The Last Dragonlord Read Free Page A

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 not have forgotten. He made light of it. Ah, well; at least I’m not the one tied to Tarlna.
    To lighten the mood again, he told Otter what Lleld had said earlier.
    The bard laughed. She said that, did she? Imp. You’ve enough to worry about with Tarlna; you don’t need a wicked mage.
    The mage, Linden said, might even be preferable.
    The power that had been aiding his effort wavered; the group of merlings must be splitting up. Otter, I can’t hold this link much longer.
    I understand. Shall I look for you at the palace when we make port? I’m known there; I played many times for Queen Desia.
    Yes, Linden replied. Good-bye. He let the contact fade, groaning a little at the ache that had settled behind his eyes. The scent of callitha blossoms returned, spicy and soothing. Afterward he sat watching the night sky for a long time.
     
    Nethuryn never knew who slipped the note under his door. Perhaps it was Joreda, who sometimes saw the truth in her fortune-telling sticks. But anonymous as it was, it had the ring of truth.
    The cold-eyed one sends his wolf for you.
    Nethuryn’s hands shook as if with a palsy as he read it over and over. “Gods help me,” the old mage pleaded in a whisper. He looked wildly about his comfortable lodgings.
    He knew who hunted him. And what they wanted. He even knew who the “wolf” would be.
    “Mmmrow!” A black-and-white cat twined about his ankles, demanding attention. Annoyed when the customary pat didn’t follow, the cat batted at the hem of the old man’s robes.
    The tug brought Nethuryn back to himself. “Oh, Merro-lad, I’m sorry. We’ve been happy here for so long, but now …” He swayed and caught himself on the back of a chair. “Now we have to run.”
    But was there anywhere he could hide and not be found? Pelnar wasn’t big enough to hide him, not from—
    Despairing, he sank to the floor. Perhaps he should just give up; he was old, useless, his magics nearly gone …
    Merro jumped into his arms and purred in delight. What will happen to Merro if you die? Nethuryn demanded of himself as the black-and-white head butted his shoulder.
    The old mage took a deep breath. “We shan’t make it easy for him, eh, boy? No, he’ll have to hunt for us, he will. Hunt us and … and it.”
    Setting the cat down, Nethuryn clambered stiffly to his feet and set to work.

Two
    Linden gritted his teeth. Resolving not to lose his temper, he ignored Tarlna and went to the window of the small meeting room.
    Outside, Varn and the other servants were moving the departing Dragonlords’ packs to the distant cliff. He stared at their small figures retreating along the track. And counted to ten once more, trying not to wish they’d drop Tarlna’s packs into the green valley below.
    Then he said, “For the last time, Tarlna, I am not wearing the ceremonial regalia now. Once we reach Cassori, yes—but not today.”
    Her voice tight with exasperation, she said, “One would think you’re ashamed—”
    Linden rounded on her. “I’m not ashamed of them. Far from it. But blast it all, they are uncomfortable!” He folded his arms across his chest and glared at her.
    Tarlna returned the glare. She stood with her arms akimbo, blue eyes flashing, blond curls tossed back. Her lips parted as a gleam filled her eyes.
    Linden knew Tarlna had thought of an especially scathing retort—even for her. He gambled everything on a final toss of the dice. With his most innocent look, he said, “What if it’s raining there? That’ll ruin the silk.”
    The blue eyes narrowed.
    Linden wondered if he should start running now. If Tarlna guessed he was jesting, and