The images faded and something alive and wonderful died within Yaakke. One of Shayla’s babies hadn’t survived that spell. When freed of the magic prison, the dragon’s anger over Krej’s betrayal of the pact between Coronnan and the dragon nimbus caused her to fly away, leaving magic chaos in her wake.
Now it was up to Yaakke to find her again and restore the controls that existed only in dragon magic. Those controls would also end his own magic career. Because he couldn’t gather dragon magic, the Commune would exile him or dose him with witchbane.
The blue-tipped male dragon had asked for a meeting in the very cave where Krej had worked his evil. Could he provide clues to Shayla’s location?
Solid ground rocked Yaakke’s body and jarred his teeth. Slowly he opened one eye. Did he have an eye to open, or was that an illusion of the void?
Morning light, slanting through the thick forest pierced his vision. By contrast to the emptiness of the void, the watery sun trying to break through the clouds and fog seemed blindingly bright. Cautiously, he checked around him.
The clearing! Familiar, homey, isolated. He gulped the fresh mountain air filled with the clean and natural scents of trees and ferns, of animals and life. Real scents and sounds, not the dulled echoes of memories tangled together in the void.
“Late. Ye’r late,” a jackdaw’s mocking greeted him from the bird’s perch atop the hut’s roof. White tufts of feathers above his eyes waggled in stern disapproval.
“Shut up, you stupid bird. How’d you get here so fast?” He’d given up questioning why Corby was so intent upon following him.
Yaakke’s stomach growled. The tiny discomfort was a wonderful reminder that he lived. He reached for the journey rations in his pack. Gone. His pack hadn’t survived the transport. Memory of the innkeeper’s frantic search for something to sell so he could pay his taxes flashed before Yaakke’s mind. The sour taste returned to his mouth. Had he been responsible?
Food first. Think later.
Before leaving for the coronation, Brevelan had stashed a sack of oats by the hearth. The flusterhens would probably have laid some eggs in the coop. The goat would need milking. Enough to fill him up once he started a cooking fire.
His stomach growled and roiled at the same time. He was so hungry he almost fainted; so hungry the thought of food sickened him.
How long had he been in the void anyway? A day, a week, a year?
“Stargods, I hope the dragon waits for me. I can’t afford to lose any more time.” He thought about transporting up to the lair. Brevelan’s copper life force had left an indelible memory of the cave in his mind to direct the spell.
Coils of colored lives, and one shimmering white one, enticed him back into the void, invited him to linger and learn.
“Ye’r late! Late, late, late,” Corby reminded him again.
“I’ll be later yet if I don’t get something to eat,” Yaakke protested. The blue-tipped dragon was right. Yaakke had used the transport spell once too often. Next time he might not have the will to leave the void.
“I’m still hungry!” Hilza whined, her voice little more than a whisper.
“We’re all hungry,” Katrina tried to soothe her sister. Was there any way to ease the pangs that gnawed at her belly? Two weeks of anxious waiting for the ship while bankers hounded P’pa for repayment of their investment; then two more weeks of small, meatless meals as P’pa scrambled for every coin he could gather to repay the bankers lest they send him to prison.
“Just try to think of something else, baby.” P’pa looked at his plate as if by a miracle he’d left a tidbit to give Hilza. Flesh had fallen from his face since the day his ship hadn’t sailed into port on time.
“Don’t coddle the child,” M’ma pouted. “She’s old enough to learn that we are all paying for your mistake, Fraanken.” M’ma’s face was still full and bright. Only P’pa made the effort to give some of his share to his children.
“There is still time, Tattia. The ship may have been delayed by storms,” P’pa protested.
“Tell that to the bankers and King Simeon!” M’ma screamed.
Hilza wailed in fright. Katrina choked back her own fear. Fear that tomorrow there would be no food on the table. Cold and upset, she reached over and pulled her youngest sister into her lap. Every meal lately ended with someone in tears. At least Maaben had the sense to spend her afternoons with Tante Syllia and Oncle Yon so she would be invited to stay for dinner. P’pa’s brother and sister-in-law were childless and doted on Maaben, but had no time for studious Katrina or timid little Hilza.
