Joanne Bertin - Dragon Lords 1 - The Last DragonLord

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The Last DragonLord

Joanne Bertin

TOR®

A Tom Doherty Associates Book/New York

This is a work of fiction. All the characters and events portrayed in this

novel are either fictitious or are used fictitiously.

THE LAST DRAGONLORD

This book is printed on acid-free paper. Edited by James Frenkel

A Tor Book

Published by Tom Doherty Associates, Inc.

175 Fifth Avenue

New York, NY 10010

Tor Books on the World Wide Web: http://www.tor.com

Tor® is a registered trademark of Tom Doherty Associates, Inc. Design by Barbara Durand

First Edition: December 1998 Printed in the USA 0987654321

To Sam, because he didn't laugh.

With thanks to

Eluki bes shahar, Shawna McCarthy, and Jim Frenkel for all they've done. Judith Tarr's

novel writing workshops at Wesleyan for advice, energy, and enthusiasm.

Judy herself, for lots more advice, unstinting help nd horse neep, a virtual baseball bat

when I needed it, and especially for her friendship.

And the biggest thanks to all to Walter "Sam" Gailey for loving support, advice, computer

expertise, and patience above and beyond the call of duty. Sam, you are hereby nominated for

sainthood.

Table of Contents

Prologue

One

Two

Three

Four

Five

Six

Seven

Eight

Nine

Ten

Eleven

Twelve

Thirteen

Fourteen

Fifteen

Sixteen

Seventeen

Eighteen

Nineteen

Twenty

Twenty-one

Twenty-two

Twenty-three

Twenty-four

Twenty-five

Twenty-six

Twenty-seven

Twenty-eight

Twenty-nine

Thirty

Thirty-one

Thirty-two

Thirty-three

Thirty-four

Thirty-five

Thirty-six

Thirty-seven

Thirty-eight

Thirty-nine

Forty

Forty-one

Forty-two

Forty-three

Forty-four

Forty-five

Forty-six

Forty-seven

Forty-eight

Forty-nine

Fifty

Fifty-one

Fifty-two

Fifty-three

Fifty-four

Fifty-five

Fifty-six

Fifty-seven

Fifty-eight

Fifty-nine

Sixty

Sixty-one

Sixty-two

Sixty-three

Sixty-four

Sixty-five

Sixty-six

Sixty-seven

Sixty-eight

Sixty-nine

Seventy

Prologue

^ »

The storm was close now. The mage heard the rumble of thunder, heard the rising wind

soughing through the tops of the pine trees. Chanting softly, he knelt before the stone altar and

all that it held, then took up a silver scrying bowl and watched the scene revealed in the black

ink.

He saw the barge rock as the first little waves slapped against it. The pennants at bow and

stern came alive as the wind caught them. Although the colors were muted, he knew them to

be the royal scarlet. The waves rose as the waters of the Uildodd River grew darker, reflecting

the leaden sky above them.

More … Just a little more …

Now!

Moving swiftly, he set the silver bowl down and caught up a knife in one hand. With the

other he seized the hair of the youth who lay bound and gagged on the altar. He ignored the

boy's terror-filled eyes, and, with a practiced motion, yanked the head back and slashed the

blade across the exposed throat. All the while, he chanted.

He caught the hot blood in a bowl carved from the same stone as the altar, impassive as the

blood spilled over his fingers, staining them red. When the deadly flow ceased, he nodded

curtly. His servant pulled the body from the altar.

The incantation changed, became harsher, more urgent. He opened a small box that rested

beside the bowl. First he removed a bit of wood, carved in the rough likeness of a barge,

wrapped in a thread of scarlet silk. Both wood and silk had been taken from the same barge

whose progress he had watched in the scrying bowl. He set them to float in the blood.

Next he took out a small bottle. From it he let three drops of water from the Uildodd River

fall into the bowl. The blood stirred as if a tiny wind raced across it.

Overhead the sky grew darker as the storm closed in and thunder walked the land. In the

bowl, the waves rose higher. The crudely carved bit of wood slewed around as if turned by an

unseen hand. The man watched in satisfaction as first one, then another tiny, crimson waves

splashed against the "barge's" stern.

