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Authors: Joanne Bertin
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six, Rann moved like a tired old man.
Linden suppressed a frown lest Rann think it meant for him. Instead, he mindspoke the others. Why is the boy here? He looks ill. A council is no place for even a healthy child!
He has the right to be here, Kief said. After all, it is his fate we are deciding.
If we keep him here, we will be deciding his fate indeed. We’ll send him to join his parents! Blast it, Kief, the boy looks ready to collapse.
Kief made no answer. Linden leashed his anger as the young prince bowed to him. He bowed in return. Then he held out a hand. Murmurs of surprise went around the table at this departure from protocol. Tarlna glowered. He ignored her. Instead he looked down at the young prince, waiting.
Rann studied him in return, his dark brown eyes too serious in his thin face. Then the boy nestled his hand into Linden’s grasp. His eyes now were trusting, unafraid even when his small hand disappeared in Linden’s large one. Linden walked with him to the empty chair by Duchess Alinya’s side at the end of the table by the fireplace. It was far too tall for a child; Linden lifted him into it.
Linden winked as the boy curled up in the cushions. His reward was an impish, gap-toothed grin.
Linden circled the table to take his own seat beside Kief, ignoring the murmurs that followed his passage. He hoped his face betrayed none of his anger.
The herald introduced the men and women seated around the table. Each one bowed as he or she was presented, the claimants for the regency last of all.
Prince Peridaen had the slender elegance of a greyhound. A short beard neatly outlined his jaw. His dark hair, curled in the latest fashion, hung to his shoulders. By his expression, Peridaen looked to be a reasonable man.
The late consort’s twin, on the other hand, sat tight-lipped and scowling. Beren had the Cassorin face one saw everywhere in the country: round, broad of cheek, snub-nosed. It was now nearly the same shade of brick red as his hair. He
looked ready to explode. Yet the nervous way he licked his lips said that there was more than simple fury at work.
Linden frowned as his glance met Beren’s and the man glared before looking quickly away. Gods knew, Cassori didn’t need a hothead on its throne. And how much patience would he have with a child? Was his claim to the regency only a ploy to get power over Rann? If the warrant of regency was upheld and Rann died, the Cassorin throne would fall to this man.
I wonder if it’s at his instigation that Rann is here. The boy looks sickly. How convenient if he should die of natural causes—aided by exhaustion.
Duchess Alinya, the great-aunt of the older prince, faced the Dragonlords from the other end of the long table. Until the regency was settled, she was the ruler of Cassori.
She was shrunken with age. But her pale blue eyes were fierce and proud and there was no weakness in her bearing.
Alinya greeted them. “Dragonlords., I thank you once again for coming to our aid. We have all agreed to accept your judgment—” She stared hard at the two claimants to either side of her. Beren scowled again. Peridaen nodded, smiling benignly.
The duchess continued, “Of who shall be regent until Rann is old enough to rule.” She rested a wrinkled hand on the boy’s head, then stroked his hair gently. Rann leaned into it like a puppy.
“Since we are ready and all are agreed to accept our judgment, shall we begin?” Kief said.
Linden leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. The way things were plodding along, he looked to be in Cassori for the rest of his long life. Right now someone was praising her late Majesty’s dedication to the country. He stifled a yawn.
The man droned on, ‘And there is no doubt our beloved queen would have chosen her consort’s—”
Lord Duriac stood up. “Had Her Majesty not been so negligent, we wouldn’t be wasting our time here! A proper selection
of a regent, with witnesses—that’s what she
Linden suppressed a frown lest Rann think it meant for him. Instead, he mindspoke the others. Why is the boy here? He looks ill. A council is no place for even a healthy child!
He has the right to be here, Kief said. After all, it is his fate we are deciding.
If we keep him here, we will be deciding his fate indeed. We’ll send him to join his parents! Blast it, Kief, the boy looks ready to collapse.
Kief made no answer. Linden leashed his anger as the young prince bowed to him. He bowed in return. Then he held out a hand. Murmurs of surprise went around the table at this departure from protocol. Tarlna glowered. He ignored her. Instead he looked down at the young prince, waiting.
Rann studied him in return, his dark brown eyes too serious in his thin face. Then the boy nestled his hand into Linden’s grasp. His eyes now were trusting, unafraid even when his small hand disappeared in Linden’s large one. Linden walked with him to the empty chair by Duchess Alinya’s side at the end of the table by the fireplace. It was far too tall for a child; Linden lifted him into it.
Linden winked as the boy curled up in the cushions. His reward was an impish, gap-toothed grin.
Linden circled the table to take his own seat beside Kief, ignoring the murmurs that followed his passage. He hoped his face betrayed none of his anger.
The herald introduced the men and women seated around the table. Each one bowed as he or she was presented, the claimants for the regency last of all.
Prince Peridaen had the slender elegance of a greyhound. A short beard neatly outlined his jaw. His dark hair, curled in the latest fashion, hung to his shoulders. By his expression, Peridaen looked to be a reasonable man.
The late consort’s twin, on the other hand, sat tight-lipped and scowling. Beren had the Cassorin face one saw everywhere in the country: round, broad of cheek, snub-nosed. It was now nearly the same shade of brick red as his hair. He
looked ready to explode. Yet the nervous way he licked his lips said that there was more than simple fury at work.
Linden frowned as his glance met Beren’s and the man glared before looking quickly away. Gods knew, Cassori didn’t need a hothead on its throne. And how much patience would he have with a child? Was his claim to the regency only a ploy to get power over Rann? If the warrant of regency was upheld and Rann died, the Cassorin throne would fall to this man.
I wonder if it’s at his instigation that Rann is here. The boy looks sickly. How convenient if he should die of natural causes—aided by exhaustion.
Duchess Alinya, the great-aunt of the older prince, faced the Dragonlords from the other end of the long table. Until the regency was settled, she was the ruler of Cassori.
She was shrunken with age. But her pale blue eyes were fierce and proud and there was no weakness in her bearing.
Alinya greeted them. “Dragonlords., I thank you once again for coming to our aid. We have all agreed to accept your judgment—” She stared hard at the two claimants to either side of her. Beren scowled again. Peridaen nodded, smiling benignly.
The duchess continued, “Of who shall be regent until Rann is old enough to rule.” She rested a wrinkled hand on the boy’s head, then stroked his hair gently. Rann leaned into it like a puppy.
“Since we are ready and all are agreed to accept our judgment, shall we begin?” Kief said.
Linden leaned back in his chair and rubbed the back of his neck. The way things were plodding along, he looked to be in Cassori for the rest of his long life. Right now someone was praising her late Majesty’s dedication to the country. He stifled a yawn.
The man droned on, ‘And there is no doubt our beloved queen would have chosen her consort’s—”
Lord Duriac stood up. “Had Her Majesty not been so negligent, we wouldn’t be wasting our time here! A proper selection
of a regent, with witnesses—that’s what she
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