The Last Dragonlord (38 page)

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Authors: Joanne Bertin

BOOK: The Last Dragonlord
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Prince and steward rode through
the city, their escort following behind. The streets were quieter than usual despite the crowds that had poured into Casna for both the upcoming Solstice celebration and a chance to see the Dragonlords. It seemed the threat of Linden Rathan’s death and the renewed possibility of civil war had dampened everyone’s spirits.
“Eerie, isn’t it?” Peridaen said as he graciously acknowledged the bows of a trio of men, clerks by their dress. “With this many people there should be much more noise.”
Althume nodded, looking around. “Interesting that even these cattle should sense something is happening. Ah—I almost forgot. A messenger arrived this morning with a letter for you while you were in your bath. My guess is it’s from Anstella.” He dug into his belt pouch and brought out a folded and sealed square of parchment.
Peridaen took it and dropped the reins to lie on his horse’s neck. He read, nodding to himself as he did. “Good,” he said. “Anstella sends word that Sherrine is well.” He took up his reins once more.
“Of course she is,” Althume said. “I gave her an emetic to purge her stomach and the antidote to be certain the potion would not affect her. And since she was also on the other side of the river when I invoked the second part of the spell, she was quite safe; the potion was only the first part.”
“I see,” said the prince. Then, after a long silence, “Kas—what was in that stuff that made Linden Rathan so sick?”
Althume smiled. He knew Peridaen had been working himself up to this question for days. No doubt the prince’s reaction would prove amusing. “Among other interesting things,
keftih
,” he said. “Quite a lot of it, in fact.”
Horror. Disgust. Finally panic. “Damn it all,” Peridaen managed to say at last, “what if you’re caught with it? You know what the penalties are for possessing that filth—it’s used only for the blackest magery.” His face was pale.
Althume did something he rarely did: laughed in real amusement. “And what did you think a soultrap jewel was, Peridaen? White magery? Why boggle at
keftih
if you condone the use of that? We’re fighting a war. We use whatever we must.
“But don’t worry. I’ve taken precautions; it’s stored somewhere far from your chambers. I have delivered to me only what little I need at a time.”
And you haven’t guessed for what yet, have you? I wonder when that acorn will drop, my squeamish prince.
Tasha snapped out of her
doze as a hand gently shook her shoulder. She blinked up at Quirel.
“Go get something to eat and drink,” her apprentice urged. “I’ll sit with him for a while.”
The Healer yawned. “What time is it?”
“Nearly midnight. But there’s bread, cheese, cold meats, and ale left out for us in the kitchen. I didn’t bring anything here because, well—” He wrinkled his nose.
She nodded. The thought of eating in this sickroom with its odd odor was not appealing. She heaved herself to her feet. “I’m not really hungry, but I could do with a walk around, so thank you. There’s been no change.”
He nodded and took her place by Linden Rathan’s bedside.
Once out of the room Tasha leaned against the wall, trying to make up her mind what to do next. She should eat. But walking helped her think. And she desperately needed to do that; she was running out of ideas to help Linden Rathan. She suspected the only reason he was still alive was a deep-down stubborn will to live. But even that couldn’t keep him going much longer if she couldn’t cure whatever ailed him. So she would prowl around and think. Maybe something would come to her.
 
Althume strode a spiraling path up the hill in the clearing, chanting as he walked, holding the chest containing the soultrap jewel before him. Pol followed, a torch held in one hand, a limp form slung over his other shoulder. The tiny procession wound its way, moving widdershins, to the altar crowning the flat hilltop.
The mage laid the chest at the head of the altar and opened
it. Pol dumped his burden down less ceremoniously. A muffled grunt of pain escaped it.
“Careful, Pol,” Althume admonished. “You don’t want to break the lad’s neck now; that would be a waste.”
He leaned over to examine the victim’s bonds. Excellent; they were still tight. No chance that this one would work his way loose as the last one did. That one had almost gotten away; indeed, would have if he hadn’t turned back screaming at the sight of the
dragauth.
“You tie a better knot than your brother,” he said as he yanked the hood from their victim’s head. The boy, he saw with approval, was gagged.
Pol chuckled.
Althume caught the boy’s chin and turned his face from side to side. The lad looked to be twelve or thirteen, pretty for a boy. Althume thought he could guess how Pol had captured him—not that the mage cared. “You’re certain no one will miss him?”
“Yes, my lord. He’s naught but a common whore peddling his ass down by the docks. His sort disappear all the time.”
Whatever drug Pol had given the boy was wearing off. Wide, terrified eyes stared at Althume as the boy tried to scream despite the cloth cutting into the corners of his mouth.
The mage smiled thinly. “Thought you’d been taken up by a gentleman at last, did you? How sad. But you’re about to do the best thing you could with your miserable little life, boy. You’re going to help us defeat the Dragonlords,” he said as picked up the soultrap jewel with one hand and drew the dagger from his belt with the other.
The boy threw himself against his bonds. Pol shoved him down again and held him.
Althume began the chant of sacrifice.
 
