“We just can’t walk through there.” Brevelan stared at the jumble of cottages nestled together. The back of each cottage, hut, and prosperous farmhouse faced away from the looming fortress. Sheets of rain set up a further barrier between Castle Krej and the village, between herself and the people who lived here.
Each step became heavier and more reluctant than the last.
“This is the most direct way to the castle . . . and Shayla,” Darville complained about her slower pace. He tried to take her arm and urge her forward.
Brevelan recoiled from his touch. “You don’t understand,” she nearly sobbed, retreating into the haven of Jaylor’s shoulder. His arm encircled her, but she felt no strength, no support from him.
She knew these two men so well she expected to feel every emotion they felt as soon as they did. Now they were closed off, consulting each other over the top of her head.
They had been on the road for weeks. Every meal, bed, and thought had been shared equally. They had no secrets from each other. Except this.
“I can’t let them see me! And Jaylor doesn’t have a staff to grant us invisibility.” This time she stepped away from them both, backward, the way they had come.
“Brevelan, my sweet, no one who knows you could believe you killed that man,” Jaylor reassured her. “Even Krej didn’t really believe it when he taunted you in Shayla’s cave. He was only trying to feed your fearful memories to negate your magic.” He reached for her hand.
She stood firm. “But I did kill him.” She lifted her face to the rain. The water couldn’t wash away her memories of that awful night. . . .
In the bridal chamber, the village women had bathed Brevelan. Combed her hair until it shone. Fussed over the fresh bedding and finally slipped a clean shift of fine linen and embroidery over Brevelan’s head. They had winked and remarked on that fineness and how the new husband would appreciate it—for a few moments anyway. And what a shame to leave the garment on the bride since it would only be torn away so quickly.
They had left, giggling. But a few had looked back over their shoulders with a trace of concern. This was considered a good marriage. Brevelan was young and healthy. The bridegroom was as old as her da but prosperous and had sired several sons on each of his first three wives.
Brevelan shuddered with a chill born of more than the evening dampness. Before the exquisite coverlet could warm her, he came in.
He was drunk, of course, as were his ribald companions. Good-naturedly he blocked the doorway with his squat body. Barred from their fun, the other men, and a few women, shouted their displeasure.
Brevelan didn’t have to understand the exact words, or her husband’s crude reply, to know they expected to watch the proceedings. It was a part of close-knit village life for the celebration of a wedding ceremony to extend to the bedroom. They all wanted to make sure the groom was capable of siring any child the bride produced months down the road.
The blood drained from her face and hands. Her trembling become more violent as her husband shoved the door closed and barred it. The pounding on the mismatched slats of wood became louder. He slid Brevelan’s carved wooden clothes chest in front of it. The intruder’s entrance would be delayed, should they manage to break though the buckling wood.
“We’d best hurry or they’ll think they have a right to be part of this.” His smile showed no mirth or joy.
She couldn’t reply.
His good woolen tunic fell atop the chest. The straw mattress shifted under his weight and his boots landed on the floor with a thud that echoed through her mind with menacing force. The mattress shifted again as he stood long enough to shed his trews. Only his knee-length shirt covered his bulging need for her.
She shrank away to the far edge of the bed.
“Come here, wife,” he demanded. His eyes narrowed to slits.
She couldn’t obey, though she’d vowed to before the priest and village. Instead she pulled the covers higher.
“Don’t play shy with me.” He climbed closer on his knees, braced with one heavy hand. The other yanked the blanket from her grasp. There was the sound of rending cloth as the embroidered edge tore through her fingers.
Someone outside the door laughed at the sound. So did her husband.
“We all know there’s no such thing as a virgin in this village. Lord Krej makes sure of that.” Spittle foamed at one corner of his mouth. His excitement mounted. He grabbed her breasts and squeezed until she cried out in pain. “If his brat isn’t already growing inside you, mine will be soon enough.”