“I’ve tried and tried for an audience with His Majesty,” P’pa explained. “He won’t see me. He won’t admit that he ordered me to invest in that ship or that he has already borrowed and spent his share of the profits. Profits that will never be. He won’t accept any part of the blame.” P’pa seemed to shrink within his altered robes.
Yesterday, Katrina had cut all the costly embroidery from her father’s clothing and reshaped the fabric for him. The ornaments had been sold to buy tonight’s meager supper of rice and stale bread. The price of the food equaled what a full banquet would have cost six moons ago.
“If the ship doesn’t come tomorrow, the day after at the latest, we’ll have to sell Katrina’s patterns,” M’ma pronounced. “Without the patterns to work, we might as well sell the pillow and bobbins, too. She’ll never be accepted into the palace school without her own patterns. Do you want to be responsible for ruining your daughter’s future?”
“Perhaps if you spoke to the queen?” P’pa looked hopefully to his wife.
“The queen dismissed me today and impounded my pillow and patterns.” M’ma dropped her eyes and her voice. “Please, Fraanken, you have to do something before we starve.”
Katrina had never seen her mother so reduced, so helpless. Always, Tattia Kaantille’s talent and experience with lace had placed her above ordinary people, granted her privileges and secured her place in society. Now she was lost. Katrina feared they were all lost as well as hungry.
“What will it take to make the king forgive you, P’pa?” Katrina whispered around the lump in her throat.
“Too much.”
“What, Fraanken?” M’ma raised her head, hope bright in her eyes.
P’pa stood so fast he knocked over his chair. “I will sell myself to the slave ships before I sacrifice any of my daughters to The Simeon’s bloodthirsty god, Simurgh!”
Hilza wailed again in fright and hunger.
Katrina lost all heat from her already shivering body.
Chapter 7
‘This doesn’t seem right, M’ma.” Katrina shuffled her feet on the wooden sidewalk of Royal Avenue. This major thoroughfare ran straight through Queen’s City on a true east-west axis. To the north lay the tall, elegant houses of the merchants. Beyond them on the hillside were the palaces of the nobles. To the south lay the commercial district and warehouses that fronted on the SeLenicca River. M’ma walked toward those warehouses.
“Right doesn’t put food on the table, Katey. With King Simeon’s threat hanging over our heads, we dare not add any more debt, lest he take you and your sisters as sacrifices. Last week he announced that he needs the deaths of all the queen’s prisoners to fuel his next battle spell and win through the pass into Coronnan.” Tattia Kaantille charged ahead on the crowded street. “If I don’t sell this pattern today, we’ll have to sell your patterns and pillow, then next week the house will go. Though the Stargods only know if anyone in SeLenicca has the money to buy it.”
“Sell the house?” That would mean moving outside Queen’s City. The homeless and dispossessed must leave this side of the river after sunset.
In recent months Katrina had watched the south bank of the River Lenicc become a veritable city of tents and hovels in its own right. Large numbers of desperate and destitute people fled there daily from all over SeLenicca as mines and timberlands closed.
Signs of a collapsing economy and the trade embargo
with Coronnan affected Katrina’s family faster than most residents of their neighborhood. No servant walked ahead of Tattia as a symbol of her wealth and favor with the queen. Katrina supposed the cook, the governess, the butler, and scullery maids were now part of the crowds who pressed against her, hands out begging, or attempting to creep into her pockets. There was nothing in her pockets to steal. Indeed the only signs that she and her mother had ever been privileged were the still sturdy black cloth of their skirts and cloaks and the two braids that started at their temples and joined into a single plait at their shoulder blades. Peasant women wore a single braid. Noble women wore three. Only the queen wore four plaits.
“But why must we tell the factory owner I designed the pattern?” Katrina hurried her steps a little so she wouldn’t be separated from her mother by the press of people. They stepped off the sidewalk into a muddy alley.