You’d think that storm would have cooled everything off,
Tasha thought as, still seeking inspiration, she wandered the vast lawn that separated the house from the road.
It’s as hot as a—
“Dear gods” she yelled. “That’s it!” She ran for the house.
 
Maurynna let herself into the house quietly, not wanting to wake up her aunt or cousins. She hadn’t meant to stay at the warehouse this late, but what with one thing and another, talking to Danaet, and straightening out problems, the evening and too much of the night had slipped away. Besides, it kept her busy and didn’t let her think about Linden or her newest problem—at least not too much.
Someone stirred in the front room. “Rynna?” a sleepy voice said.
She stopped, astonished. “Otter? What are you doing here? I thought you were still at the estate,” she whispered. A possible reason struck her. “Otter—please; Linden’s not …” Her voice failed.
“He was still the same when I left.” The sleepy bard appeared in the doorway, rubbing his eyes. “I think either Kief or Tarlna would have mindcalled me if anything had happened, so don’t worry.”
She sagged against the wall, weak with relief. “Thank the gods.”
“Duchess Alinya sent word that Rann was making himself sick with worry, so I was sent off to cheer the boy up. Tell him stories, sing to him, that sort of thing.” Otter gave his eyes a final rub and shook his head. “Feh. I hadn’t meant to fall asleep waiting for you.”
“Oh.” Maurynna suddenly felt awkward, remembering the last time she’d seen Otter. “That’s all right.”
By the way he looked at her, he remembered as well. “How are you faring these days? I’ve been worried about you, too.”
Maurynna brushed aside the thing that worried her when she wasn’t thinking about Linden, saying only, “Well enough. Thank you, though.” She wondered how to frame an apology for the things she’d said. And would he even accept it?
But before she could speak, Otter said, “Rynna, don’t say
a word. It’s all past.” His eyes twinkled with a mischievous light. “Besides, it would ruin my ‘I told you so’; I’d feel like a lout, then.”
Maurynna gaped at him.
“Linden did not meet Sherrine again that night. He rode alone to the ferry. And I think if she’d had whatever felled Linden, she’d be dead by now. Yet we’ve had no such word.
“It had to be those two men you and Maylin saw. Somehow they overpowered Linden and forced him to drink whatever it was. You said they were bending over Linden when you first saw them, yes? Perhaps they were giving it to him even then.”
Maurynna shook her head. “No. You’re wrong. It was Sherrine. I don’t know how, but she did it.”
“Dear heart, are you certain you’re not blaming her because of what she did to you and Linden?” Otter said, cradling her hands in her own. “Please—let’s not fight over it again, Rynna. We’ve been friends for too long.”
“Oh, very well,” she conceded.
But I’m right, damn it.
Otter continued, “While Linden is still angry with Sherrine for the way she trapped him into publicly forgiving her, even he believes her innocent of any part in this.”
The more fool he, then. Gods above, why is it men think a beautiful woman can do no wrong?
Maurynna thought acidly. She sat, fuming. They’d never know the truth; Lady Sherrine would never confess willingly. And by Cassorin law, the only crime a noble could be tortured for was treason. She supposed that the attack on Linden might be stretched to fit that; he was, after all, here to sit in judgement and avert civil war at the behest of the Cassorin council. But as surely as she knew the sun would rise tomorrow, she knew Linden would never demand that; he had no stomach for torture.
If only the other Dragonlords would insist. If only
she
could insist … .
And then it was happening again, just as it had this afternoon. The voices that she had previously heard only while dreaming called to her waking mind, pulling her into herself. One soared above the rest, a sweet voice like the singing of
a flute; it spoke to her, enticing her, promising her the freedom of the sky and the songs of the winds.
She heard Otter call her name, but she couldn’t answer. And now his voice came from farther and farther away as she sank deeper into her mind. Soon she would be lost in the voices, unable to hear him at all.
And there was nothing she could do about it.
 