He raised his voice, weaving the blood magic in a net of death. Slowly he stretched out a

finger. Slowly, and with infinite satisfaction, he pressed down on the wood, forcing the back

end under. Blood splashed up and over, wave after miniature wave, as he continued to push

the little boat down.

It disappeared. Nor did it surface again. The chant ended on a note of triumph.

He stepped back from the altar, aware now of a sudden drop in temperature. "Clean it up,"

he ordered the servant as he wiped his bloody hands on the wet cloth the man offered him.

Then he walked down the slope to where he'd left his tunic.

As he picked it up, a necklace of silver chain fell out. He caught it in midair and let the

heavy links slide through his fingers a moment before putting it on.

He smiled, fingering the necklace. Soon he would be able to cast it aside forever.

The first drops of rain began to fall.

One

« ^ »

The dragon gleamed in the light of the setting sun, his scales glittering as he soared toward the

castle that crowned the mountaintop. His gaze shifted to a wide, flat area ending in a cliff,

wreathed in shadows cast by the dying light. A slight tilt of the powerful wings and the red

dragon turned, silent, beautiful, deadly, intent on his goal.

He landed, claws scraping against stone, the sound harsh in the crystalline air. A red mist

surrounded him and the great dragon became a wraith; the mist contracted, then disappeared,

leaving behind the figure of a tall man.

Linden brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, his blood singing from his long flight and

the magic of Changing. He crossed the shadow-dappled landing area. As he reached the first

step of the long stairway that led to the castle of Dragonskeep, a voice, old but still clear and

strong, rang out.

"Dragonlord."

Linden paused and looked up. On the stairs high above him stood an elderly kir, his

silvered fur catching the last of the sunlight, no expression on his short-muzzled face.

Sirl, personal servant to the Lady, who ruled Dragonskeep and the Dragonlords, regarded

him in return. "The Lady has need of you," the kir said.

Why? Linden wondered as he raised a hand in acknowledgment and bounded up the stairs,

his long legs taking the steps three at a time. It had been long and long since he'd had such a

summons.

When Linden reached the step where Sirl waited, the kir bowed to him. "If you will follow

me, Dragonlord," he said. Then he turned and led the wondering Linden to the Keep.

No words were exchanged as they walked through the white marble halls of Dragonskeep.

Globes of coldfire, set to hovering in the air by various Dragonlords, lit the way. At last they

came to the tower rooms set aside for the ruler of the Keep. Sirl opened the door and bowed

Linden inside. Linden entered the chamber; Sirl followed close behind, shutting the door once

more.

Globes of white coldfire lit this room as well, setting aflame the gold threads running

through the tapestries that covered the five walls. Dragons soaring against blue skies, sunsets, a

river of stars, or among mountain crags covered four of them. The fifth, incongruously, was of

a hunting scene: a stag, a pack of baying hounds, three huntsmen, all forever frozen as they

raced through the forest. A reminder, perhaps, of the Lady's life before she Changed? Linden

doubted he would ever know. They were the only decoration in the room, which was sparsely

furnished. What few items of furniture there were looked lost in the emptiness.

The Lady sat in a high-backed wooden chair. Her long fingers cradled a cup of tea as

though seeking its warmth. She looked unreal in the cold light. Even the pale albino's eyes that

watched him seemed colorless. She beckoned.

As he crossed the room, he studied her. She had been very young, he knew—only

fifteen—when she'd Changed for the first time. Their kind aged slowly; how many centuries

had the Lady seen to give her face that delicate tracery of wrinkles? After more than six

centuries, he himself still looked only twenty-eight.

Without thinking, Linden touched the wine-colored birthmark that spread across his right

temple and eyelid. It was his Marking, as the Lady's icy paleness was hers. He'd hated it until

he'd discovered what it meant: that he was one of the great weredragons, the lords and servants

of humankind. A Dragonlord.

Linden knelt before the Lady. Setting his hands on his thighs, he bowed till his forehead

almost touched the floor—the salute of a Yerrin clansman to his lord. "Lady?" he said.

