“Take them to the hospice. They no longer have magic of their own to escape a mundane cell, and they will need care.” Darville bowed his head in regret for the loss.
The other four impostors stood absolutely still, not daring to protest the truth spell in any way.
“Send a loyal scribe to their rooms to record every detail of their confession. The truth is the only way these remaining four will escape the fate of their comrade.” Jaylor lowered his staff and entered the Council Chamber, grateful to the dragons for giving him the means to expose these men. Sick with himself for having to do it.
Annoyed at yet another interruption to the day’s work, Darville nodded for the breathless messenger to enter.
An obviously nervous priest eyed Jaylor as he edged into the Council Chamber. “Your Grace, my lords.” He bowed to one and all. His eyes slid warily around Jaylor. “I have just picked up a distress call in my glass. The city of Sambol reports that King Simeon’s troops have penetrated the outlying passes, as well as the main trade road into Coronnan, and are massing to besiege the city.”
The priest backed out toward the doorway under a bombardment of questions. “I’m sorry, sirs. I don’t know anything more. I only picked up the general distress call. It was sent out in all directions, to no one specific. A weak spell from an exhausted healer.”
“You may return to your duties.” Darville cut through the hubbub of voices. “Troop placements. How many? Exact locations? Supply trains? I need details!” he ordered the lords.
“Perhaps the kidnapping of your wife is for the best, Your Grace.” Marnak the Elder stood by his chair, voice level and courteous.
“What?” Darville roared. “You think Lord Krej’s treason a good thing?”
“You have fullfilled the treaty with Rossemeyer. Her kidnapping and slaying by magicians is beyond your control. We are now in a position to negotiate peace with King Simeon.” Marnak continued to stand behind his chair.
“I agree,” Lord Wendray rubbed his temples. “My city cannot withstand another assault. By the time reinforcements can be sent, even by forced march, Simeon will have a clear road up the Coronnan River, to the capital. We’d be better off abandoning the queen and treating with SeLenicca.”
“And what of the ten thousand mercenaries from Rossemeyer that are disembarking onto our mainland as we speak?” Darville fought the outrage that nearly blinded him. Abandon Mikka for politics? Never.
And yet . . .
“Which of you wishes to explain to those ten thousand battle-hardened soldiers that we are abandoning their beloved princess, my wife, to the evil manipulations of a coven?” He half stood, the Coraurlia in its protective satchel banging against the table.
“Who says we have to tell them anything?” Wendray looked up with hope. “If we send them immediately to rescue my city, by the time they find out about the queen, we won’t need them anymore.”
“By that time, they’ll be in the heart of Coronnan ready to turn on us. Do you want to try ousting ten thousand entrenched mercenaries?” Darville’s voice and body shook with the myriad emotions he fought to control. How could they suggest such a thing? Shortsighted. Lumbird dumb. Murderous, self-serving. . . . The litany of curses continued on and on in his troubled mind.
He had to think. But images of Mikka danced through his head. He couldn’t concentrate. Wearily he sank back into a chair, any chair that would take the strain from his trembling knees.
Mikka!
“I don’t think we should allow those troops to set foot on our soil.” Marnak stood firm. “If we treat with King Simeon now, we won’t need those mercenaries.”
“If we treat with King Simeon at all, we reveal our vulnerability. He’ll know we are desperate and cheat us of everything we hold dear,” Jaylor interrupted.
“And I say we must. If the king and Council won’t initiate negotiations, then I will.” Jonnias stepped back from the table. “Who is with me?”
Three others, including Marnak the Elder, joined him. Marnak the Younger was still missing, along with the rest of Krej’s household.
“Wendray?” Jonnias quirked an eyebrow toward the lord of the merchant city that straddled the main trade road out of Coronnan.
“I can’t. If we treat, I’ll lose my city, everything. Simeon wants control of the trade road. Sambol gives him that. I have to fight, though that is likely to destroy me and mine as well.”