Althume ran blood-streaked fingers over the soultrap jewel. It glowed beneath his caress with a faint, pulsating light as it drank in the blood. He regarded it fondly, like a father with a favorite child.
“A beautiful thing, is it not, Pol? And so useful a tool for a mage. For it stores not only souls—the magic of life—but any sort of magical energy for a bold mage to make use of. And the beauty of it is, once it reaches a certain threshold, it can be used to leech a soul even from a distance, without killing its victim—at least, not right away.”
Pol continued pulling the clothes from the body sprawled across the altar. “And has this one reached that point, my lord?”
“Almost, Pol, almost. Catching Nethuryn’s soul within it was a masterly stroke. And using the Dragonlord’s own coldfire a deliciously ironic touch, don’t you think? A few more like this and we’re ready for the next step in my plan.”
He ceased his contemplation of the bloody jewel to note Pol’s progress. “Done? Good. We’ll burn them in a few minutes. But first let’s give my pet a treat.”
The mage drew a small bone whistle from his belt pouch and trilled a note upon it. Pol picked up the body and came to stand by him.
They waited.
Crackling bushes were their first warning of the
dragauth
’s approach. The second was the foul stench of rotting flesh on the night breeze.
One moment the edge of the clearing was empty; the next a towering figure appeared, man-shaped, but standing nearly eight feet tall. Althume regarded this child of his magery with
pleasure. Not every mage had the skill to construct a
dragauth,
even if he had the courage to sacrifice the necessary flesh. Althume had had both. He rubbed his thigh, absently running his fingers over the ridged scar.
The
dragauth
raised its hands. The torchlight glinted on razor-sharp claws capable of disemboweling a man at a single stroke.
“Give it to him,” Althume ordered.
Pol stepped forward and flung the boy’s body. It flew through the air like some ghastly travesty of a bird. The
dragauth
snatched it before it could hit the ground.
As he watched his pet eat, Althume couldn’t help chuckling as a thought came to mind:
Whatever would poor Peridaen say to
this?
 
He called to her, but the other voice was far sweeter and more seductive—and frightening. She wanted to follow Otter’s voice out of this madness, but the singer in her head was far more powerful. She wasn’t even certain who she was anymore. Maurynna or … Another name danced at the very edge of her mind and vanished like a wisp of fog in sunlight. Then—
Pain. She welcomed it even as she cried out. She concentrated, anchoring herself to it, using it as a beacon to bring herself to safe harbor. The golden voices retreated, the flute-like one last of all.
Her eyes cleared. Otter knelt before her, shaking her.
“Rynna! Rynna—listen to me. Please!”
Trembling, Maurynna focused on the bard. “Otter?” she said uncertainly.
He sat back on his heels. “Thank the gods. Rynna—what happened to you? One moment you were talking to me, the next—”
“There were voices—beautiful voices—calling to me. I’ve been dreaming them, but earlier today, and now … . Am I going mad?” she sobbed, terrified.
“No. No, you’re not. It’s just—you’re just upset about Linden, that’s all. The two of you are … very close, after all,
and, well—you’re just upset,” Otter fairly babbled. “That’s all, Maurynna. Things will be better soon. Truly.
“But if it happens again, tell me!”
 
Servants bearing loads of sheets and firewood came in, set their burdens down, and left to fetch more. Tasha directed others as they folded blankets on the floor before the fireplace.
“That’s right; make it up good and thick. I want him well separated from the cool tiles. That should do. You—put that pile of sheets down here. And make certain those windows are shut tight.”
The other Dragonlords came in, dodging servants rushing out on Tasha’s orders. They looked as though they’d dressed in haste; Kief Shaeldar wore only breeches. Tasha had no time to feel sorry the noise had awakened them.
“What on earth?” he asked.
“It’s as hot as—” Tarlna began in complaint.
“A steam bath in here,” Tarlna finished in triumph. “And it will be hotter yet. If I can’t purge Linden Rathan of whatever’s poisoning him, or cure it, I’ll bloody well sweat it out of him.”
Kief Shaeldar and Tarlna Aurianne looked at each other. Tasha braced herself for an argument; Dragonlords or no, this was
her
patient and she would brook no interference from the two standing before her.
“You don’t need all this,” Kief Shaeldar said, waving at the firewood. “We can help. We’re yours to order, Healer.”
“Done,” Tasha said, relieved. “Quirel—send the servants away. We’re ready to begin.” At the lift of Kief Shaeldar’s eyebrow, Tasha said quietly, “He may talk in delirium, Dragonlord. I assume that there are things you might prefer the servants not hear.”
Just as quietly the Dragonlord said, “Thank you, Healer.”

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