"Bertin,.Joanne.-.The.Last.Dragonlord.(1998).ShareConnector.com" - читать интересную книгу автора (Bertin Joanne)

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 ladiesЧHis 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 Raman!" 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 long wall 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 beforeЧbut now!
The little boy's face was wan, with dark circles under the eyes. For all that he was barely 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 causesЧaided 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 judgmentЧ" She stared hard at the two claimants to either side of her. Beren scowled again. Peri-daen 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 judgement, 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'sЧ"
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 witnessesЧthat's what she 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."
BerenЧthree chairs down from DuriacЧslammed 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 lordЧto 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 youЧ
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, pleaseЧdo 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.