On the distant wind, a peal of laughter echoed around the mountains. Jaylor raised his head to listen. It was a sound that didn’t belong there. Out of long habit he squinted his eyes to focus on the silvery-blue line of power gripping his shovel. He shifted his body until he was comfortable drawing the magic into himself through the twisted wooden handle of the shovel. A thought and a word channeled the magic to ears and eyes.
Aided by magic, his FarSight extended through the forest, over the hills and beyond the horizon. An easy spell that cost only concentration and maybe a headache and temporarily blurred vision afterward.
A ship was sailing through the Great Bay below him. A foreign ship. Two women perched on a spar. One of them was laughing uncontrollably.
Then Jaylor remembered that he no longer had any magic, nor would his heart support the massive power surges through his body. He had used up a lifetime of magic, and then some, in his massive spell to break Shayla free from Krej’s prison of glass. His awareness of the ship and the laughter vanished.
But he had just worked an elemental spell. His body tingled with excitement and a niggle of power. His heart continued to beat strong and steady.
His magic was returning!
Carefully, oh so carefully, he visualized the silvery-blue ley line again. Nothing.
He shifted his body and squinted the way he had learned to find magic.
Nothing.
Disappointment flooded through him. Just like his apprentice days when he had been the last to learn the techniques of gathering magic.
But this wasn’t dragon magic, and he wasn’t gathering it. He was drawing on primary powers comprised of the four elements—kardia, air, fire, and water.
The line had been directly beneath his feet a moment ago. It should still be there. Power didn’t move, only man’s perception of it shifted.
He tried again. Slowly, carefully he gripped the shovel as he would his staff.
A glimmer of power tingled in his feet, rose to his knees, hovered there. He routed the energy upward, avoiding his vulnerable heart.
Brevelan’s voice raised in song across the clearing. The power rose in his body as her voice ascended in pitch.
S’murgh it! The magic responded to his wife’s song but not to his talent. Jaylor damped his attempt to find the magic. He didn’t want to do it if he had to be helped.
Then he looked at the shovel again. Really looked at it. The familiar handle had been replaced with his cast-off staff. He examined the spiral grain. It was straighter now than last time he’d looked at it.
He recreated in his mind the day, not yet a year gone by, when he had cut this staff from an oak tree where mistletoe grew thick. . . .
He ran his hands along the straight limb he trimmed from the tallest oak tree on Sacred Isle. Its rough bark fell away from his knife. The tip of the branch broke off precisely where he wanted. When he handled this primary tool of a magician he felt taller, more competent.
Until he returned to the student wing of the University.
The other journeymen, all younger than Jaylor and possessed of their staves for many moons, taunted him with his inept choice. “Only Jaylor the bumbler would pick a straight staff,” claimed Robinar, the acknowledged leader.
“Don’t you know that a magician’s staff is supposed to be twisted and gnarled?” the youngest of the journeymen reminded him.
“A magician’s staff is an extension of his personality. A straight staff means a boring magician with no skill,” chimed in another young man.
Jaylor allowed their words to roll over him. His anger simmered just below the surface. He’d never been very adept at magic. But he knew he’d cut the right staff. This piece of wood fitted him. It felt right in his hands.
Tomorrow they would all separate. Their master’s quests would take them to the twelve provinces of Coronnan. Just once, just this once, Jaylor needed to prove himself in their eyes.
He planted the staff in front of him and gripped it tightly as he closed his eyes. With a deep breath, he dropped into the lightest of trances. In his mind he was in the wine cellar, a place none of them had ever visited but each knew intimately through magic.
First one cup, then another and another filled with the richest of wines. Seven cups for seven journeymen.
His fellow students stopped laughing when they found themselves balancing the brimming cups. And not the rough pottery mugs reserved for students. These were Baamin’s own glass cups. Precious glass reserved for only the highest ranking officials in Coronnan.
“Laugh at me again when you can perform such a spell!” Jaylor raised his cup in toast. “To seven new master magicians.”
