yerrih—he came straight to Dragonskeep. Nor is he merely a tagalong as you’ve said. On the contrary, he is an equal traveling among equals. And as far as I’m concerned, Raven stays in the Mousehole as an honored guest with the rest of us, or we will all leave. I’m certain that one of the other Houses would be willing to welcome four Dragonlords and a bard even on such short notice.”
She folded her arms and stared coolly at Darijen. Then she turned to Kesselandt. “Uncle? As Raven pointed out before, the decision is yours.”
The whip fell, but only to strike against Redhawk’s boot. “Where’s my son?” he asked once again. His eyes darted everywhere as if to spy out Raven hiding behind one of the sconces on the wall.
Linden shook his head. “I’ve no idea, Redhawk,” he said. “He went home candlemarks ago.”
He paused, waiting for Redhawk to recognize him. Surely the man hadn’t forgotten meeting him?
Redhawk hadn’t. That furious gaze turned on him once again; Linden saw it snap into focus as if Redhawk only now truly saw him.
From somewhere in the house came the sound of a door opening and shutting once more. Some servant running to fetch help? He hadn’t the time to wonder.
Redhawk said, “You’re Linden Rathan. We met long ago. You—you haven’t changed at all, have you?” There was a touch of fear in the words.
It was a fear Linden was all too familiar with. “No, I haven’t. Regarding Raven, Master Redhawk, we’ve not seen him since—”
Voices from behind interrupted him. One was the last Linden wanted to hear at this moment.
Redhawk’s face went red with rage; a vein pulsed in his forehead. “Raven!” he bellowed.
Linden turned. Sure enough, Raven and Maurynna were behind him. Both faces were pale.
“Oh, gods,” Raven whispered. “I’m in for it now.”
But Raven did not, Linden saw with approval, try to hide behind him. Instead the young Yerrin passed him to stand before his father. Linden was less pleased that Maurynna followed, but understood; he knew they were used to facing punishment together.
“Sir?” Raven said.
“You ungrateful whelp!” his father roared. “Is this how you pay me back for all I’ve done for you?” Redhawk’s hand came up; too late Linden remembered the riding crop.
The crop slashed down at Raven’s head. But before it could strike, Maurynna sprang forward with a Dragonlord’s speed and caught the hand holding it.
“Master Robinson, no!” she cried.
“Get out of my way and don’t interfere, stupid girl!”
For the first time since she’d become a Dragonlord, Linden saw Maurynna truly believe her new rank. He knew that she’d practically grown up in this man’s house. He knew that Redhawk was a successful merchant, an important player in the great game these traders gambled at. As a very junior partner in House Erdon, she would have deferred to one of his stature or risked the wrath of her own elders. Hell, the idea of raising her hand to this man would likely never have occurred to her.
But she was no longer that junior partner. Instead of backing down, Maurynna snarled right back, “It’s ‘Your Grace’ now, Master Robinson! And I order you to drop that whip!”
Her words had the force of a slap. Linden saw shock replace fury in Redhawk’s eyes, followed by outraged indignation as he glared at Maurynna. The man looked near to choking on the angry words trying to get out.
But the riding crop fell to the floor. An almost inaudible sigh of relief swept the room. Maurynna stepped back, her face pale and set
.
“Thank the gods that’s over with,” said Lleld from the staircase. There was an edge to her voice that Linden had seldom heard.
She stepped down from the stairs to face Redhawk. “I am Dragonlord Lleld Kemberaene, Master Robinson,” she said, her voice low with anger. “What is the meaning of this unseemly intrusion?”
They glared at one another, each willing the other to give ground. Though the difference in their heights bordered on the absurd, there was nothing amusing in the confrontation. Someone coming in unaware might have thought it an argument between parent and child at first glance, but there was nothing childlike in either Lleld’s fury or the regal way she stood up to the much larger man.
It was Redhawk who conceded. “Your Grace,” he said, calmly enough, “I apologize for disturbing you, but my son has defied me for the last time. I simply came to take him home where he belongs, and to face the punishment he deserves.” The angry flush receded.
“I think not,” Lleld said. She spoke quietly, but her tone brooked no argument. “Raven will be coming with us when we leave Thalnia.”
A frown darkened Redhawk’s face. “I order you to come home,” he said to his son, “and forget this traipsing about like some ne’er-do-well.”
“I’m afraid you don’t understand. We need him with us,” said Lleld.
Redhawk’s face grew red again. “With all respect, Dragonlord, I did not raise my son to be a servant.”
“No, Master Robinson, you didn’t. You raised him to be you all over again, instead of one Raven Redhawkson, didn’t you?” Lleld snapped.
For a moment it seemed Redhawk might lose all control of himself. But though his fists clenched at his sides, and a vein beat visibly in his forehead, the merchant said nothing.
“But he isn’t you, with your interests and your talents. He’s himself, with his own very special talents—and we need those talents. Raven is not a servant, Master Robinson, rest assured of that. I can’t tell you the why of all this, but I can tell you that it is with the heartfelt thanks of the Lady of Dragonskeep and our cousins, the truedragons of the north, that Raven is with us … .” She paused to let the full import of her words sink in.
The look Redhawk flashed at his son reminded Linden of Maurynna’s kin on the dock.
“And he will stay with us,” Lleld finished. “He didn’t need this to come with us, Master Robinson, but I think you do: Dragonlord’s orders.”
A long silence followed in which Redhawk visibly struggled with the final thwarting of his plans for Raven’s life. When he finally spoke, his voice seethed with cold fury.
“There is nothing I can say to that, is there, Your Grace? After all, I’m but a simple merchant, and you a Dragonlord. So I will just say this: so be it.” He bowed to Lleld.
Then he looked once more at Raven. “But to you,” he snarled, “I say this: I wash my hands of you. From this day I have but one son, and his name is Honigan.”
