“This is not the time for pranks, Princess Rossemikka. Need I remind you of your position, your duty!”
“I have decided to marry no man. I shall join the convent of the Stargods. There I need not fear the touch of any man.”
“Oh, my,” the maid gasped.
“Get out!” Janataea screamed at the shaking servant.
“And not a word of this to anyone. If I hear any gossip I’ll know whose ears to lop off.”
The maid ran from the room without bothering to close the outer door. Her wooden clogs banged on the stone floor, marking her progress to the back stairway that led to the kitchen.
“What brought this on, Rosie?” Janataea spoke in her most soothing voice.
Her words took on a singsong quality that Rosie recognized as the beginning of a spell. Soon, very soon, she would be compelled to obey her governess, unless she did something right now.
“Darville tried to sneak in here last night with his cat.”
“He wouldn’t dare,” Janataea hissed.
“He dared. I’ll not marry him.”
“I’ll see that he destroys the cat.”
Something twisted inside Rosie. She didn’t know why she should be distressed at the demise of a creature she feared and hated.
“I’ll still not marry him. My mind is made up. I shall join the convent before this day is out.”
“Then I’ll make sure you marry before noon.” Janataea stormed out of the room. This time the outer door slammed behind her and the lock turned.
Rosie smiled. She dressed quickly in her warmest green woolen gown and rust colored cloak, then opened the wardrobe and drew aside the brocaded covering. Janataea would never lock her in this room again.
Chapter 17
“She’s gone, Baamin,” Darville paced beside his adviser, djusting his long stride to the old man’s shorter legs. He burned with the need to run, throw something, swing a sword, or just smash his fist into one of the massive walls of the University. From his shoulder, Mica growled her agreement with his mood.
“Calm yourself, Your grace; I’m certain your princess will return as soon as her temper has worn thin,” Baamin soothed. “There has been a new development here at the University that will take precedence over your concern for the Princess Rossemikka.”
“Not bloody likely.” The stone floors of the inner reaches of the University corridors echoed under Darville’s sturdy riding boots. He’d been about to mount a search party for Rosie when Baamin had claimed his presence. Now he stomped through the master’s wing instead of riding a fleet steed through the markets and lanes of the capital.
“You know as well as I do, Baamin, that if word of the princess’ disappearance reaches Kevin-Rosse, the treaty will evaporate and we’ll face a new invasion across the southern passes.”
“What if I offered Brevelan’s help in finding your runaway princess, eh?” A grin spread across the wizened features of the elderly magician. “And maybe even Jaylor’s help, too?”
“Jaylor has his magic back? So soon, and strong enough to work through a summons?” Darville stopped his progress down the hall long enough to grab Baamin’s sleeves in eager anticipation. He didn’t dare think about Brevelan.
“Better than that, Your Grace. They are here, and Jaylor has his magic back, with a few complications.” Baamin nodded and grinned as Darville slapped his back in eager camaraderie.
Moments later they were in the master’s suite at the end of the long hallway. Heavily carved furniture and thickly padded upholstery lent the room an air of decadent luxury, a legacy of the last inhabitant, not of Brevelan’s simpler tastes. Rich tapestries kept out the drafts and damp of thick stone walls, while bright rugs cushioned Darville’s step.
Brevelan knelt by the cheerful green fire crackling in the fireplace. Darville remembered the song of blending that touched her lips as she stirred a concoction on the hearth. Through a half opened doorway, he glimpsed a rumpled bed.
The entire scene was too reminiscent of the last time Darville had shared a room with Jaylor and Brevelan. It had been in the guest hall of the remote monastery, a day’s journey from Castle Krej.
Brevelan’s poignant song of love that had brought Jaylor back from the dead still rang in Darville’s ears. She would never sing like that for him. But she might sing as beautiful a song of magic that would restore the true Rossemikka to him forever.
