The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  The door behind Krej began to vibrate with life of its own.

  Mistake! Darville was suddenly aware of the new energy filling Krej. Something or someone in that room was feeding him power. The next assault would be magic.

  “Never again, Krej. I won’t be your victim again!” The white-hot anger burning in his gut surged upward and outward. The sword vibrated. Or was it his hand shaking? The metal glowed and hummed. “This one’s for me, Darville, King of Coronnan!” Krej’s blade flew through the air and embedded in the door jamb opposite him.

  “Golden wolf, frozen in time. Golden wolf, forever mine,” the magician sang. Balls of glowing magic in marbled green and red appeared in each palm. He thrust them forward.

  Darville caught the magics with his sword and flung them back to their source. Dragon fire from the Coraurlia, in every color imaginable, surrounded the red and green, engulfed Krej, swallowing and neutralizing his magic.

  Without thinking, Darville thrust his sword forward again. He needed to make certain no more souls would be the victim of Krej’s possessive greed. More molten light flowed from the crown on his head through the charged metal.

  “No! You can’t. You are mundane. You can’t kill me,” Krej choked. He writhed and screamed, as if burning. Burning within and without. His limbs became rigid, his body shrank and changed. His red hair lightened and faded. A feral quality filled his widened pupils. He opened his mouth and growled.

  The primitive sounds echoed along the stone corridor in a fierce howl of rage and anguish.

  The hair on the back of Darville’s neck and arms stood up in eerie primeval distrust.

  A rusty-gray weasel emerged from beneath the pulsing magic in Darville’s weapon. A weasel frozen in cheap tin, gilded with false gold.

  Chapter 33

  “Set me down, Gliiam,” Jaylor commanded the juvenile dragon beneath him.

  The equivalent of a draconian laugh rippled through the long body. Sunlight glistened and reflected off his translucent fur and green wing-veins.

  “I am not one of you. Set me down,” Jaylor commanded with the full authority of the Senior Magician.

  The dragon nimbus broke through the void, into the air above Coronnan. For a moment, Jaylor thought the winged creatures were complying with his demands.

  Gliiam took wing and swept out to sea. On the swirling air masses of a gathering storm he dove and climbed, turned circles in a tail length, and sported with the waves below.

  Jaylor searched the nimbus for Shayla. All of the dragons within sight wore a color on their wing-veins and horn tips. No all color/no color female dragon was present to help him, understand his plight, or control the exuberance of the young male he rode.

  (You are one of us now. Look at yourself.)

  Forcing panic down, Jaylor looked, really looked at his hands, where he clutched the green spine ridges. His skin was nearly transparent. Further inspection of his body revealed a similar fading of muscle and bone.

  (You ventured into the void once too often. You belong to us now.)

  “I am needed in Coronnan. You must let me go back to my duties.” How many trips had he made into the realm of the magic in the last two days? There was the transport from the clearing to Coronnan City. That shouldn’t count. Yaakke had performed that spell. But there had been the ritual star, transports across the city, and two seeking spells for the queen. All necessary. None could have been avoided. Well, maybe one of the transports across the city.

  (The king has taken care of our enemy.) The image of Krej shrinking into one of his own macabre sculptures flashed before Jaylor’s mind. (You are no longer needed there.)

  “We must still deal with the woman, Janataea. She is the deadlier of the two.”

  (That is true. But her brother is our enemy, not the woman. She did not arrange the destruction of the nimbus.)

  “She will destroy Coronnan. You will never be allowed to return. Shayla wants to return with her young. I can hear her plaintive call.”

  (Shayla is unable to return.)

  Something was wrong in that statement. Dragons couldn’t lie, yet the word “unable” hung in the air around them with many meanings. He dismissed that argument until he’d had time to think on it.

  “My wife and my son need my protection.”

  (And if he is not your son?)

  Regret jolted Jaylor’s heart.

  “That makes no difference. The child needs me to guide him through a difficult life. He is a magician born. Coronnan is suspicious of all magicians. Glendon will be suspect because of his grandfather’s evil. I love him. I must guide and protect him, regardless of whose seed started his life.”