That shocked her. Hadn’t he heard the rumors? Didn’t he know Lord Krej was probably her father? Their lord might be cruel and lustful, but he wasn’t so evil as to rape his own daughter!
“Doesn’t matter whose brat.” He belched. The foul smell of too much ale combined with too much meat in his body assaulted her. She wanted to retch. “One of his bastards brings favors to the family. I could use a few favors.” This time his mouth came down on her in a punishing, openmouthed kiss.
She gagged.
He laughed. Then he hit her, backhanded across the face. Once, twice, then a third time for good measure. With each blow his hand tightened until it was a fist that connected with her eye. Her lip split, too. She tasted the copper of blood and fear. She tried to push him away.
“No. Please, no,” she begged.
“Got to teach you who’ll be master in my house,” he laughed and belched again. “Can’t have you thinkin’ you know anything but what I tell you.”
Without another word he captured her small useless fists in his free hand. His grip was as punishing as his kiss. His leer traced every inch of her barely shrouded body. Once again he crushed her mouth.
She could feel bruises forming. The small pain in her face and hands built and traveled to her shoulders. Her chest and stomach cramped in fear. Instinctively she drew her knees up in protection.
Still forcing her hands above her head, he used his weight to wedge her legs down and apart.
He was heavy. She couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think. Her pain and fear mounted and spread. She sensed her emotions swelling into an empathic cloud that formed outside her body, filled the room, and echoed from floor to ceiling. A scream escaped her lips as her fear magnified itself again. The listeners laughed. Her husband shuddered, breath burst from his mouth in a soundless explosion. He collapsed across her.
Her imprisoned hands didn’t respond to the sudden slackness of his once too-tight grip. His inert weight across her body hindered any movement. When she finally levered away, her vision was transfixed by his protruding, staring eyes, the spittle and blood on his lips, the ugly black blotches on his face.
Deep within her the healing instinct demanded she reach out and dissolve the blockage to his brain. Her fear of him overrode that instinct. He was dead already. She could do many things to help him, if he still lived. But no pulse fluttered against her tentative touch, no breath stirred his graying beard.
The sounds of the people waiting at the door retreated. They must have believed the deed done and so lost interest.
Brevelan was alone with the man her radiating emotions had killed. . . .
“Is that why you ran, little one?” Darville chuckled as he enveloped her in one of his possessive and protective hugs.
Even Jaylor was smiling.
“You didn’t kill the man. He killed himself.” Jaylor added his own strong arm to the embrace. Mica was there, too, butting her wet, bedraggled head against Brevelan’s chin.
“You’re wrong, both of you.” There was still one thing Brevelan needed clarified. “Part of my healing talent is to take a person’s fear and pain into myself and give them back the strength to fight their ailment.” She swallowed hard and looked away. “On that night,” her voice dropped in shame, “I couldn’t take away his need for anger. I felt it and it terrified me. Instead of giving him peace and gentleness, I gave him fear—agonizing, paralyzing terror. I was like Jaylor’s glass. I took
my small emotions and made them bigger. So big his mind couldn’t handle it and forced his body to die.”
“Perhaps,” Jaylor mused. “More likely there was a weakness in his body that would have killed him the next time he felt any violent emotion. He sounds like a man who couldn’t live without anger and couldn’t live with it.”
“Remember the spotted saber cat, Brevelan,” Darville interjected. “It refused all contact with your mind. That man was so filled with anger and hate he wouldn’t have accepted your gentling even if you could have broken down his barriers.”
Love from all of them poured over her.
Brevelan stood straighter and stronger for that love. She hadn’t realized how strong was their bond. While she thought she had only relived that fateful night in her mind, they had shared the entire experience. Just as they had shared the magic when they broke Krej’s diverting spell. Just as they had shared the flight of dragons the night Jaylor had returned to them.
Baamin continued to mull over the alliance the kingdom of Rossemeyer wanted with Coronnan. The promise of trade and mutual military aid hinged on the marriage of their princess, Rossemikka, to Prince Darville.