“Because the queen has forbidden my designs. That’s one of the prices we have to pay for your father’s foolish investment.” Tattia set her lips in a grim line. She scanned the narrow alley for unfriendly elements hiding in the shadows before proceeding farther.
“Do you think the factory owner will buy the pattern? He’ll never believe that I drew it. I’m not even an apprentice—officially,” she hastily added. M’ma had been teaching her at home, pushing her through the apprentice patterns and into journeywoman work faster than the palace normally allowed.
“No, but you are my daughter. We must make these men believe that you have inherited my talents.”
“I’m not sure I can . . . I don’t know enough about lace.” Katrina bit her lip in uncertainty.
“Nonsense, Katrina. This is a simple T’chon pattern that uses twenty pairs of bobbins. I designed it for apprentices. It’s so easy, the factory girls ought to be able to produce leagues of it for export. Just mention symmetry and geometric grids. They’ll believe you. These are businessmen, not lacemakers!”
The alley suddenly narrowed and veered off to the right. Refuse grew thick in the gutter, as if it were some exotic plant with a life of its own. Shops with houses above gave way to warehouses—windowless, bleak, and huge. Empty. The air smelled of fish and garbage. They emerged onto a planked walkway beside the docks.
Katrina stared at the pier where P’pa’s ship was supposed to rest at anchor, hoping for a miracle. If only the black-hulled vessel with red Kaantille sails bumped gently against the dock, all their troubles would be over.
“I don’t like this district, M’ma.” Katrina slipped her hand into her mother’s.
“Who does? But thread has to be kept moist or it becomes brittle and breaks. The best place for a lace factory is near the river. These old warehouses are rotten with damp.”
“I bet the lacemakers are, too.”
“Yes, well, I suppose many of the women suffer from the cold and the damp. It’s necessary. There wouldn’t be any money in SeLenicca at all if we didn’t have lace to export. Stargods only know if there will ever be any timber or enough ore to supply overseas markets again,” Tattia whispered.
“Perhaps if we went to the temple first and prayed, M’ma. Not many people do that now. Maybe the Stargods have time to listen to our prayers.”
“Don’t even think that, child!” M’ma looked around hastily for signs of eavesdroppers. “We’re in enough trouble with King Simeon. We daren’t ask for more by being seen at the temple.”
“But going to temple isn’t forbidden,” Katrina protested. Suddenly she felt an overwhelming need to kneel before an altar and release all of her family’s problems to the Stargods.
“No, prayer in the temple has not been forbidden by the king—yet. But such action earns his extreme displeasure.”
For centuries the people had believed a never-ending supply of resources to exploit was their gift from the Stargods. To nurture and replant the land was blasphemy—denial of SeLenese status as the Chosen.
Now the resources were gone and no one knew how to replace them.
King Simeon preached a new philosophy. The people of SeLenicca were the Chosen of Simurgh, not the Stargods. The ancient bloodthirsty god required feeding for SeLenicca to regain its dominance in world trade and politics. King Simeon said he would get SeLenicca new resources through conquest, not farming or praying. Those who agreed with the king’s religion—at least in public—found favor at court and in the marketplace.
A dark-green wooden door suddenly appeared in the otherwise blank brick wall of a factory. Freshly painted, with shiny brass hardware, the doorway invited business people within. Tattia paused long enough to take a deep breath before turning the doorknob.
Katrina followed her into the murky depths of the entry with heavy feet and a lump in her throat.
“This is necessary,” she muttered to herself. “We have to get enough money to buy food and firewood.”
A tiny bell jingled above them as the door swung shut of its own accord. A man approached them from the open office to their left. Tall and thin, he moved with an odd grace.
Katrina thought anyone that tall and long-limbed should jerk and wobble his way toward them. Dark eyes burned from his gaunt face beneath a fringe of sandy-blond hair. He wore a square beard.
“Outland half-breed!” M’ma hissed through her teeth.