“My lords,” Darville found his voice, weak as it was. “Please reconsider. If we divide now, we are likely to lose everything.” Somehow he had to convince the Council that Coronnan must remain united. The carefully built network of trade, alliance, and protection was shattering before their eyes. They couldn’t continue at half-strength. Half-wealth. Half-everything.
“Then join us, or be damned.” Jonnias led his contingent out the door.
Silence lay heavily in the room, like a thick, sour-tasting sea fog.
“Magicians got us into this,” someone mumbled loud enough for all to hear, but not so loud as to be identified.
“Perhaps we need to take corrective measures now, before the magicians get us into more trouble.” Lord Andrall straightened his shoulders, as if shaking off the weight of indecision.
“What do you mean by that?” Darville lifted his face from his hands and glared at his most loyal supporters. Behind him, he sensed, the remaining magicians had focused their attention on Lord Andrall.
“Your Grace.” Lord Andrall stood to be recognized by the reduced assembly. “King Darville, we of the Council have seen that the individual members of the Commune are vulnerable to uncontrollable greed and a lust for power they could not achieve in the old days, when dragons were the source of magic. We have seen trusted friends dissolve into monsters we can never know or understand.” He looked pointedly at Jaylor. “We have seen the entire country divided and threatened by the question of the magicians. I recommend that henceforth, magicians be banned from Council. Furthermore, no lord may be a magician and no magician may be a lord.”
“What?” Darville stared at his longtime supporter. “You can’t eliminate the best educated men from their advisory positions. You’ve just voted to end three hundred years of proven working relationship.” He leaned forward, hands flat on the table. Surprise and anger clouded his vision briefly. Then it cleared. Details focused with the sharpness of a knife edge.
“We can’t take the chance that anyone in a position of authority will be manipulated by an unscrupulous rogue,” Lord Andrall explained.
Like Krej.
“I agree,” Wendray stood and moved beside Andrall. The remaining lords joined them in unanimous agreement.
“Until the Commune finds a way to prove the loyalty of every member . . .” Andrall looked directly into Jaylor’s eyes in accusation. “And the test must be to the Council’s satisfaction, not the Commune’s . . . until that time, we forbid the presence of any magician in Council. We also terminate all advisory positions to the members of the Council.”
Chapter 30
“This thread goes here. Over and under. And take this one around and take two threads through,” Rosie chanted the litany of her game.
Mikka allowed the cat within her to be occupied with the tangle of her threads. While their fingers passed through the intricate pattern again and again, her eyes peered into every crevice of the stone walls.
A careless servant had left Rosie’s hairbrush and comb within the chamber. Janataea must still believe that Rosie could be lulled into docility by having her hair brushed. Mikka had bent and twisted the tail of the comb into a lock pick. Mikka couldn’t fault the shuffling old woman for leaving behind the means of her escape. Where could a prisoner run to? Castle Krej was sealed shut in anticipation of a siege.
“I may not run, but I can hide until it’s too late for Krej to rape me,” she muttered to herself.
Narrow, dark corridors wound around and around the formidable fortress. The cat within her wanted to explore all of them�
��the deeper and darker, the better. Mikka suppressed the urge. This castle might have tunnels, but certainly they were not a likely means of escape. The defenses were designed around an impregnable position, carved out of a sheer cliff face, not an escape route that could be betrayed or discovered.
She found servant’s clothing in a storeroom, stout trews and warm tunic, long woolen stockings, and indoor slippers to protect her feet. Warm and comfortable at last, she glided through the passages, as silent as a ghost.
All corridors in the building eventually led to the Great Hall. This huge room was unlike any Mikka had run across in other castles. The dais, where the family and honored guests dined or held court, was missing. No armor, or sleeping pallets for men-at-arms lined the walls. The room was much less functional than a standard Great Hall, much more beautiful and very, very frightening.
A Tambootie wood fire glowed in a central hearth. Around that circle of stones, perched on appropriate pedestals, was Krej’s renowned sculpture collection. In the moons since Shayla had torn a hole in the outer wall and freed the reanimated creatures, Krej had replaced most of his sculptures. Where Shayla had left the wall gaping to the elements now stood new stonework and a huge window to light his collection.