His companions raised their cups in silence, their eyes fixed upon Jaylor’s staff.
The once straight grain of the wood had begun to twist. . . .
By the end of Jaylor’s quest, the staff had become more plaited and gnarled than any of the staves carried by his class of journeymen. Each spell he threw had shaped the tool to become a true reflection of the character of his magic.
Jaylor was the only one of the seven to live long enough to achieve master status. Krej had seen to that.
Now he was so weak, his wife had to lend him magic for the simplest of spells. Why bother trying?
Chapter 6
“Here, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Darville coaxed. He rubbed his fingers together as if he held a tidbit. His back bent into a very undignified crouch on the docks.
“Your Grace, surely you can assume a less . . . ah . . . um . . . a straighter pose while awaiting the ceremonial barge. What if your new bride should see you with your bum in the air?” Sir Holmes moved to stand between Darville and the crowd that lingered on the dock with them.
“The barge will sail when the Guild of Bay Pilots decrees and not one heartbeat sooner,” Darville grunted. “Come, Mica. Come, my pretty kitty.”
“Niow.” Mica turned her back on Darville and scooted farther under the jumble of dockside cables and crates. She made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with barges and docks or anything that touched the unpredictable tides and mudflats of the Great Bay.
“Come, Mica!” This time Darville tried a direct command. Mica pressed herself farther into her hiding place.
“Your Grace, we don’t have time to wait on the whims of your cat,” Sir Holmes reminded him of his duties. “The ambassador is already displeased that the Princess Royale must enter Coronnan by way of Syllim Island like any other immigrant. We can’t afford to be late. Such an insult could negate the treaty before it is ratified.”
“Tell that to the s’murghing pilots. They hold the key to the maze of currents.” Darville straightened from his doubled-over position and dusted off his knees. “Mica probably isn’t a very good sailor. She can meet the princess later. What is the girl’s name again? Something unpronounceable.”
“Rossemikka. Ross-eh-mick-a, sir. All of the royales carry the honorific ‘Rosse’ as part of their name. Officials of the government add it to the end of their names when they take office. I’m told by the ambassador’s valet that the family calls her Rosie.”
“Rosie, huh? Are there roses in the bouquet I’m to present her?” Darville adjusted his gold brocade tunic to fit smoothly over his chest and shoulders. The s’murghing court garment hadn’t been designed for crouching and stretching to grab an errant cat.
“I believe most of the flowers on the ceremonial barge are roses, Your Grace.” Sir Holmes sighed and looked longingly back to the palace. “Or magic simulations thereof. The long wet winter and spring destroyed a goodly number of plants.”
“The bad weather destroyed more than roses. What are the latest figures on the harvest?”
“I didn’t bring them with me, sir. I thought it impolite for us to conduct business during this all-important meeting.” Holmes assumed his most officious pose. He wasn’t very convincing.
“Not looking forward to the hours of speeches and polite entertainment, Holmes?”
The aide shook his head. “I’d rather be on the front lines of battle, sir. Life at court is too complicated for my tastes.”
“I’ve had to sit through this sort of thing with a smile plastered on my face all my life.”
“Your Grace.” Holmes looked around him to make sure there were no eavesdroppers. His face turned red. “Rumor has it that the women of Rossemeyer cover their hair and their ankles, but not their breasts! Sir, how does one keep from staring?”
Darville smiled at the image of the half-naked women of Rossemeyer. His entire body smiled at remembered pleasures he hadn’t thought much about since his illness. Since Brevelan.
His smile faded.
“I imagine that once you get used to something, the forbidden is enticing and the revealed becomes unexciting. As for the dreary entertainment, my tutor in court protocol suggested I imagine every person in the room, except myself, stark naked. No padding. No disguises. How much prancing and posturing do you imagine the esteemed members of our Council would do in such a situation?”