The Lady studied him for a long moment. Then she said, "Yes, I was right. You will be the

third."

Linden frowned slightly as he accepted a cup of tea from Sirl. And what does she mean by—

Memory returned and with it came understanding. Lleld, smallest of the Dragonlords, had

been late to breakfast that morning, bubbling over with news and speculation—more of the

latter than the former. Linden thanked the gods he hadn't taken her up on the wager she'd

demanded when he'd laughed at her notions. Sometimes Lleld's wild predictions had a way of

becoming real, and he'd no wish to lose that particular cloak brooch.

The Lady's long, pale fingers tapped against the cup. "You have never sat in judgement,

have you, Linden? Then perhaps it is time, little one—"

She stopped at his chuckle. "Impudent scamp, you know very well what I mean!" she

scolded with an affectionate smile.

Linden hid a grin as he drank. Over six and a half feet tall in his stocking feet, he towered

over everyone else at Dragonskeep. The Lady herself barely came up to his chest. But with only

a little more than six centuries behind him he was the youngest Dragonlord, the "little one."

And, to his great grief, likely the last.

"You've heard by now that a messenger from Cassori arrived early this morning, yes?" she

said.

Linden nodded. "Lleld said something about it at breakfast; she'd heard it from the

servants. Is it about the regency? I'd thought that was already settled some time ago and the

queen's drowning proven to be an accident. Wasn't there an investigation?"

"There was; it found no cause for suspicion. And now that the period of mourning is over,

we had all thought Duke Beren was to be confirmed as regent. But then came this challenge,

the messenger said. The Cassorin council is divided; they cannot settle the matter and many of

the barons are becoming restless. Luckily the messenger came before the Saethe and I left to

confer with the truedragons."

Of course; on the morrow, the Lady and the Dragonlords' own council—the Saethe—were

to consult with the truedragons on a matter of grave and growing concern to the Dragonlords.

For there had been no new Dragonlords, not even a hint of, one, since his own First Change. It

explained the Lady's haste, then, in choosing judges—if Lleld had guessed right once again.

Aloud he said, "Most of the Cassorin royal family are dead now, aren't they?" Bad luck

attended this reign, it seemed; he'd seen its like before.

"Yes; all save for a little boy, Prince Rann, and two uncles: the challenger, Peridaen, a prince

of the blood, and Duke Beren, who has a strong lateral claim to the throne."

Linden considered as he sipped his tea. Another of Lleld's guesses confirmed. He went on,

"So the Cassorin messenger came to ask for Dragonlord judgement." At the Lady's nod, he

smiled. "That was Lleld's guess. She also predicted Kief and Tarlna would be sent as arbitrators,

since they're Cassorin and have done this before."

"Lleld," the Lady said, sounding exasperated, "is entirely too clever by half. Someday she'll

guess wrong. But not this time. Kief and Tarlna are indeed going to Cassori. And so, I have

decided, are you, as the third judge required." The Lady set her empty cup on the low table to

one side of her chair. Sirl appeared and took it.

Linden carefully schooled his expression to stay blank. A mission with Tarlna, who chided

him at every chance for his lack—by her prim standards—of dignity as befitted a Dragonlord?

Oh, joy. He wondered what he'd done to deserve this.

Yet to sit in judgement was his duty as a Dragonlord. But why him, Yerrin by birth, and the

youngest, least experienced Dragonlord to boot? True, he spoke Cassorin—a talent for

languages seemed to go with being a Dragonlord. But there were others far more experienced

in such things. Surely one of them was to be preferred.

He held his tongue.

"The three of you will leave in the morning. Since there is no time to be lost, you will all

Change and fly to Cassori. The court has not left the city for the summer yet; the claimants

shall await you in the great palace in Casna." The Lady smiled. "I know you'd rather ride Shan,

but I fear Cassori cannot afford the time it would take." She beckoned Linden to rise.

He offered her his arm as she rose from her chair and escorted her from the room.