“Darville!” Brevelan jumped up from her place by the fire. She ran the few steps to the doorway and flung her arms about him in joyous reunion. “I daren’t call you ‘Puppy’ anymore. You are much too well groomed to ever be mistaken for my pet wolf.” She reached to ruffle his hair behind his ears, as she was wont to when he was truly a wolf.
“If only you knew how many people want to consign that role to me permanently,” he groaned and laughed in the same breath. He reached out to hold her tight, stroke her hair, indulge in the sensuous scent of herbs that clung to her. But she didn’t fit against his body as snugly as she had when they had parted last spring. A quivering movement in her belly reminded him that she carried another man’s child.
“You look well,” he said matter-of-factly, holding her at arm’s length. Her eyes clouded in puzzlement.
“Merow!” Mica chirped from his shoulder. The cat scrambled to launch herself across the gap to Brevelan’s arms, claws digging into Darville’s shoulder through the padding.
“Mica, my sweet,” Brevelan cooed as she caught the cat in mid-leap. “Oh, how I have missed you.”
“Mi-i-oow.” Mica had missed Brevelan as well.
“Where is Jaylor?” Darville took a step back from the loving caresses shared by the two women he loved.
“In the library, with books piled eight-deep all around him.” Brevelan raised pain-filled eyes to him. “He is greatly troubled.” Like the last night Jaylor had spent in a library of magic and learned that in order to free Shayla he would have to risk his life and his soul.
“Is he devising a new plan to save Coronnan?” Darville started toward the wide windows that overlooked a courtyard. The library was across the way, four stories high with more books on more subjects than any known library in the world. Some of those books were rumored to have been left by the Stargods. If the answer to Jaylor’s problem lay in a book, that book was in the University library.
Darville decided to hasten over there to greet his oldest friend. Perhaps if he put some distance between himself and Brevelan, he’d feel less uncomfortable. Somehow he felt guilty for having betrayed his love for Brevelan by sleeping with Mikka last night. At the same time, he knew remorse for betraying Mikka by still being in love with Brevelan.
“Jaylor acted as a staff for Krej during a major spell.” Baamin spoke in awed tones. “His magic is strong, but it splits into two faces, good and evil.”
“With Krej!” Darville whirled to face Baamin, accusations and denunciations halfway to his lips before he saw Brevelan’s pain-filled face.
“ ’Twas the only way to save my life, Darville,” she reprimanded. “My bond with Shayla was never totally broken, just hidden. The night her babies were born I went into premature labor. My father was the only person who could sever the bond.”
“Couldn’t Jaylor, or that apprentice boy, what’s his name?” Darville asked, still not willing to accept Krej as Brevelan’s savior.
“Jaylor tried, and his heart failed. Yaakke has no royal blood to connect him to Shayla. Only my cursed father could find the bond and separate us in time.” Brevelan stood straight and defiant against Darville’s anger.
“Then we have lost the dragons forever.” Darville stared out the window, seeing nothing.
“You are still bound to the dragons, Darville. If one magician could sever a tie with a dragon, why couldn’t another magician trace a similar bond?” Baamin asked.
“But who is strong enough? Is Jaylor’s heart truly strong enough to risk such a mighty spell? I won’t ask Brevelan to risk bonding with Shayla again, until
the baby comes. Will you undertake the spell, Baamin?” Darville pressed his adviser.
“I have a plan,” Baamin stated gleefully, as he rubbed his hands together in anticipation.
Both Darville and Brevelan stared at the Senior Magician.
“Jaylor found a binding spell in one of my texts. A spell written in Rover language, with symbolism that defies modern translations. If we could consult one of their women of power, she might unravel Jaylor’s problem.”
Darville lifted Mica from Brevelan’s arms. He petted her back and ears, nuzzling her delicate face with his own. “And what of the missing princess? I need to find Rosie more than I need the dragon nimbus right now.”
Rosie looked around her in dismay. Where was she? There were so many new sights and sounds and smells, she couldn’t sort them out, couldn’t find a reference point.