Just then Lord Jonnias strode past them. His richly brocaded, wine-colored tunic and knee-length trews couldn’t conceal his scrawny neck above his very round paunch and his sticklike legs below. For this excursion no one wore the cumbersome floor-length robes that were de rigueur at court.
“Pompous busybody.”
Darville wasn’t sure if Holmes had actually whispered that comment or if they had both thought it at the same moment.
“Sir Holmes, there is a faded white rose in the spray decorating the gangway. How dare you use anything less than a perfect flower for our new princess!” Jonnias fumed.
“Imagine a featherless lumbird squawking for attention,” Darville whispered. “Think of that while the officials drone on with speech after speech that says nothing but how important the speaker thinks he is. You’ll have no problem keeping a smile on your face.” He slapped his aide on the back.
“If you say so, sir.” Holmes made a mighty effort to appear somber, as he jumped to correct the flowers in the offending spray. “But I don’t think I’ll ever get used to seeing a woman’s naked breasts in public.”
“I doubt I will either,” Darville mused as he again remembered past pleasures.
At last the Admiral of the Guild of Bay Pilots emerged from within the hangings of the ceremonial barge.
“Your Grace, my lords. We will sail in three minutes,” he intoned, then disappeared again.
“We’d best board the barge, Holmes. Cousin Krej is looking murderous.”
“Does he ever look less than murderous?” Holmes quipped, still unable to control his giggles.
“Not since his wife moved to the capital to be closer to him. Any guesses about the name of the mistress he dismissed to make room for Lady Rhodia in his wing of the palace?”
Holmes smiled and nodded knowingly. “Chances are she left the capital as soon as Lady Rhodia’s baggage train was sighted. I wouldn’t want to be the victim of that lady’s temper tantrums,” Holmes whispered behind his hand.
The last time Krej’s wife had caught the lord with another woman, Lady Rhodia had nearly destroyed their apartments within the palace. Early in their marriage she’d earned the nickname Rhomerra, the legendary harpy messenger of Simurgh, the evil winged god of ancient times.
Darville scanned the crowd of nobles and officials gathered for this august occasion. “Where is Senior Magician Baamin?”
“Um . . . he . . . um was not invited, Your Grace.”
Darville’s mood darkened. He should have known the Council would interfere with his specific request for his adviser to be present.
“There will be no magicians on the barge, cousin.” Unseen, Krej had come up behind Darville. “Out of respect for Rossemeyer, where magic has no place at court, the Council of Provinces has asked all of the Commune to withdraw from the festivities.”
The Lord of Faciar appeared as regal as any king today, his glowing-green and deep-red tunic was rich with gold embroidery that highlighted his ruddy hair and fair complexion. He stood nearly as tall as Darville, as broad across the shoulders, but thicker in the hips and thighs. Not yet forty, Krej was in his prime. A powerful lord and warrior, able administrator and leader.
“If no magicians are allowed, then you must excuse yourself, Lord Krej.” Darville glared at his cousin.
“You dare insult me!”
“I seek to eliminate your hypocrisy!”
The royal rivals continued to glare at each other.
“Your Grace, my lord, the time has come to depart,” Sir Holmes reminded them in embarrassed tones.
Darville breathed a sigh of mixed relief and trepidation. Which was worse, sparring with Krej, the endless waiting, or actually having to meet the Perfect Princess from Rossemeyer?
A brightly uniformed captain released the boarding ramp. His scarlet tunic stretched tightly across shoulders broadened by a youth spent at the oars of the barges that plied the mysterious currents of Coronnan River. The representative of the Guild of Bay Pilots graciously allowed the royal party aboard his vessel. Even a king could not board a vessel without such an invitation.
The Bay Pilots were proud of their duties, ranking themselves with the magicians in keeping the kingdom safe from invasion. No one else dared navigate the random changes of the river channels through the mudflats to the bay proper.
Darville placed one foot on the ramp, only to discover his cousin already there. “A bit presumptuous, Krej. I believe I am the ranking royal in this farce today.” Darville assumed his mask of bored sarcasm. Otherwise he might just shove his ceremonial dagger deep into Krej’s ribs.