  The dragons hesitated.

  “My son is innocent. His mother is good-hearted. They need me, lest they be forced to follow the ways of Krej and Janataea because the mundanes refuse to understand them,” Jaylor pressed his argument. “Send me back. I love them dearly.”

  (There are things you must see first. You may not wish to return to the troubles of Coronnan afterward.)

  “I will always return to Brevelan.”

  (We shall see.)

  Gliiam headed west, up the Coronnan River to the besieged city of Sambol. Time slowed. The combatants moved through the sluggish current of hours passing at less than half their natural rate. And yet, the strict forward movement of time seemed distorted and distended. Jaylor didn’t know if what he saw was happening now, in ages past, or in some distant time in the future.

  For that matter, what did “now” mean?

  Jaylor saw death, fire, rape, and pillage. The river ran red with the blood of natives and attackers, innocent citizen and professional soldier alike. His heart swelled with grief at the sights and sounds of desperate war.

  A war guided by the man who sat his war steed at a distance and watched. A man who licked his lips in eager anticipation of more and more bloodshed.

  The dragons and their vision zoomed in on the magnificent figure on the hill. Long, straight nose, high cheek bones, florid complexion beneath bright red hair. Krej’s face stared back at them. Krej’s face, with a square-cut beard in the fashion of SeLenicca. Instantly, Jaylor knew the man to be the infamous King Simeon, and Krej’s half brother. A sorcerer in a land that had no magic to feed his natural talents.

  Dragon wisdom fed him the complex family tree that branched into every royal family on the planet. Patterns formed in the matings. Every birth was part of a huge plan to control every known government—not just the three kingdoms on this continent.

  Beside King Simeon sat his queen, Miranda, a petite teenager with trusting eyes and a quiet nature. She wasn’t watching the battle. She saw only her consort.

  “She’s bewitched,” Jaylor spoke to his escort. “No wonder she granted him ruling powers and the title of king over the objections of her advisers and guardians. I can break the enchantment, make her see what this war is doing to innocent people.”

  (She will not believe you. She wants only to be in love with a strong and handsome man.)

  Gliiam turned in a wing-length and flew east again to Coronnan City. The wide and muddy river absorbed the gray of the skies, the fading brown of autumnal fields, and the life blood of the people who lived on its swollen banks. The first of the fall rains fell on brick-dry ground and ran into the river without nourishing the land. Huge chunks of cultivated fields succumbed to the river’s relentless force. Villages in its path were swept away. Harvests were ruined. More lives were lost.

  Jaylor swallowed grief. “Many will go hungry this winter. For the second winter in a row.”

  In the city, the lords gathered in the Council Chamber and argued without resolution.

  (Look at the Council. Do you truly wish to spend the remainder of your days battling their endless arguments? They will never agree with you, or with each other.)

  The temptation to exile himself from the capital was strong. “Coronnan is my home, the land of my nurturing, my family, and generations of ancestors. For th
ose I love, past, present, and future, for the good of the kingdom, I must pierce their self-centered power games.”

  Across a narrow footbridge, in the University, an old man surrendered to pain and died. The exotic poisons, given him by the coven and by the enemies of Coronnan, faded with his aura so that no one might know their origin.

  Brevelan and Yaakke cried. Jaylor closed his eyes in sorrow.

  “For all of our arguments, I loved Old Baamin. He trusted me when no one else did. I owe him much and grieve his passing.”

  The dragons, one and all, dipped their heads in salute to Baamin.

  (He will be one of us shortly. His life has been honorable and his destiny not yet finished. His life spirit, his intelligence and his wisdom have been rescued from his poisoned body. A new form has been granted him so that he may finish his work. We grant him the right to wear blue on his wing tips, in memory of his previous life as a blue-robed magician.)

  “I’m certain he will be honored.”

  Jaylor watched as Brevelan began preparing Baamin’s body for the funeral rites. Yaakke was too grief-stricken to be of much help. Gently, she urged him through the final task, forcing him to accept a death.

