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Authors: Joanne Bertin
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should have done. Then we wouldn’t have to deal with this nonsense of a so-called warrant of regency only now coming to light.”
Beren—three chairs down from Duriac—slammed his big fists on the table. “Are you calling me a liar, Duriac?” he shouted.
Linden tensed, ready to break up a fight.
But instead a tiny whimper, barely more than a breath, claimed his attention. Rann was huddled in his chair, biting his lip. His eyes shone with tears.
Duriac smiled primly and said, “Those of Silvermarch have always shown an overweening ambition for the throne of Cassori. Did you think to do what your brother had not succeeded in, my lord—to make yourself king in Cassori?”
Beren leaped up, yelling. Duriac shouted something back at him. A countess jumped to stand between the two men. Everyone began talking at once. Kief called for order, but his light voice was drowned out. Rann dropped his head to his knees, crying.
Linden stood up. His deep-voiced growl cut through the noise. “Gentlemen, this is most unseemly. And if you will excuse me, I wish a conference with Prince Rann.”
Before anyone could react, he strode to Rann’s chair. Rann stared up at him, tears flowing down his cheeks. Linden resisted the urge to scoop the boy up and comfort him. Though a child, Rann was a prince and entitled to the courtesies due royalty.
“Your Highness, would you care to step aside with me? I wish to speak with you privately,” he said.
Rann nodded and stood up in his chair. Linden picked him up, meaning to set him down to walk, but the thin arms slid around his neck. Very well, then; if the boy wanted to be carried, Linden was more than willing. He settled Rann on one hip and carried him to the end of the room where the door to the anteroom still stood ajar. For a moment he considered taking Rann there. Instead he stopped by a window well away from the council.
Kief said, Linden, just what do you—
Tarlna sent a wordless blast of anger.
Linden ignored the older Dragonlords’ barely suppressed fury. Doing what should have been done in the first place. The child doesn’t need to hear harsh words about his parents. Kief, please—do not interfere. He felt Kief’s struggle with his own temper, then his resigned agreement, and Tarlna’s vexation at his high-handedness.
He sat on the edge of the deep sill, his back deliberately turned to the council, one leg braced to hold himself in place. Let them think him rude; he wasn’t sure he could control his expression and he would not betray his feelings to them. He unlatched the window and pushed it open.
The window overlooked the gardens. Linden gazed outside, waiting while Rann finished crying, the child’s face buried in his shoulder. Linden stroked the boy’s hair, absently rocking him.
The heavy, sweet smell of roses drifted in. He saw that the beds of roses and their borders of lavender were arranged to form a maze of red, pink, white, and purple. Bees that only a Dragonlord’s sharp eyes could see from this distance droned among the blossoms. Linden wondered idly where their skeps were kept; the kitchen herb garden, no doubt.
A breeze sprang up, bringing in the sharper scent of the lavender. With it, and the weight of the sobbing child in his arms, came a memory Linden had thought he’d forgotten.
… Closing the door of the small holder’s cottage behind him, exclaiming, “Gods, it’s cold out there!” And then Ash, running to greet him, stumbled, knocking his head against the trestle table.
He scooped the crying child up and kissed the bump already forming. “There, there, boyo, don’t cry. It’ll stop hurting soon.” He tossed Ash into the air until the little boy laughed.
“Stop that, Linden,” Bryony scolded, but smiling all the while. “You mustn’t get him excited now or he’ll never get to sleep!”
He laughed, hugging the boy, reveling in the tightening of the slender arms around his neck. “Did you get the blankets
out? I saw a ring
Beren—three chairs down from Duriac—slammed his big fists on the table. “Are you calling me a liar, Duriac?” he shouted.
Linden tensed, ready to break up a fight.
But instead a tiny whimper, barely more than a breath, claimed his attention. Rann was huddled in his chair, biting his lip. His eyes shone with tears.
Duriac smiled primly and said, “Those of Silvermarch have always shown an overweening ambition for the throne of Cassori. Did you think to do what your brother had not succeeded in, my lord—to make yourself king in Cassori?”
Beren leaped up, yelling. Duriac shouted something back at him. A countess jumped to stand between the two men. Everyone began talking at once. Kief called for order, but his light voice was drowned out. Rann dropped his head to his knees, crying.
Linden stood up. His deep-voiced growl cut through the noise. “Gentlemen, this is most unseemly. And if you will excuse me, I wish a conference with Prince Rann.”
Before anyone could react, he strode to Rann’s chair. Rann stared up at him, tears flowing down his cheeks. Linden resisted the urge to scoop the boy up and comfort him. Though a child, Rann was a prince and entitled to the courtesies due royalty.
“Your Highness, would you care to step aside with me? I wish to speak with you privately,” he said.
Rann nodded and stood up in his chair. Linden picked him up, meaning to set him down to walk, but the thin arms slid around his neck. Very well, then; if the boy wanted to be carried, Linden was more than willing. He settled Rann on one hip and carried him to the end of the room where the door to the anteroom still stood ajar. For a moment he considered taking Rann there. Instead he stopped by a window well away from the council.
Kief said, Linden, just what do you—
Tarlna sent a wordless blast of anger.
Linden ignored the older Dragonlords’ barely suppressed fury. Doing what should have been done in the first place. The child doesn’t need to hear harsh words about his parents. Kief, please—do not interfere. He felt Kief’s struggle with his own temper, then his resigned agreement, and Tarlna’s vexation at his high-handedness.
He sat on the edge of the deep sill, his back deliberately turned to the council, one leg braced to hold himself in place. Let them think him rude; he wasn’t sure he could control his expression and he would not betray his feelings to them. He unlatched the window and pushed it open.
The window overlooked the gardens. Linden gazed outside, waiting while Rann finished crying, the child’s face buried in his shoulder. Linden stroked the boy’s hair, absently rocking him.
The heavy, sweet smell of roses drifted in. He saw that the beds of roses and their borders of lavender were arranged to form a maze of red, pink, white, and purple. Bees that only a Dragonlord’s sharp eyes could see from this distance droned among the blossoms. Linden wondered idly where their skeps were kept; the kitchen herb garden, no doubt.
A breeze sprang up, bringing in the sharper scent of the lavender. With it, and the weight of the sobbing child in his arms, came a memory Linden had thought he’d forgotten.
… Closing the door of the small holder’s cottage behind him, exclaiming, “Gods, it’s cold out there!” And then Ash, running to greet him, stumbled, knocking his head against the trestle table.
He scooped the crying child up and kissed the bump already forming. “There, there, boyo, don’t cry. It’ll stop hurting soon.” He tossed Ash into the air until the little boy laughed.
“Stop that, Linden,” Bryony scolded, but smiling all the while. “You mustn’t get him excited now or he’ll never get to sleep!”
He laughed, hugging the boy, reveling in the tightening of the slender arms around his neck. “Did you get the blankets
out? I saw a ring
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