“A position you do not deserve. I am regent. I should be first aboard.”
“Correction. You were regent when you thought you had safely confined me in the body of a wolf. I am restored now, body and mind, through no action or wish of yours.” Darville glared with mistrust and dislike.
Stargods! Why did he allow Krej to goad him into hot replies that did nothing to improve his relations with the Council?
Angry with life and himself, Darville shouldered Krej aside and mounted the ramp. He kept his spine stiff and unyielding, his chin high, and his emotions deeply buried.
Rosie watched the bright yellow banners of the Coronnian royal barge as the vessel followed a zigzag approach to the island. She clung to the safety of a deck chair beneath a canopy on her own ship. Janataea sat beside her, cooling her smiling face with a lace fan.
The island wasn’t the forbidding chunk of rock Rosie had been led to believe, but a series of smaller islands connected by massive bridges. Nearly as large as a sizable town, the outpost of Coronnan supported a bustling population atop those bridges. Jetties trained the river currents between the lesser islands so that the rest of the shore built up silted mudflats nearly a mile wide.
One large stone building dominated the inside curve of the half-moon group of islands. All travelers and cargo must pass through that building to gain access to Coronnan. Only Coronnite barges plied the shallow channels between the island and the capital city.
“ ’Tis an insult, Highness. They deliberately keep us waiting to make us appear vulnerable.” Ambassador KevinRosse paced the deck beside Rosie’s seat in growing fury. The planes of his gaunt face appeared sharper than usual, his cheeks more pinched, and his thin mouth was pressed so tightly together it appeared nearly lipless.
“Not surprising, since Rossemeyer has pushed the marriage and the treaty from the beginning. We stand to gain as much as Coronnan from the alliance,” Janataea reminded the tall man. She had sobered since her laughing fit this morning, but a strange flippancy lingered in the governess’ manner.
Rosie watched both of her guardians closely, trying to determine her own attitude from theirs. She didn’t mind waiting, as long as the sunshine slipped beneath her sheltering awning. The warmth was more intense here in the lowlands north of Rossemeyer, the winter was slower in coming. She liked that idea. Cold darkness on
ly made her sleepy.
“I give them five minutes. Then we withdraw!” KevinRosse stalked over to the captain of the ship.
Good. Then Rosie could return to her familiar home and safe routine. She wouldn’t have to allow strangers—a strange husband in particular—to touch her, force her to make conversation, demand things of her.
“Withdraw now and Darville will make peace with SeLenicca!” Janataea screamed at the ambassador’s back. Panic flushed the woman’s face.
“Why do you fear such an alliance, Janataea?” Rosie asked. Her governess was wise and learned. But this was the first time she had exhibited any passion for politics.
“SeLenicca cannot be trusted. Time and again they have sought to conquer Rossemeyer. When that fails, they resort to assassination of our royals. Your own father fell victim to one of their poisoned arrows. Some believe it best to maintain a balance rather than have any one kingdom dominate the other two. ’Tis best for Rossemeyer to keep SeLenicca weak and isolated.”
“We hate SeLenicca, but we are not at war. Why?” Rosie wasn’t sure where the questions came from. Usually she was curious about things, like the shape of the shadow behind the wardrobe, never ideas. The breeze blowing in from the shore seemed to carry the question.
Kevin-Rosse’s glowering presence cut off an answer. “Never utter those treasonous ideas of balance and peace, woman,” he hissed at Janataea. His long body bent nearly double to bring his face within inches of the governess’. “SeLenicca must never be allowed to gain enough strength to threaten us again.” Bright red splotches appeared on his cheeks and his breathing became harsh and uneven.
“We’re lucky our ancient enemy has no unwed princess to offer Darville.” Janataea baited the ambassador. “He might prefer alliance with them.” Janataea’s wide-eyed innocence didn’t seem to appease Kevin-Rosse.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 40