They paused in the doorway of the hall, watching the dancing that began every night after

the evening meal. The Lady leaned easily on his arm, nodding her head slightly in time to the

music.

Linden said, "Lady, if I may ask … Why did you choose me? Kief and Tarlna, yes, they are

Cassorin. I'm not. So?" He waited as she considered her answer.

Finally she said, "For the sake of a feeling that I have, little one." Her soultwin Kelder

emerged from the dancers and came toward them. She held out her hand to him.

As Kelder led her into the dance, the Lady looked back. "But whether this matter needs

you," she said, "or you need this matter, I don't know."

On his way to his chambers Linden met Lleld coming the other way down the hall.

"Hello, little one," Lleld said with a grin as he stopped to talk to her.

"You love being able to say that to me, don't you?" Linden replied, unable to keep an

answering smile from his face as he towered over her. Lleld's Marking was her height; the little

Dragonlord was no taller than a child of perhaps ten years. "You weren't at the dancing

tonight," he said.

"Ah, no—I had something else to do," she said. "So tell me—was I right?"

He nodded. "About everything."

She heaved a sigh of regret. "Blast, but I wish you'd taken that wager."

"I've learned," he said dryly.

"You're to be the third judge, aren't you?" She cocked her head at him.

Laughing, he said, "Right again, you redheaded imp. I just hope it won't take too long."

"Or be too boring; regency debates usually are, you know," Lleld said helpfully, "as well as

taking years to settle, sometimes. A pity this isn't one of your friend Otter's tales, isn't it? It

would be much more interesting then."

One of Otter's—That would be all he'd need on top of Tarlna's company. Linden asked in

some exasperation, "And what did I do that you should wish that on me, Lady Mayhem?"

Lleld just grinned. "Ah, well; I'd best be off. It's getting late." And with that she sauntered

off down the hall.

Linden continued on to his rooms, shaking his head. The things Lleld thought up … And

she had looked entirely too innocent as she'd walked away.

When he entered his chambers, he found Varn, his servant, almost finished packing for

him. Sirl must have sent word on.

Varn looked up. "The boys are already asleep. They stayed up as long as they could to say

good-bye, but…" He smiled and shook his head.

"Tell them I'm sorry," Linden said. And he was; he was fond of his servant's twin sons.

The golden-furred kir straightened up from closing the last buckle on a leather pack.

"They'll miss their pillow fights," Varn said with a grin. "Though I should warn you that they've

bribed Lleld to join them for the next great battle. Something about honey cakes, I think it

was."

Linden shook his head, laughing. "Have they now, the little hellions? And that explains

where Lleld was. Thanks for the warning. Ah, well; I shouldn't be gone long."

"You hope," Varn said as he eased Linden's small harp into its traveling case.

Linden sat on the wide stone rail of the balcony. Behind him was the open door to his

rooms, some ten of his long strides across the balcony floor. He looked out into the night,

savoring the coolness, the spicy scent of the night-blooming callitha rising from the gardens

below.

Varn had gone home to wife and sons long ago. Now there was only one thing left to

arrange before sleeping; Lleld's earlier comment had given him an idea. Closing his eyes,

Linden made ready to "cast his call on the wind" as the Dragonlords said.

He let his thoughts drift, seeking a particular mind. There came a faint stirring, an

impression of the sea, the whisper of wind in canvas, a ship gently rocking. To his surprise he

had to strain to keep the link; Otter was much further away than Linden had thought he'd be.

Then the link wavered on the edge of dissolving; the distance was just too great. Linden was

about to abandon the attempt when he felt a sudden surge of power.

What on—? Then he realized: his quarry was on board a ship. That burst of magical power

must mean some merlings, the half-fish, half-human people of the seas, were nearby. They

often followed ships for days at a time. Somehow their magic must be augmenting his own.

He was not slow to take advantage of this bit of luck. Otter? he said.

A wordless rush of delight, then, Linden? Linden, is that really you?

Linden smiled. It is indeed, old friend. I'm leaving Dragonskeep in the morning. Quickly he

told the bard all he knew. I'm flying there in dragon form. I thought we might journey together

afterward. I could come back for Shan and meet you wherever you are—or rather, are going to.

