Dragonshadow

by Elle Katharine White

  “That’s not comforting.”

  “You never said you wanted comfort. And you haven’t answered my question.”

  “You didn’t ask me anything.”

  “Why are you still here?”

  “It wasn’t the Green Lady who killed those Idar.”

  Her mouth puckered in a whiskery frown. “Then who?”

  “There was a creature on the beach where we found the dead mermaid,” I said carefully. “He wore the face of a dead man Alastair and I knew once. It looked like a ghastradi.”

  “The ghast-ridden? Here? Mikla save us,” she muttered, and for the first time looked truly unsettled. “For all our sakes I hope you’re wrong.”

  “Maybe I am. I couldn’t see it clearly, but there was something riding him.”

  “Ghasts don’t ride corpses.”

  “I know. But whatever it is, we have to stop it.” I pulled a stool next to hers and told her about the slain Idar we’d found in the Widdermere Marshes. She listened without comment. When I described our encounter with Qiryn, she set down her cup.

  “A whole herd of centaurs hunting this thing and it slipped through the marshes unseen? That takes more than luck.”

  “I know.”

  “What exactly do your husband and his dragon intend to do when they find this creature? Chase it down and cut off its head and hope that does it in?”

  “They’ll keep it from killing again. Whatever that means. Whatever that takes.”

  She gave me a long look. I could almost see the scales in her eyes, weighing me out, evaluating each word, wavering between suspicion and trust, and coming at last to a decision. “And what do you plan to do while your dragonrider does his work?”

  “Something useful.” Starting with this. “Mòrag, what do you know about Captain Rhys?”

  “Owin? Why?”

  “He was very eager yesterday to keep us from telling the nearby towns about what happened to Selwyn.”

  She snorted. “You mean he didn’t want Polton to find out. That’s the magistrate of Morianton,” she said, and I thought of the nervous man from the beach where we’d found Isolde’s body. “There’s been bad blood between those two for years. And no, before you ask, I don’t know why. You’ll have to find out for yourself.”

  I poured her another cup of tea. No fear there, Mòrag. That was exactly what I planned to do.

  The men returned later than expected bringing news that, if it couldn’t be called good, at least had a corner on interesting. Chirrorim and I met with them in the front courtyard, me coming from my interviews with the servants, him from his patrol of the castle grounds. Rumor had indeed already reached the eastern shore and Morianton was buzzing with news of Selwyn’s disappearance. According to them, Magistrate Polton had gone nearly apoplectic. “He’s sent out messengers to the nearby towns,” Alastair said. “They’re going to call for a gathering of some kind.”

  “A colloquy,” Rhys said. With one hand he patted his horse’s steaming neck; in the other he held aloft his cousin’s irate gyrfalcon. The gelding shied and sidestepped to put a few more feet between him and Akarra. “Three days from now. Here, at the castle.”

  Akarra tapped her talons on the stone. The gelding laid his ears flat against his skull, eyes rolling. “Three days isn’t much time. I don’t think—oh, for gods’ sakes, Rhys, will you tell your horse I’m not about to eat it?”

  Chirrorim chuckled. Rhys ignored him.

  “Three days is just long enough for all the parties to get here, but not enough for them to make many plans beyond that. It’s calculated, it is. Polton will try and take the stewardship,” he said, turning his horse toward the stables. “You watch.”

  “Any reason he shouldn’t?” Alastair said. “He seemed like an honest man.”

  Rhys paused long enough to look over his shoulder, his face grave. “Connell Polton is straight as an arrow, Lord Daired.”

  “What’s wrong with that?” I asked.

  “The straight arrows are usually the ones that kill.”

  Chapter 26

  The Colloquy of Castle Selwyn

  The morning of the colloquy dawned stormy and gray. Snow started soon after breakfast, which I’d taken charge of as Mòrag recovered. She was in the Lake Hall, hobbling along on makeshift crutches and barking orders to the maids as they rushed to finish preparations for the colloquy.

  The first embassy arrived just before noon, led by the magistrate of Morianton on a shiny black gelding. Three weary-looking mules plodded behind him, bearing three equally weary travelers bundled against the cold. Polton dismounted with a flourish. He wore nothing but black from his boots to his long leather gloves, and he seemed to take each snowflake that settled on him as a personal insult.