With that, Redhawk stared defiance at each Dragonlord in turn, and sketched them a mocking bow before turning on his heel and striding from the Mousehole without a backward glance.
When the door slammed shut, Lleld turned to Raven, a stricken look on her face. “Oh, Raven! I’m sorry! I just destroyed your life for you, didn’t I?”
But Raven said with a sigh, “No, you didn’t, Lleld. I did that the day I left with Taren, though I didn’t realize it at the time. I do now.”
He sounded both sad and resigned, but then a smile twitched at the corner of his mouth. “At least one thing went right.”
“What?” Lleld asked.
“Honigan gets stuck with the damned sheep after all, not me.”
Linden thought the grin that followed would split Raven’s face.
Twenty-six
The next morning, Linden came upon Otter in the solar as the bard sat examining a selection of hand drums on the table before him.
“What’s this?” he asked.
Otter looked up. “There’s a damned good instrument maker here in Port Stormhaven. I know him from our student days at the Bards’ School in Bylith. Mediocre singer, and not much of a harper, but a rare hand at making instruments even then. His eldest daughter does most of the work nowadays, but old Merris still keeps his hand in with these little drums. He always enjoyed these the most, he said. I was there until late last night, catching up on the news and picking these. Raven can drum a bit, you know.”
“Ah—so that’s why you missed all the excitement.”
“Oh?”
“Mm, yes. Redhawk was here, and he had blood in his eye.” Linden looked over the drums; there was quite a range, from various sizes of Assantikkan zamlas to a couple of Yerrin taeresans and their beaters.
Otter groaned and buried his face in his hands. “Tell me,” he ordered.
When Linden finished, Otter sat tugging his beard. Finally he said, “Raven’s right. It’s best this way. Honigan loves the wool business as much as Raven detests it. And now Raven will have no choice but to go to his aunt. I was always afraid he’d never bring himself to fully defy his father, and do what was right for him. He loves Redhawk, and would have suffered rather than risk turning his father against him. But it’s done now. When this is over, Raven can go to his aunt.” The bard grimaced. “Still, I’d best go talk to Redhawk, see what I can patch up between them; I’ve done it before. It was good of Lleld to take upon herself the responsibility for Raven’s going. Redhawk won’t lose face—or too much, anyway—when I finally talk him into accepting Raven back into the fold. That was a stupid thing to say about having only one son. I’ll just give him a bit to cool down, though.”
“You’ll have a few days for it, then, before we leave.” Linden picked up a taeresan and its beater. Wrapping his fingers around the crosspiece inside the open end of the shallow drum, he tapped on the hide, flipping the beater back and forth as he’d seen performers do—without the same rhythmic, foot-tapping results. It sounded, he thought, pathetic. He kept at it, determined to get it right.
“We’ve a place to live and rehearse?” Otter asked, taking drum and beater away from him. “Good. And boyo—stick to the harp.”
Linden thumbed his nose at the bard, then said, “Lleld told him what we need, and Kesselandt’s discussing with the other senior members which of the country estates would be best for our needs.”
“When do we find out?”
“Kesselandt sent a messenger to Maurynna earlier. We find out by this afternoon.”
Linden waited impatiently for Kesselandt to join them in the solar. The man should be here any moment; then they would learn where they would be staying—and rehearsing—for the winter. He glanced around the room at the other Dragonlords.
Lleld and Jekkanadar bent over a chess board with an unfinished game upon it, studying the pieces. Jekkanadar shook his head.
“I should not want to be White in this game,” he said.
“Ah,” said Lleld. “But what if White did this?” and moved the horse to illustrate her point.
Jekkanadar stroked his chin. “Hm—perhaps. Perhaps …” He fell to studying the board again, his gaze darting this way and that. “But if Black countered with the queen’s mage here—”
Lleld crowed, “Then take this!” as her hand darted to the board.
I hope they remember where they started, Linden thought with a grin. Or someone will be very surprised at the turn their game has taken. Lleld was not the most conservative of players at the best of times. Judging by the evil glee lighting her face, the little Dragonlord planned a singularly unorthodox strategy for this bout. He caught Taren watching in dismay.
The smile faded as Maurynna entered the room. Something was wrong; he knew it at once. For she chewed her lower lip now and again, something she did only when nervous. She came to stand with him, but said nothing.
“What is it, love?” he asked.
“Temion just warned me that my Uncle Darijen is in a dangerously foul mood over this. Temion heard him sa
y something about not being a ‘peasant to be turned out of his home.’
“I suspect that the estate to be given over to us is the one he uses in the winter. It’s a hunting lodge, not all that big as some of the country places go, but it’s in the south, where it’s warmer. Darijen’s the one I told you about last night.” Her lips pressed together.
“Ah, yes—the one with the poisonous tongue.” The one who’d upset Maurynna so much she’d not slept until near dawn. “Try not to let him bother you, sweetheart. He can’t do anything to you. Not anymore.”
She didn’t believe him, any more than she had last night. Darijen’s power over her was too ingrained.
Linden frowned. He wished he could convince her that all would be well. That the old ties of affection still held, yes; but no longer did a newly fledged Dragonlord owe obedience to his or her birth family. That obligation was gone now, replaced by fealty to the ruler of Dragonskeep.
It was a lesson each new Dragonlord had to learn: that the hardest thing of all was to stand up to one’s own family. Kings and queens were child’s play in comparison.
Old habits die hard. The time-worn adage drifted across his thoughts; cliché though it was, it was still true. So he did the best he could; he slipped an arm around her shoulders and, to distract her, led her to where Otter, Raven, and Taren looked over the drums.
Raven picked up a zamla and turned it this way and that. He tucked it under one arm and tapped out a quick rhythm.
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