Not that she knew where she wanted to go in the first place. The vague notion of entering a convent as a means of escaping marriage to Darville had seemed an excellent notion when she was within the familiar walls of the palace. Now she faced the reality that she didn’t know how to locate a convent and wasn’t sure what a convent really was.
No one had discussed religion with her since she had lost her memory. She knew there were priests and nuns and monks dedicated to preserving the images of the Stargods and to healing. The priest-healers were also magicians. But what did the nuns do besides remain cloistered and virginal?
Rosie’s winding path took her through a market square. Dozens of people in rough clothing jostled her as they sought goods and services at the various booths. No one seemed to notice her.
They were all too busy with their own lives.
The smell of meat rolls, freshly baked, reminded Rosie that she had escaped without breakfast. She followed the scent to a booth where a slight man in an enormous white apron was arranging trays of the savory treat. Behind him, a stout woman in a very small apron kneaded dough. Flour dusted her face and arms all the way to her elbows. The man was scrupulously clean.
Customers selected pastries and paid for them with coins. Rosie watched the transactions carefully. She’d been told about money. Uncle Rumbelly complained constantly about the cost of her clothing, how there was never enough money left over to buy what he needed. But how did one come by money?
Why did those little circles of metal have value?
She had no idea. Rather than show her ignorance by asking such a question, she moved on. Her stomach growled in protest. Almost, she turned back to beg the baker for some food. Pride wouldn’t let her.
The palace market square led to a bridge. Timidly, she crossed to the next island, wary of the surging power of the water beneath the planking. This island seemed to be filled with the homes of the people who worked the market square. She smelled the location of a candy kitchen, heard the blacksmith, spotted the bright colors on the sign of the weaver, and nearly stumbled over the wares of the toy-maker. More people bustled in and out and around these places, but no one sold their wares on this island. All of the goods were being transported to the market.
She moved on to another island, and another. Every square inch of land was used for houses or markets or industry. The crowds grew thinner and more suspicious of her as she moved away from the large central islands. With each wary look and twitch of skirts out of her path she was aware that she was a stranger here.
Across the expanse of the river delta she thought she saw large fields ripe with grain. Men in wide hats and women with skirts kilted above their knees worked with scythe and rake at a frantic pace, all the while watching the dark clouds on the horizon.
Where did all these people come from? Her isolated life among the royales had kept her removed from the populace. She began to wonder if Rossemeyer’s mighty armies would be enough to conquer these people. But she also understood why her uncle wanted to gain possession of this moist, rich land. The high desert plateau that comprised most of Rossemeyer could never support all the people who lived there. Food was imported in large amounts. And the only commodities Rossemeyer produced in abundance for trade were the treacle beta and fierce mercenary warriors.
Yet another market sprang up in front of her. She was very far from Palace Isle now. Activity around these booths had wound down to a more leisurely pace. People didn’t seem to be using coins for their purchases. From the shadow of a corner hut Rosie watched a woman trade a flusterhen for a length of cloth. A man exchanged a finely worked leather belt for some tools. Others merely bargained with words.
Only the old woman at the opposite corner seemed to demand the little round pieces of metal. For each coin she would take her client’s hand and study the palm. Then she would make a pronouncement. More coins elicited a lengthier statement.
Rosie wished she could hear what the ancient crone was saying. She was hungry enough to be willing to hold a man’s hand for the few coins necessary to purchase a meal. She stepped out of the shadows to better hear the woman’s words.
“You look hungry, little lady,” a man’s voice hissed in her ear. “Hungry enough to eat a flusterhen raw. I know where you can get some dinner.” A large hand closed on Rosie’s shoulder. Fat fingers clutched her with surprising fierceness.
Rosie looked up into the stranger’s florid face, bordered with an oddly trimmed beard. Curiosity warred with her need to avoid his touch.
“There’s fresh-caught fish and boiled yampion root just across on the next island. I’ve got a boat to take you there, a nice big boat that won’t rock or tumble you into the river,” the man coaxed.
