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

With thanks to
Eluki bes shahar, Shawna McCarthy, and Jim Frenkel for all they've done. Judith Tarr's novel writing workshops at Wesleyan for advice, energy, and enthusiasm.
Judy herself, for lots more advice, unstinting help and horse neep, a virtual baseball bat when I needed it, and especially for her friendship.
And the biggest thanks to all to Walter "Sam" Gailey for loving support, advice, computer expertise, and patience above and beyond the call of duty. Sam, you are hereby nominated for sainthood.






The Last
Dragonlord

Prologue

The storm was close now. The mage heard the rumble of thunder, heard the rising wind soughing through the tops of the pine trees. Chanting softly, he knelt before the stone altar and all that it held, then took up a silver scrying bowl and watched the scene revealed in the black ink.
He saw the barge rock as the first little waves slapped against it. The pennants at bow and stern came alive as the wind caught them. Although the colors were muted, he knew them to be the royal scarlet. The waves rose as the waters of the Uildodd River grew darker, reflecting the leaden sky above them.
More . . . Just a little more . ..
Now!
Moving swiftly, he set the silver bowl down and caught up a knife in one hand. With the other he seized the hair of the youth who lay bound and gagged on the altar. He ignored the boy's terror-filled eyes, and, with a practiced motion, yanked the head back and slashed the blade across the exposed throat. All the while, he chanted.
He caught the hot blood in a bowl carved from the same stone as the altar, impassive as the blood spilled over his fingers, staining them red. When the deadly flow ceased, he nodded curtly. His servant pulled the body from the altar.
The incantation changed, became harsher, more urgent. He opened a small box that rested beside the bowl. First he removed a bit of wood, carved in the rough likeness of a barge, wrapped in a thread of scarlet silk. Both wood and silk had been taken from the same barge whose progress he had watched in the scrying bowl. He set them to float in the blood.
Next he took out a small bottle. From it he let three drops of water from the Uildodd River fall into the bowl. The blood stirred as if a tiny wind raced across it.
Overhead the sky grew darker as the storm closed in and thunder walked the land. In the bowl, the waves rose higher. The crudely carved bit of wood slewed around as if turned by an unseen hand. The man watched in satisfaction as first one, then another tiny, crimson waves splashed against the "barge's" stern.
He raised his voice, weaving the blood magic in a net of death. Slowly he stretched out a finger. Slowly, and with infinite satisfaction, he pressed down on the wood, forcing the back end under. Blood splashed up and over, wave after miniature wave, as he continued to push the little boat down.
It disappeared. Nor did it surface again. The chant ended on a note of triumph.
He stepped back from the altar, aware now of a sudden drop in temperature. "Clean it up," he ordered the servant as he wiped his bloody hands on the wet cloth the man offered him. Then he walked down the slope to where he'd left his tunic.
As he picked it up, a necklace of silver chain fell out. He caught it in midair and let the heavy links slide through his fingers a moment before putting it on.
He smiled, fingering the necklace. Soon he would be able to cast it aside forever.
The first drops of rain began to fall.

One

The dragon gleamed in the light of the setting sun, his scales glittering as he soared toward the castle that crowned the mountaintop. His gaze shifted to a wide, flat area ending in a cliff, wreathed in shadows cast by the dying light. A slight tilt of the powerful wings and the red dragon turned, silent, beautiful, deadly, intent on his goal.
He landed, claws scraping against stone, the sound harsh in the crystalline air. A red mist surrounded him and the great dragon became a wraith; the mist contracted, then disappeared, leaving behind the figure of a tall man.
Linden brushed a strand of hair from his eyes, his blood singing from his long flight and the magic of Changing. He crossed the shadow-dappled landing area. As he reached the first step of the long stairway that led to the castle of Dragonskeep, a voice, old but still clear and strong, rang out.
"Dragonlord."
Linden paused and looked up. On the stairs high above him stood an elderly kir, his silvered fur catching the last of the sunlight, no expression on his short-muzzled face.
Sirl, personal servant to the Lady, who ruled Dragonskeep and the Dra gonlords, regarded him in return. "The Lady has need of you," the kir said.
Why? Linden wondered as he raised a hand in acknowledgment and bounded up the stairs, his long legs taking the steps three at a time. It had been long and long since he'd had such a summons.
When Linden reached the step where Sirl waited, the kir bowed to him. "If you will follow me, Dragonlord," he said. Then he turned and led the wondering Linden to the Keep.
No words were exchanged as they walked through the white marble halls of Dragonskeep. Globes of coldfire, set to hovering in the air by various Dragonlords, lit the way. At last they came to the tower rooms set aside for the ruler of the Keep. Sirl opened the door and bowed Linden inside. Linden entered the chamber; Sirl followed close behind, shutting the door once more.
Globes of white coldfire lit this room as well, setting aflame the gold threads running through the tapestries that covered the five walls. Dragons soaring against blue skies, sunsets, a river of stars, or among mountain crags covered four of them. The fifth, incongruously, was of a hunting scene: a stag, a pack of baying hounds, three huntsmen, all forever frozen as they raced through the forest. A reminder, perhaps, of the Lady's life before she Changed? Linden doubted he would ever know. They were the only decoration in the room, which was sparsely furnished. What few items of furniture there were looked lost in the emptiness.