  Beside them, Glendon slept in his cradle. Jaylor saw the golden edge to the infant’s aura. Evidence of Darville’s blood, or of his own distinctive personality and magic?

  (Do you still wish to return to Coronnan, to a life of fruitless striving against single-minded humans? You can be free of mortal concerns. Fly with us on the wind, live from moment to moment, with no responsibilities.)

  He was tempted by the life of peace in the clearing with Brevelan, not by the offer of near-immortality with the dragons. Jaylor wanted to grow old with Brevelan at his side. He wanted to share her dragon-dream of a large loving family who passed honorable magic down through generation after generation.

  “Shayla promised Brevelan a passel of red-haired children. Only her firstborn is to be blond. By right of Shayla’s dragon-dream, I demand that you return me to my own plane of existence. I must finish the work that I have begun. With Brevelan and our son by my side, I can succeed in the tasks the dragons have set for me.”

  (You have been tested and found worthy. You shall share the guardianship of the nimbus with Brevelan.)

  An awareness, deep inside his heart, of every dragon alive, as well as those who had died, spread through him. Jaylor bowed his head in awe of the responsibility the dragons passed to him.

  (Send the troops where they are needed.) Gliiam dipped toward the massive city. An army of fierce mercenaries gathered on the banks of the Great Bay, south of the city. (We distort time. It is now near sunset on the day of the kidnap.)

  Jaylor sought the general from Rossemeyer. With dragon aid, he sent the image of a royal messenger to him. The troops that were part of Rossemikka’s dowry must rescue their princess. Forced marches. Arrive at Castle Krej in two days, or lose the princess and the treaty.

  “Take me to my wife,” Jaylor commanded his transport.

  (The king and queen have need of a healer. We take Brevelan with us. What of the babe? He is too young to be left.)

  “Bring Yaakke. But allow Brevelan to carry Glendon for now.”

  A blink of the eye and Brevelan was caught up in a swirl of dragon wings. She cradled a squalling, blanket-wrapped bundle in her arms. A surprised Yaakke clutched the spine of the back of a red-tipped beast.

  “Will the babe be altered by exposure to the void?” Jaylor demanded an answer of his hosts.

  (He has been one of us since the moment of his conception. We are not yet ready to claim him.)

  The truth hit Jaylor then. That night, the night he had tested Tambootie and taken too much, he was drifting with the dragons, needing never to return to Coronnan or his body. Brevelan, fueled by her love, and Darville, guided by his friendship, had sought him in the void and given him reasons to continue with the life granted him. Glendon had been conceived in the void. The babe belonged to no one but the dragons.

  Blood pounded through Jaylor’s veins again. His body took on substance. “Your love brought me back from the realm of the dragons once more, Brevelan.” He hugged her tightly to his chest for the remainder of the ride.

  “A nice trick, that,” Zolltarn greeted Darville from the safety of several yards’ distance. “Not everyone can backlash a spell. Are you sure you have no magic in your family?”

  “Not that I know of.” Darville shook his head free of the vision of the spell. The crown weighed heavily on his brow. The figure of Krej, transformed, still sat before him. He hadn’t dreamed that awful moment. “Perhaps the Coraurlia?”

  “Poetic justice.” Zolltarn moved to touch the rotten gilt flaking from Krej’s metallic fur. “We have still to deal with his sister. I found the others. They are clearing the magic traps as they move upward from the dungeons.”

  “Is Jaylor with them? I’d like him at my side when I confront Janataea.”

  Zolltarn shrugged. “He does not appear to be within the castle walls. You will have to settle for me as your companion.”

  Darville eyed the Rover cautiously. “I’ve known Jaylor many years. We work well as a team. This last battle may not allow time to communicate my requirements to you. You know that my trust is still reluctant.”

  “Whatever else I have done to you, or will do for my own ends, in this mission I am as committed as you.” Zolltarn shrugged again. “Lead on, Your Grace.”

  “Through here.” Darville shoved at the locked door behind Krej.

  “Allow me.” Zolltarn waved his hand over the lock. The door opened smoothly. A long stairway circled upward into the tower.