Rosie’s stomach growled in response to the vision of the meal this man could offer her.
As she opened her mouth to agree to go with him, new scents assaulted her nose. She smelled the sour ale on his breath and the pungent sweat of a liar. Enough to make her reconsider. Then she caught the acrid stench on his clothes. It was the same kind of odor she’d discovered on her sheets this morning. A man with the need on him.
Where is she? I must find my princess before Simeon kidnaps her. He wants to put aside his queen and marry Rossemikka. But he can’t annul his marriage to Queen Miranda. She is the lawful heir to SeLenicca. He is merely her consort.
Simeon’s ambitions grow too high and too fast. I don’t care that his grandmother was the first wife of Rossemikka’s father. All magicians were dealt a severe blow when good Queen Safflon was first exiled for witchcraft with her daughter Jaylene. Then, when she defended herself and her followers with a conjured plague, she was publicly tortured and executed.
Poor Jaylene died heartbroken and impoverished when her father married Sousyam, the deceitful mouse, and sired Rossemikka and her brothers. Jaylene’s son, Simeon, was still an infant. Maman raised Simeon as one of her own, alongside my rival and myself.
But Simeon must wait. He is not destined to rule the three kingdoms. Maman decided that, the coven agreed. The child Rosie produces and the child Miranda now carries will wed. And their children will rule the three kingdoms with the coven as their advisers. And I shall rule the coven.
Simeon thinks to change the ruling of the coven by abducting Rosie back to SeLenicca. He doesn’t know what forces will fly out of control.
SeLenicca was barren of magic until Simeon married Miranda. His magic must be artificially induced. Perhaps he uses the scrubby, less potent variety of Tambootie that grows there. In such an environment Rosie will revert to her natural form. Then there will be two cats and no princess.
Chapter 18
“If Baamin needs an old Rover woman to cure Jaylor, then we will find him one,” Brevelan whispered to Mica. She stroked the cat who hid in a produce basket slung on her arm. “We both know the Rovers cannot be trusted. But we must brave their curses to cure Jaylor of his warped and twisted magic.”
The cat purred her agreement.
Warped and twisted magic. Just like Brevelan’s father. Was this the legacy of using Krej to sever her bond with Shayla?
Mica nudged Brevelan’
s hand, distracting her from those depressing thoughts onto different ones, just as depressing.
Her meeting with Darville this morning had been strained. Though the bond of communication and empathy still existed, something now stood between them. Something like resentment? Or was it embarrassment?
She scratched Mica’s cheek and ear, drawing comfort from her familiar presence. Mica was still Mica. And yet . . . ?
Mica belonged with Darville now, if this cat could truly be said to belong to anyone.
Darville had taken command of his kingdom and the Council. His personality colored everything in the palace. He had also proved himself on the field of battle. The people of Rossemeyer would welcome him as husband to their princess. His life had spread far beyond the comforting limits of Brevelan’s clearing.
The baby kicked and stretched. The loneliness of Brevelan’s circling thoughts receded.
“Baamin says there is a small market square three islands north and two west from University Island. Sometimes Rovers bring their wares for trade. They aren’t supposed to be in Coronnan at all, but the magic that kept them out is gone. And Rovers . . . rove. That’s bred into their nature. Only very strong magic will keep them out, or curb their thieving instincts.”
From the depths of the basket, Mica agreed. Brevelan drew a checkered cloth over the top of the basket. What cat, other than a witch’s familiar, would consent to be carried in a basket?
A few steps beyond the gate brought Brevelan to the first bridge. It looked sturdy and well traveled. She put one cautious foot on the wooden planks. Waves of distrust and fear assailed her. She wanted to run away, put as much distance between herself and this river crossing as possible.
Brevelan looked sharply all around her. There was no sense of an individual as the source of the violent emotions. She touched the wooden railing as she placed her right foot firmly on the bridge. The emotions rose again. She lifted her hand from the railing. The emotions eased.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 50