Katrina hoped the man hadn’t heard the insult. Success today depended upon his goodwill.
“We are not hiring today.” The man looked down his nose at them. A long way down.
“I do not seek employment.” M’ma stood tall and straight. Every bit of her artistic superiority added majesty to her posture and highlighted the man’s inferior breeding.
“Then why do you disturb my busy schedule?” The man didn’t back down before M’ma’s glare.
“I wish to discuss a matter of business with the owner.” M’ma sniffed as if the hallway smelled as badly as the gutters outside.
“You do not have an appointment.” The man withdrew two steps. He reached to close the office door with long, slender fingers. Katrina thought his hands ideal for making lace.
“Tell your superior that Tattia Kaantille wishes to speak with him.”
The man’s eyes widened a little at the name then closed to mere slits. “No man, or woman, is my superior, madam. And I am the owner of this establishment. You do not have an appointment.”
The door slammed in their faces.
“Hmf!” M’ma sniffed her disgust. “I’ll have your father track down the true owner of this factory. That ungrateful peasant will be fired for his insolence to us. Everyone knows you can’t trust dark-eyes. They are born stupid and dishonest.”
“You shouldn’t have insulted him, M’ma,” Katrina whispered.
“I don’t want to do business with anyone who hires outland half-breeds.” M’ma marched back up the alley. “No wonder the country is falling to pieces. First the queen marries a foreigner, and now inferiors are allowed positions of authority.”
A few more twists and turns in the back streets brought them to another grim factory. This time the green door wasn’t newly painted and the brass fittings needed a good polish.
The man inside the office was small, wiry, and as filthy as M’ma thought the outlander had been. He bought the design, but only after M’ma had sworn that no one else in the city had it.
“We will try the next two factories. That should give us enough money to last the month.” M’ma smiled brightly as she secreted the coins inside her embroidered vest.
“But, M’ma, you just swore that no one else in the city had the design!” Katrina protested almost as loudly as her empty stomach.
“And no one else does. Yet,” M’ma replied.
“Isn’t that illegal?”
“This is a matter of survival, Katey.”
“Oh, M’ma, this seems so wrong so . . . so dirty. Please, don’t make me come back here.”
“Lord Jonnias?” Rejiia whispered into her father’s glass. “You could depose Darville and rule all of Coronnan i
f you destroyed the Commune. You know where the Commune hides.” That piece of information had come to her with the cost of many spells and the lives of several informers—none of them Jaylor’s spy here in the capital. Now she revealed the secret to Jonnias.
The image of the sleeping lord squirmed within the candle flame behind Rejiia’s glass. The basic summons spell worked better than a compulsion with mundanes, if she spoke to them in their dreams. When they awoke, her words seemed her victim’s own ideas and they didn’t build up resistance to the spell as Rossemikka had to Janataea.
“Take a witch-sniffer, Jonnias. Take him to the ancient monastery in the foothills of the southern mountains.” She waited a moment for that idea to settle in the lord’s mind. “You will need the troops of Marnak the Elder and the Younger plus your own. The wife of the Younger will provide you with a copy of the king’s personal banner to grant you authority. She will demand to go with you. Accede to her wishes.”
The image of Jonnias smiled in his sleep. Pompous and arrogant he might be. But he wasn’t stupid. He knew that Darville and Jaylor had been friends most of their lives.
“Jaylor will blame Darville for the attack when he sees the banner. If he survives the attack, their friendship will be broken. Then they will both be vulnerable.
“You have followers within the new cult. They will make you king if you destroy the Commune.”
“Yes,” Jonnias whispered in his sleep. “Yes.”
Rejiia extinguished the flame, breaking her contact with the odious lord. She allowed herself a moment’s rest before she repeated the summons to Lord Marnak the Elder. The two were easy to manipulate. Their inflated sense of self-importance made them vulnerable to her plans. When their conspiracy failed because they overstepped their abilities to lead, she would abandon them. Until then, they served a purpose.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 71