Read Online The Last Dragonlord by Joanne Bertin - Free Book Online
Authors: Joanne Bertin
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indeed.
First they had to stand about in this stuffy little room while some pompous ass brayed, then the herald would announce them, giving their human and dragon names, one by one. Then he would present the councii—one by one.
What idiocy. They’d met these same nobles last night. But now it had to be done with proper ceremony and formality.
Bother the ceremony. He wanted to get started.
He pushed back his sleeves. Wretched things, always in the way. He wished they didn’t have to wear the regalia for these meetings. He’d had enough of it last night at the welcoming festivities. He’d spent the entire feast waiting for the wide sleeves to fall into the gravy. They usually did; sometimes he thought they had a mind of their own.
And these blasted tight breeches pinched.
He wanted the soft, loose, Yerrin breeches and well-worn boots waiting in his quarters. And a tunic with sensible sleeves.
Yet the black, scarlet, and silver formal clothes were impressive—and necessary. They would remind the council that these were Dragonlords, the ancient Givers of Law, sitting in judgement. Without that reminder, some members would forget that the three before them were not the mere two decades or so old that they appeared.
He shifted his heavy torc of rank, fingering the dragon-heads with their ruby eyes. His clan-braid snagged on the links of his belt. He pulled it free.
Damn these clothes.
Tarlna hissed, “I hope you’re more dignified when you’re out there. You’re fidgeting like a child!”
She stalked him, drawing breath to continue. Linden retreated into memories of the night before, allowing Tarlna’s scolding to wash over him unheeded. He’d grown expert at it over the centuries. Instead, he wondered when he’d see Sherrine again. Not one moment before she wanted him to, he’d wager. The memory of her perfume and laughing eyes came back to tease him. Tarlna continued venting her annoyance with the delay on him.
The herald’s voice rang out from the other room. “My
lords and ladies—His Grace, Dragonlord Kief Shaeldar!”
Kief opened the door and made his entrance.
The herald’s cry of “Her Grace, Tarlna Aurianne!” cut Tarlna’s lecture short. She limped off.
Linden heaved a sigh of relief. Then the herald called “His Grace, Linden Rathan!” and it was his turn to face the Cassorin Council. He stepped through the door.
This was his first look at the room where he would likely spend much of his time in the next few tendays; they had entered the anteroom from the hallway. It was longer than it was wide, with windows from floor to ceiling along the lowall to his left. The sunlight shone through, making rectangles of light at intervals along the floor.
At the far end was a massive fireplace of black marble. He wondered if they’d ever roasted an ox there; the thing was large enough. The remaining walls were covered with the dark carved paneling that was in every Cassorin room he’d seen so far.
A thought drifted across his mind: Perhaps there’s a law requiring it.
The heels of his tall, stiff boots clicked on the patterned tiles of the floor. He counted as he passed through the sunlit patches: one, two, three, four, five. The warm sun felt good on his face.
The table was closer to the fireplace than to the door to the anteroom, leaving him a long walk to reach it. Once again he felt on display.
The dancing bear; I definitely feel like the dancing bear.
Kief and Tarlna stood with their backs to him. Curious faces looked past them, watching him. He was able to put names to most of them. He avoided the Duchess of Blackwood’s accusing stare.
To his surprise, young Prince Rann came forward to greet him. It was the first time he’d seen the child since the afternoon of their arrival. He was shocked at the change in only two days. Granted, the child hadn’t looked robust before—but now!
The little boy’s face was wan, with dark circles under the
eyes. For all that he was barely
First they had to stand about in this stuffy little room while some pompous ass brayed, then the herald would announce them, giving their human and dragon names, one by one. Then he would present the councii—one by one.
What idiocy. They’d met these same nobles last night. But now it had to be done with proper ceremony and formality.
Bother the ceremony. He wanted to get started.
He pushed back his sleeves. Wretched things, always in the way. He wished they didn’t have to wear the regalia for these meetings. He’d had enough of it last night at the welcoming festivities. He’d spent the entire feast waiting for the wide sleeves to fall into the gravy. They usually did; sometimes he thought they had a mind of their own.
And these blasted tight breeches pinched.
He wanted the soft, loose, Yerrin breeches and well-worn boots waiting in his quarters. And a tunic with sensible sleeves.
Yet the black, scarlet, and silver formal clothes were impressive—and necessary. They would remind the council that these were Dragonlords, the ancient Givers of Law, sitting in judgement. Without that reminder, some members would forget that the three before them were not the mere two decades or so old that they appeared.
He shifted his heavy torc of rank, fingering the dragon-heads with their ruby eyes. His clan-braid snagged on the links of his belt. He pulled it free.
Damn these clothes.
Tarlna hissed, “I hope you’re more dignified when you’re out there. You’re fidgeting like a child!”
She stalked him, drawing breath to continue. Linden retreated into memories of the night before, allowing Tarlna’s scolding to wash over him unheeded. He’d grown expert at it over the centuries. Instead, he wondered when he’d see Sherrine again. Not one moment before she wanted him to, he’d wager. The memory of her perfume and laughing eyes came back to tease him. Tarlna continued venting her annoyance with the delay on him.
The herald’s voice rang out from the other room. “My
lords and ladies—His Grace, Dragonlord Kief Shaeldar!”
Kief opened the door and made his entrance.
The herald’s cry of “Her Grace, Tarlna Aurianne!” cut Tarlna’s lecture short. She limped off.
Linden heaved a sigh of relief. Then the herald called “His Grace, Linden Rathan!” and it was his turn to face the Cassorin Council. He stepped through the door.
This was his first look at the room where he would likely spend much of his time in the next few tendays; they had entered the anteroom from the hallway. It was longer than it was wide, with windows from floor to ceiling along the lowall to his left. The sunlight shone through, making rectangles of light at intervals along the floor.
At the far end was a massive fireplace of black marble. He wondered if they’d ever roasted an ox there; the thing was large enough. The remaining walls were covered with the dark carved paneling that was in every Cassorin room he’d seen so far.
A thought drifted across his mind: Perhaps there’s a law requiring it.
The heels of his tall, stiff boots clicked on the patterned tiles of the floor. He counted as he passed through the sunlit patches: one, two, three, four, five. The warm sun felt good on his face.
The table was closer to the fireplace than to the door to the anteroom, leaving him a long walk to reach it. Once again he felt on display.
The dancing bear; I definitely feel like the dancing bear.
Kief and Tarlna stood with their backs to him. Curious faces looked past them, watching him. He was able to put names to most of them. He avoided the Duchess of Blackwood’s accusing stare.
To his surprise, young Prince Rann came forward to greet him. It was the first time he’d seen the child since the afternoon of their arrival. He was shocked at the change in only two days. Granted, the child hadn’t looked robust before—but now!
The little boy’s face was wan, with dark circles under the
eyes. For all that he was barely
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