Mikka gasped at the cost of all that glass. No one had a right to own that much. Colored and clear pieces had been fashioned or cut to make a picture. Huge wings and enormous claws gave the impression of a dragon. Appropriate, since a dragon had created the space the window filled.
Then Mikka moved closer, staring in wonder at the morning sun streaming through the rare window. No dragon this. She was staring at an icon of Simurgh.
Quickly, she turned away from the blasphemous picture only to be greeted by the animals in the sculpture collection.
A great gray bear in pewter. A wild tusker in ebony wood. The spotted saber cat in bronze. And several other creatures Mikka could not identify. There was a winged raptor, similar to the kahmsin eagle beloved in Rossemeyer, similar, but larger and more fierce. A pouched rodent, too preposterous to be real, raised up on oversized hind legs and thick tail. Its shortened forepaws seemed poised, as if prepared to engage its enemies in fisticuffs.
And yet . . . and yet the life of each creature glimmered beneath the surface of the sculpture. Resentment, anger, confusion, bewilderment assaulted Mikka. Was she doomed to the same fate? Once she had served Krej’s and Janataea’s purpose and borne the child they needed for their dynastic plans, would she be shape-changed into a cat, and then frozen in time in a prison of iridescent shale, the color of Rosse’s fur?
Too frightened to think, she buried her consciousness deep inside herself.
Rosie tangled her thread into a hopeless knot. In frustration she ended the game and stretched the string into a long straight piece, with a huge Rover’s knot just to the left of middle.
If only life were untangled so simply, a slightly recovered Mikka mused.
Then she saw it. In the wide place that had once contained a life-sized sculpture of a glass dragon sat a harpy, Rhomerra, the bringer of nightmares, plague and ill fortune. Whatever substance comprised the hideous form, it was amazingly lifelike. Filthy, oily feathers and scales covered a grossly fat bird’s body. Long, knock-kneed legs ended in grasping talons, coated in dried blood and gore. Naked, pendulous breasts dangled from the chest. Set within the beak and beady eyes of a raptor was the face of Janataea. Her face wore the sensuously arrogant sneer so typical of the royal governess.
Was the creature real? Mikka dared a quick probe. No life resided in the carved stone. This was not one of Krej’s prizes. It was an idol, with an altar in front of it. The offering was a miniature Tambootie tree in a priceless glass pot and a dead cat.
She couldn’t look to see if the sacrifice was Rosse, the other half of herself.
“May we observe your spell of seeking, Master Jaylor?” Zolltarn asked.
He was more polite than Jaylor expected. Rovers were arrogant and suspicious and boastful, but rarely polite. What did this man really want? He’d passed the truth spell. But that didn’t mean he didn’t have secrets.
Jaylor unlocked the round meeting room reserved for the Commune with a pass of his hand and an image in his mind. The new spell gave him a chance to reinforce his status to the rest of the Commune, trailing up the long staircase. Only the Senior Magician could open the door alone. Any other master magician needed a second spell from another master to accomplish the same feat.
“I’m not sure I can work with an audience.” Jaylor looked to Yaakke for confirmation. The boy lifted one shoulder, barely attentive. His mind was two floors below with Baamin.
“This isn’t going to work at all if you don’t pay attention, Yaakke,” Jaylor hissed to the boy as he thrust the heavy door open. “I know you are concerned for your Master. We all wish Baamin well. But there are times when the welfare of the kingdom is more important than our individual concerns,” he added more gently.
Jaylor needed to traverse the void in search of Mikka. Before he ventured into the realm of dragons again, he needed an anchor. Yaakke, his most familiar companion in magic, must serve that purpose.
“Entering the void is dangerous, Jaylor. We never had to do it with dragon magic. We’re inexperienced. Is a foreign princess worth the risk, even if she is married to our new king?” Slippy argued.
“Rossemikka was kidnapped by magic. If we, the magicians, refuse to rescue her, then we only deepen the Council’s conviction that all magicians are untrustworthy.”