  “Polton, you’ve met the Daireds,” Rhys said as the magistrate and his retinue filed into the castle.

  “An honor,” Polton said. His face, which in full daylight looked a bit like a prune, nevertheless gave the impression of, if not trustworthiness, then at least competence. He removed his gloves, then took my hand and bowed. “I’m sorry we didn’t get to speak much when we, ah, first met, Lady Daired. I’m very glad to meet you in less grievous circumstances.”

  “Likewise, sir,” I replied.

  “Yes, yes. Polton, food’s set out in the Lake Hall,” Rhys said. “You’ll want a good seat, I imagine.”

  Polton turned away with the expression of a man in possession of a brilliantly scathing reply and just enough self-control not to say it.

  “Cantor Brigsley-Baine you know. This is Subcantor Carle and Mill-Master Dougal,” Rhys said, and we greeted the rest of the Morianton embassy.

  Brigsley-Baine expressed similar relief at meeting us in a place with no dead bodies. She did not mention our visit to the abbey, but I caught her glancing at my belly with pity in her eyes, and when she took my hand her grip was tight.

  Her companion could be nothing but a miller. Master Dougal had a pleasant face, a white wisp of a beard, and years of flour ground into the seams of his clothing. He clutched his hat in both hands as he bowed, beaming at us without a word. The subcantor, on closer inspection, had the unremarkable appearance of a man who read the Book of Honored Proverbs for fun. I didn’t need to see the rolls of parchment in his bag or the ink stains on his fingers to know he’d come in the role of clerk.

  Others followed, their names blurring as the front hall filled with the chatter of the guards and lackeys. There was another magistrate from a town on the western shore of Lake Meera, a man with a drooping mustache and a bloodhound’s baggy, bloodshot eyes. Behind him was the cantor of the same town, a person of indeterminate sex and unknown features, so buried was he, or she, in cloaks and hoods and furry stoles. A voice from deep within the furs said something that sounded like “Too cold in here.”

  Behind the swaddled bundle of cantor came the embassy from a town southeast of Morianton, led by, to my surprise, a Rider. Her single lock of silver hair twisted in a plait around her shaved head and she walked with the aid of an iron-tipped cane. She greeted Chirrorim in Beorspeak. He replied in the same language, sounding happier than he had since he’d arrived.

  “Good to meet you, Magistrate Farrell,” Alastair said when they finished exchanging pleasantries. “I didn’t know there were any Riders in the lake towns.”

  “Former Rider, Lord Daired. My beoryn died in battle many years ago and I’ve since hung up the sword. Turns out there are as many wild beasts within civilized halls as there are on the battlefield. Stay wary, eh?” she said and clapped him on the shoulder. “See you inside.”

  A flurry of snow and a flustered Trennan announced the final embassy, this one consisting of no fewer than five guards, three clerks, a lost-looking groom, and a gaunt man in a gray cloak that billowed behind him like his own personal storm cloud.

  “Where is Lord Daired? I must speak with Lord Daired!” he cried in a high, nasally voice that sounded as if he was fighting off a sneeze. He caught sight of Alastair a
nd wafted—there was no other way to describe his manner of walking—toward us. “My lord! Is it true? Is Selwyn really gone? We heard such wild rumors flying about, and then that messenger from, ah, Polton—” He caught sight of Rhys at the door to the Lake Hall. “What is he doing here?”

  “The captain was a guest of Lord Selwyn’s when he disappeared,” Alastair said. “He helped organize the colloquy.”

  With a wet sniff, the man I christened Damp Handkerchief swept aside the folds of his cloak and billowed into the Lake Hall.

  “Well,” I said softly as I took Alastair’s arm. “This is bound to be interesting.”

  Northern colloquies were thoroughly practical affairs. They dispensed with the ceremony as quickly as possible. Once everyone had found a seat at the long table in the Lake Hall, Rhys stood up and addressed us all. “Friends and neighbors, welcome. I trust you all know why we’re here today. We have much to decide, but first we must—”

  “Have a spot of lunch?” said an indistinct voice from within the Furry Bundle.