Otter said, You're not taking Shan? Have you told him yet that you're leaving him behind? I

wish I could see it when you do.

Linden grimaced at the thought of how his Llysanyin stallion would take the news. I

thought I'd wait until the morning. He'll probably bite me. Where are you bound for?

Otter replied, Believe it or not, we're on our way to the great city of Casna, as well.

There was a sly feel to Otter's mindvoice that Linden knew well. Someone was in for a

teasing. Wondering who was the intended victim, he said, What are you doing at sea?

For the past few months I've been visiting a kinsman who lives now in Thalnia. You might

remember him—Redhawk, a wool trader. His son Raven's best friend is a trader-captain, one of the

Erdon merchant family of Thalnia. I asked to go with her; I've an itch to travel again. She agreed to

let me sail with her.

Redhawk? Raven? Linden thought a moment. Ah! I remember them now, especially the little

boy; red hair and a passion for horses.

Otter's chuckle tickled in his mind.

Little? The lad's now nearly as tall as you are! And still horse-mad, much to his father's despair.

A pity he's not along; the two of you would get on well together.

Linden nodded, forgetting as he always did that Otter couldn't see it; it felt as though the

bard stood next to him. And why are you going to Casna?

It happened to be the first northern port the Sea Mist is bound for. I'd planned to journey to

Dragonskeep to drag you out of there and go traveling with me. Poor Maurynna; when she heard

that, she was wild to come with me. Tried to talk her uncle, the head of their family, into letting her

take a trading trip overland, but he was having none of that.

Linden wondered who Maurynna was, then decided she must be the captain. And from

the feel of Otter's mindvoice, he now knew who the intended victim was to be. Otter—what bit

of mischief are you planning?

Never you mind, boyo. Then, wistfully, Gods, but it's been a long time.

Linden sighed. He'd forgotten how long the years were to truehumans. It was part of the

magic of Dragonlords; to be caught out of time until the dragon half of their souls woke, years

passing with the swiftness of days—both blessing and curse.

He rubbed his temples; even with the aid of the merlings' magic, his head was beginning to

ache. He said, Kief and Tarlna are coming, as well. A brief wave of sadness washed over him. He

hoped Otter didn't feel it.

Tarlna, eh? Aren't you the lucky one, Otter said. But Maurynna will be delighted—three

Dragonlords in Casna!

Linden raised an eyebrow at that. Oh? was all he said, but put a world of meaning into it.

When will you make port?

I'd guess in a few tendays or so, but I'm not certain. Perhaps sooner; we're making good time or

so I'm told. We left Assantik two days ago, looking for something Maurynna calls the Great

Current. Ah, Linden—may I ask you a favor?

Here, then, was his answer. Of course. What?

Would you mind if I introduced her to you? She'd be thrilled.

Oh, gods. Another one looking for a Dragonlord as a lover's trophy, no doubt. He hoped

she wasn't the sort to gush. Still, she was a friend of Otter's; he couldn't refuse. No—I don't

mind.

I should warn you right now that you're one of her heroes. She's always loved any story about

Dragonlords—and about Bram and Rani and the Kelnethi War. This will be a dream come true for

her. You're not only a Dragonlord, boyo—you're Bram's kinsman who fought alongside him and

Rani.

Linden cringed. This was going to be worse than usual.

Kief and Tarlna. A moment's hesitation, then Otter said, I'm sorry, Linden; it will be hard for

you, won't it?

Linden bowed his head. Somehow, at Dragonskeep, although there were soultwinned

couples all around him, he could ignore it. Whenever it became too much, he had friends he

could escape to in the outlying villages or go riding in the mountains. But in Casna, the only

people he would know would be Kief and Tarlna. And theirs was one of the closest bonds in

the Keep. Being with them would be like having salt water constantly poured into a wound.

Perhaps there would be someone in Casna to help him forget for a little while.

He should have known the bard would catch that quick betrayal of loneliness before—and

Joanne Bertin - Dragon Lords 1 - The Last DragonLord

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