He read again the document Boy had purloined from Krej’s desk. Though couched in pleasantries, the language of the missive clearly outlined the consequences if the alliance failed.
How would the Lord Regent respond to this offer and the impending arrival of two ambassadors? He didn’t have a prince to exchange for the much needed armies. He had only a golden wolf wandering the kingdom with a journeyman magician and a witchwoman of uncertain power.
But Baamin had access to the prince. If Darville ever arrived back at the capital.
“Boy?” He summoned the boy’s image through his glass and his candle. He was so easy to find, even across the miles, as if Boy’s mind were tuned especially to Baamin’s thoughts.
“Call me Yaakke, sir.” The boy’s image was clearer than most master magicians’.
“Yaakke?” Son of Yaacob, the usurper. Now why would Boy choose that name? And who did he plan to supplant?
“That is the name I have chosen, sir.” Behind the boy were the noises of Castle Krej’s busy kitchen.
“We’ll explore that later, B . . . Yaakke. Have you seen my journeyman yet?”
Yaakke closed his eyes briefly before responding. “They approached this village, sir, then turned back.”
“Keep track of them. I need to speak to Jaylor as soon as you can contact him. And see if you can keep them out of trouble.” He’d given up trying to summon Jaylor himself. His journeyman had either ignored the spell or cut him off. What was he hiding? Or was Krej’s rogue interfering and interrupting the communication?
So his beloved Brevelan was like his glass, Jaylor thought. She magnified magic. What if, instead of using his glass on a flame, he summoned Old Baamin by holding her hand and staring into her eyes? She’d have to sing to amplify the natural resonance of the land. He was impatient to experiment.
The rain drizzled down his forehead to drop from the tip of his nose. This was neither the time, nor the place, to play with new magic techniques. He needed to be warm and dry, comfortable, before he tried something so outrageously new.
He’d have enough problems when he finally encountered Krej. Without a staff, he’d need every bit of concentration and familiarity with the spells before he freed a dragon from a glass prison. He’d kept his senses alerted to every tree he passed, hoping against hope to find a new staff. So far nothing had called to him.
“I think we’d best find a place to hole up until dark.” Darville scanned the dreary village once more.
“There’s an inn several miles north.” Brevelan pointed the way. “The landlord caters to traveling merchants. Krej likes the luxuries strangers bring to his market. He doesn’t like to house and feed them. Nor does he like his villagers talking to outsiders. We might get the idea that other lords are not so harsh or demanding. No one will question the presence of strangers at the inn.”
“Are they all legitimate merchants, or does Krej trade with magicians and mercenaries from afar, as well?” Darville stared murderously back at the castle.
“There have been rumors of covens and sacrifices to pagan gods for years. They started with Lady Janessa, Krej’s mother.” Jaylor thought back to his early years at the University when court gossip couldn’t say anything good about the foreign wife of King Darcine’s uncle.
“That’s one lady I don’t care to meet again.” Darville turned away from the lair of their enemy. “Her eyes are eerie, uncanny—always fully dilated. She looks at people like a slippy eel devouring a nomad Bay crawler.”
They trudged along the wide path. The mud, churned by the huge feet of sledge steeds, made walking difficult. Twice they were forced off the track by swearing farmers prodding their beasts with loads of produce in the direction of the inn.
“Darville,” Jaylor spoke quietly to his friend. “We are on Krej’s home territory. He must not see you.” He sympathized with the prince’s distaste for the coming transformation.
The broken pieces of his staff were in his pack. Fortunately he’d thrown this spell often enough not to need the focus the wood provided.
“Everyone here will gladly spy for Lord Krej,” Brevelan added. “Some say they owe their souls as well as their livelihood to him. He’d know of your presence and our purpose within moments.
“I know, I know,” Darville groused. He turned his back as he shed his cloak and warm tunic. “Try and keep my clothes out of the mud.” He handed his outer garments to Brevelan, his pack to Jaylor. His fingers lingered on Mica’s wet fur as he set her down on the path.