  “—choose a master of the colloquy.” He cleared his throat. “I put forth Lord Daired.”

  There were murmurs from the guests.

  “No, Captain Rhys.” Polton half stood and gave Alastair an apologetic bow. “Saving your honor, my lord, but these are local matters and you’re not from Lake Meera.”

  “Exactly,” Rhys said. “Lord Daired has no prejudice invested in our decision today. He’ll choose fairly.”

  “Lord Daired, would you have any objections?” Cantor Brigsley-Baine asked.

  “No, madam.”

  Polton sat with a faint hrrrmph.

  “Any other objections?” Rhys asked.

  Damp Handkerchief shifted in his seat. Furry Bundle, who’d removed one layer of furs but no more, made a noise that sounded vaguely negative. There were whispers from around the table, some of agreement, some of suspicion, but no one challenged him and no one else offered any other names.

  “Excellent.” Rhys signaled to Mòrag, who stood on her crutches next to the kitchen door. “In that case I believe it’s time for lunch.”

  Servants streamed in, bearing steaming tureens and platters of broiled fish. Alastair leaned over to Rhys as they set out the food. “I would’ve appreciated some warning, Rhys. What exactly is the master of the colloquy supposed to do?”

  “It’s a simple role,” Rhys said. “The magistrates will bicker for an hour or so before settling on two possibilities: send a petition to the king to appoint a new lord sentinel, or select a steward to maintain the castle and day-to-day duties of the lord sentinel. They’ll choose the latter.”

  “You’re sure?” I asked.

  “A petition to the king won’t get looked at for months and we all want this handled as soon as possible.” He glanced down the table to where Bloodhound was already deep in debate with the silver-haired Rider. “And I can tell you now who it’ll come down to: Lyra Farrell, Connell Polton, and Lord Langdred’s youngest son.”

  “Who is?”

  “Not here. His father’s magistrate will fight for him though,” he said, nodding to Damp Handkerchief. “I’ve met the boy. Lazy and conniving little snotpig, just like his father.”

  I thought of Rookwood, Madam Knagg, and the Vesh ambush we’d faced in Langdred and found myself similarly ill disposed toward any embassy from the southern lake town.

  “Anyone you would recommend?” I asked in a low voice.

  “Farrell would do well. She’d see to it that things are kept up in the castle and trade stays open on the lakes.”

  If I hadn’t been watching him closely, I would’ve missed the sidelong glance he gave Alastair when he said it. But I was watching, and I didn’t miss it.

  “I’ll keep that in mind,” Alastair said. He hadn’t missed it either.

  As soon as the servants cleared the last bowls away, the colloquy commenced.

  “But I don’t understand. Why is any of this necessary? Where has he gone?” Damp Handkerchief cried. “And what happened to Lady Cordelia?”

  Polton rubbed his temples. “I told you in my letter, sir. We don’t know where he’s gone. And Lady Selwyn . . . well, Lady Selwyn is gone too.”

  “Your letter said she was a selkie,” Farrell said. “Lord Daired, is that true?”

  “Yes,” he said, “and she’s returned to the water. She won’t be coming back.”

  Whispers rippled down the table.

  “But what about these rumors we’ve heard of Idar slayings?” Damp Handkerchief asked. “I understood Selwyn commissioned you to catch the culprit, Lord Daired. What progress has been made there? Is the lake safe again?”

  I looked at Alastair. Admitting we had fulfilled Lord Selwyn’s request to find Isolde’s killer—and found it was a creature that could not be killed—would do little to secure the trust of these people, and if we were to complete this contract and hunt down the second, Idar-slaying monster, then we would need that trust. We would need all the help we could get.

  “We’re close,” Alastair said.

  Damp Handkerchief pursed his lips and seemed about to speak again, but after a glimpse of Alastair’s face, wisely decided not to press the matter.

  “And the longer we dither here, the longer we keep His Lordship from the hunt,” Polton added. “As for Selwyn, what’s done is done. We must look ahead. Can we at least agree that the castle needs a steward?”

  Next to me, Subcantor Carle lowered his spectacles and stopped scribbling notes. “Proper protocol demands we petition the king for a new lord sentinel, sir,” he said.