  “Mikka is up here.” Darville sensed his wife as strongly as he had during the seeking spell. “She’s in danger.” He rushed for the first step.

  “Caution, Your Grace.” Zolltarn stayed his impulsive ascent. “I smell magic, Janataea’s magic.”

  Mikka gripped the edge of the parapet as vertigo filled her head. The world below her swung in awkward arcs, right and left and back to the right.

  Eyes closed, she forced herself to turn away from the dizzying spectacle. Thoughts of flinging herself to the ground played with her common sense. She had to get away from here and the fascinating temptation to experience flight and death.

  “I knew you’d reveal your hiding place as soon as the need overtook you.”

  Mikka’s eyes opened of their own volition. Janataea stood over the trapdoor, the only exit from this half-open turret.

  “You’ll come along with me, Rosie. We’ll take care of the ache that burns within you.” Janataea held out her hand.

  The oily persuasion of the governess’ voice sickened Mikka.

  “Rosie is gone, Janataea. I’m Mikka.”

  “NEVER!” The older woman screeched. She looked frantically about her for evidence of a cat. “We killed the cat. Krej assured me it was Mica.”

  “You sacrificed an empty body. Rosie and I are joined. But I am dominant. I am in control of my mind and my body. You will never again manipulate me.”

  Defiance died as the witch waved her arms in a grasping circle. An oily green-black miasma of magic flowed from her gesture.

  Mikka watched, speechless, paralyzed, as the web of witch-born hate surrounded and lifted her body to the edge of the parapet. Desperately, she reached for the stone ledge that marked the boundary between life and a death plunge. Her arms remained lifeless at her side.

  Slowly, the familiar acid of Janataea’s compulsion ate at Mikka’s consciousness.

  “My mind is my own,” Mikka shouted her defiance.

  Janataea lifted her arms over her head. Mikka’s body glided up over the edge of stonework. Her head and arms remained almost within reach of the wall, while her immobile feet dangled over nothing.

  “I-will-not-allow-you . . .” Mikka ground out between clenched teeth.

  Abruptly her feet flew up over her head. Magic suspended her upside down. The world spun crazily below he
r. She saw figures gathering in the stone-paved courtyard below. Mikka closed her eyes and gulped back the nausea of fear and disorientation. Rosie’s need to have her feet down and head up clamored for attention inside her.

  “Let Rosie come to the surface, Princess. Hide yourself behind Rosie and I’ll save you,” Janataea laughed. “There is still time to obey me.”

  “Never.”

  A sickening lurch dropped Mikka several feet. Rosie howled in the back of her mind.

  “Will you let Rosie out now, Mikka?”

  “If you kill me, you kill Rosie as well. You won’t have either of us to fulfill your horrid plans.”

  “I have another body for Rosie. I’ll pull her free at the moment of your death.”

  Mikka gulped as she dropped again.

  “Free my wife or die, Janataea!” Darville burst through the trapdoor, knocking the Coraurlia askew in his haste. His eyes riveted on the desperate figure of Mikka hanging upside-down over the edge of the tower. Only a slim thread of magic tethered her ankles to Janataea’s fingertips. Even as he watched, the magic was fraying.

  “Make me, you trivial mundane,” Janataea taunted him. She bounced Mikka up and down, like a ball.

  “Return Mikka to safety.” This time Darville pressed his sword to Janataea’s throat, punctuating his demand by pricking her skin.

  “How . . . how did you get past my armor, the traps set by my brother?” she croaked in alarm.

  “The Coraurlia negates spells that threaten me!” Darville didn’t dare shift his eyes away from Janataea. He needed to assess her every move by the shift in her eyes.

  Mikka dropped again. Only her feet showed above the lip of the wall. Darville jerked his head away from the witch. His desperate move dislodged the crown further.

  “Krej can’t save you. He is the victim of backlash,” Zolltarn gloated from the head of the stairs.

  “Traitor!” she hissed at the Rover. “You have betrayed the coven.”

  “No, Janataea,” Darville interrupted. “You have betrayed everyone, including yourself.” He pressed his sword point a little deeper. Blood trickled from the nick in the witch’s neck.