“Be gentle with me when we share a meal this time, Mica.” He rubbed the side of his nose where she was in the habit of swatting him away from his kill. “At least I’ll be warm and less likely to feel the rain.”
He shrugged his shoulders in preparation for the spell that would hit him square in the back if Jaylor used the staff. Without the focus, the magic engulfed him in a cloud. He didn’t even flinch as his form shifted into that of an oversized golden wolf.
Chapter 30
The inn smelled wrong. Too many strangers here. Darville couldn’t sort their scents. He sensed fear and greed. Illness, too, but he didn’t know which smell belonged to which person.
He paced beside Brevelan, keeping her between himself and Jaylor, pressing closer to her with each step. His neck bristled with disquiet. A growl boiled just below his throat, not quite ready to emerge. He was prepared for anyone, anything that might attack her.
Thwack! A water jug shattered on the beaten ground beside the well. A woman stood hunted still, her silent stare jerked between them and her broken jug. Then she ran back toward the inn. Brevelan took a step toward the woman. Darville followed, keeping his place between Brevelan and the inn.
He showed his teeth and allowed the growl to travel up his throat. The woman had smelled of fear and betrayal. He could almost taste her emotions on his tongue.
“Mama?” Brevelan sounded strangled. Jaylor held her close. Darville growled again.
“Go away.” The woman looked over her shoulder from the doorway of the inn. “Go quickly. You killed him. The Stargods have cursed us because his death went unpunished. The elders will burn you.” She bent her head and turned to flee. “Only when you are dead will this rain stop and crops grow.” This time she looked Brevelan in the eye.
There was sadness dwelling in her as well as a burning anger.
“Don’t be ridiculous.” Jaylor pushed Brevelan behind him. “The entire kingdom is cursed with too much rain, not enough sunlight. It’s part of a natural weather cycle.”
His words were brave, his actions wary. Darville growled again.
“They will burn you.” The woman stepped away from them.
“Why are you here, Mama? The wife of the headman should be at home.” Brevelan reached a hand to stay the woman’s retreat.
“Because yo
u killed a man and went unpunished, there is no bread, no crops, nothing to feed my family. I’m here to earn a bit of bread so the babies won’t cry all night and the men will have enough strength to wrestle some kind of crop from the ground.” Her bitterness poured out of her. Brevelan stepped back from it.
A tear trickled across Brevelan’s cheek. Darville pushed his head against her leg, offering her comfort.
“Yikiiii!” A stone hit Darville’s flank. It was weakly thrown and dropped without damage. But it hurt. He spun in his tracks looking for his attacker. No stone must be allowed to penetrate his guard and reach Brevelan.
Angry men streamed out of the inn. They were all around them now. Some with stones. Some with torches.
Brevelan was frightened. Jaylor was, too. They were all in danger. Darville kept his guard.
“The witch and her lover have returned to taunt us with our misery. She’s bastard born, no get of mine. See how she consorts with familiars.” A man at the front of the pack shouted.
“Da, please listen and understand!” Brevelan pleaded.
The crowd moved closer.
“Kill them! Burn them all. It’s the only way to stop this cursed rain.” Another man waved his torch, beckoning the others forward.
Darville sprang at the man. His teeth sank into the arm that carried a torch. Another man kicked him. He bit that one on the leg.
Shouts and kicks from every direction. His teeth sank into flesh here and there, front and back. He tasted blood and knew satisfaction.
Part of him knew that Jaylor struck out with fists and the pieces of his staff, even as he backed away from the crowd. They both worked to keep the angry men away from Brevelan.
Then a chance stone struck her. Blood trickled from her temple. Jaylor caught her. Darville spun to find the throat of her attacker. Brevelan was down and he had to rip out the man’s throat.
A torch followed the stone. He smelled burning cloth. “Back, Puppy, back.” Jaylor’s words penetrated his battle-maddened mind. He knew they had to retreat.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 28