  “Only if it’s proved the current lord sentinel is dead,” Bloodhound protested. “I understand that’s not the case. Lord and Lady Daired, we hear you were the last to see him before his, er, disappearance. Do you have any reason to believe he isn’t alive?”

  “No,” I said. “He was alive when we left him, and he took his horse the next day.”

  Damp Handkerchief sniffled. “The man, ah, had no heirs? No family whatsoever?”

  “None,” Rhys said.

  “Then yes, it’s agreed we need a steward.” Cantor Brigsley-Baine had to strain to see the rest of the table over the pitchers and candelabra in front of her. “The real question is, which of us is able? I know I certainly can’t leave my abbey.”

  “You really could, you know,” Subcantor Carle muttered, but no one but me seemed to hear him.

  The mass of furs that was the southern cantor’s head swayed slightly, which Furry Bundle’s neighbors took as agreement. He or she could not leave his or her abbey either. I guessed it was a very warm abbey.

  Damp Handkerchief dabbed his nose with a napkin. “As it so happens, my Lord Langdred’s youngest son has shown considerable interest in the management of great estates such as this one—”

  Farrell rolled her eyes. “His considerable interest drops off sharply once he’s gotten past the wine cellars.”

  “That is a gross slander!”

  “Oh, come off it. Langdred’s youngest couldn’t do sums if you held a dagger to his throat. He’d close all trade on the lake because one of the stevedores looked at him funny, and gods forbid he ever met the king of the merfolk. His Deepness would drown the boy in a heartbeat.” Farrell sipped her wine. “And I for one would send him a thank-you present.”

  Red in the face and sputtering, Damp Handkerchief looked around the table as if hoping someone would correct Magistrate Farrell’s assessment. No one did. A few heads bobbed in agreement. There were even one or two snickers. He slumped back in his chair.

  “It’s obvious, isn’t it?” Bloodhound said. “The matter of the stewardship is one of practicality. You can’t steward much of anything across a mountain range. Whoever we choose would have to stay close to the castle.”

  “Indeed, sir,” Subcantor Carle said. “The household will need to be maintained in case Selwyn should return, or, in the event his death is proved, when the king appoints the new lord. The steward will also have to manage,
to some degree, the flow of trade, and that is of course most easily done . . .” He trailed off as Brigsley-Baine dug her elbow into his side.

  “Yes. Precisely,” Bloodhound said. “Thank you, young man. The steward will need to live near the castle or, if at all possible, in it. Magistrates Polton and Farrell, your towns are closest. You’re known to everyone here as fair and reasonable magistrates and honorable individuals.” He paused, peering around the table as if daring someone to challenge that claim. Farrell watched him without expression. The briefest of smiles touched Polton’s lips before he too turned to Bloodhound with a look of surprise. Ever so slightly, Rhys’s knuckles whitened around his wine glass.

  Bloodhound stood. “Lord Daired, I’d like to offer Magistrates Connell Polton and Lyra Farrell up for your consideration as candidates for the stewardship of Castle Selwyn and the position of lord sentinel. Or lady sentinel, as it may be.”

  “I’m honored, sir, but I must withdraw,” Farrell said before Alastair could reply. “As much as I’d like to do right by Lord Selwyn, my townsfolk need me where I am.” She tapped her cane, the iron-shod echo ringing through the hall. “I’m afraid I wouldn’t be able to travel very often. I must decline.”

  “Oh, very well.” Bloodhound sat. “Polton, are you up for it?”

  “It would be a great and solemn honor.”

  “Does anyone else have any considerations?” Rhys said. “Any at all?”

  Glass and silverware tinkled somewhere farther down the table. Furry Bundle hiccupped. Damp Handkerchief blew his nose. Beads of sweat stood out on Rhys’s forehead. Polton smiled.

  “I do,” I said.

  All eyes turned to me. Rhys leaned forward. “Yes, Lady Daired? You have a name?”

  “Madam Mòrag.”

  Somewhere in the shadows near the kitchen door, a crutch clattered to the floor. Heads swiveled this way and that as those who didn’t know Mòrag tried to figure out who this person was. I left the table and helped her pick up her fallen crutch. “What are you doing, you silly girl?” she said as I drew her into the light.