“Fat chance of convincing any of them that we are as loyal as they—maybe more so. They want power, not cooperation,” Yaakke grumbled.
“Why is this apprentice here?” One of the younger masters tried to grab the boy’s collar and usher him out of the private enclave. He had to jerk his hand away from Yaakke’s shimmering armor.
“Because I need him to help me find the queen.” Jaylor suppressed a smile. Skepticism glowered from a dozen faces.
“We can’t join our magic to make the task any easier. Not like the old days, when dragons gave us power we could gather and amplify,” Slippy groused.
“We can’t join, but you can act as my staff, focus the spell, and feed my energy while Yaakke anchors me to this reality.”
“It can’t work!” Zolltarn looked as aghast as any of them.
“I did it once with Krej—before my magic was fully returned. I couldn’t break Brevelan’s link to the dragons, and it was killing her. I knew Krej couldn’t be trusted, but he had the power and the link to Brevelan to help. The warp in my magic occurred because I defied him, mid-spell. He was too hasty. I would have killed both Shayla and my wife if I’d followed his orders. I realized then that I didn’t have to blackmail him with the knowledge of his antidote to witchbane. He wanted a way to destroy the dragons once and for all.”
“You violated your oath as a master to the Commune by assisting an enemy of the crown and the nimbus!”
“I saved my wife and son!”
“Gentlemen, gentlemen, we accomplish nothing if we bicker,” Zolltarn soothed. “I am interested in this process. Maybe we can profit from it.”
After a moment of grumbling, they all settled in their accustomed places at the round table. Black glass, solid and clear. The most precious object in the kingdom.
Yaakke shuffled beside Jaylor. There was no chair for him. Jaylor spotted the boy’s problem. There were empty chairs, each upholstered in colors appropriate to a magician’s magic. No master dared sit in the chair designated for another magician. Yaakke was only a lowly apprentice, with no status and no definition to his magical colors yet.
With a blink of Jaylor’s eyes, a high stool appeared beside him—an appropriate seat for a student among his teachers. With an impudent grin, Yaakke perched in his new place.
“First, we must be physically linked.” Jaylor reached for Yaakke’s hand on his left and Slippy’s on his right. “On my count we will enter a trance together.”
“So
unds like the way we used to shore up the border.”
“Similar. Once entranced, Yaakke will boost me into the void. You, as a group, will then push Yaakke after me.”
“Like acrobats building a pyramid?”
“Exactly. I don’t think you will be able to follow into the void as a group, but through my eyes you will be able to see what I am doing. Yaakke will monitor my actions and signal for my return, if I run into trouble. You, in turn will lend him your corporate strength.”
Jaylor looked around the table. Each magician nodded his understanding and assent.
“On my count. One.” They all inhaled deeply.
“Two . . .”
“Not without me, you don’t!” Darville pounded up the stairs.
The spell collapsed before it had begun. The magicians sank back into their chairs, gasping and shaking their heads clear of the almost-trance.
“Your Grace, you are mundane. You can’t help.”
“I’m strong, and I am involved. It is, after all, my wife you seek.”
“The Council, Roy?” Jaylor brought his eyes back into focus.
“Dispensed to myriad duties in getting troops on the road. I may be missed. But I feel my place is here.”
“And the magic infection, Your Grace?” Zolltarn intervened. “What if this triggers a recurrence? The Council would never forgive you, or us.”
“The infection is cured. Never in recorded history has there been a recurrence or relapse after a cure.” Darville reminded them it was their own books that had led to diagnosis and cure.
“Why not let the boy join us? Everything else about this adventure is extremely unorthodox. Take Scrawny’s chair, bo . . . Your Grace.” Slippy waved to the one opposite him. The orange and yellow covering was already fading. “And put on the Coraurlia. The magic embedded in it will give us something to link us to you.”
“You know, Jaylor, if this works, we’re going to have to find you a nickname. Messiah, maybe?” a master in healer’s gray quipped.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 60