The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  Marnak was right; they would die martyrs. Without leaders within the Council of Provinces, the cult would fade for a while . . . until some other power-hungry fanatic rose among their ranks. Whoever truly directed the cult would not remain in secret isolation long.

  “What about me, Your Grace? I had nothing to do with the conspiracy.” Marnak the Younger tugged at Darville’s sleeve.

  The king stared at the offending hand clutching the black silk of his shirt until the young lord removed it. “We will discuss your situation after the trial. If you are not guilty of aiding an attempt to put me aside in favor of Jonnias or any other potential leader, then you have nothing to fear.”

  Marnak blanched and bowed as he stepped hastily away.

  Chapter 21

  Jaylor sat before a fire at the far edge of Brevelan’s clearing. Years before he had cast a summoning spell from this very spot. Then he had held a multicolored cat in his arms. Mica’s rhythmic purr had aided his concentration in guiding the tiny flame through the glass toward his mentor, Baamin, in the University of Magicians. Tonight he held a feisty tabby with a torn ear who was just a cat. No princess with magic in her soul had borrowed this cat body.

  The purring tom dug his claws into Jaylor’s thigh, bringing him back to the important task of stroking fur in rhythm with his breathing.

  Mica had often done the same when she had aided his spells. For all of her human intelligence, Mica had adapted to her cat body and instincts very well. Rosse, the cat who had inherited the princess’ body, hadn’t been quite so adaptable.

  And now the two spirits were joined in Rossemikka’s human body.

  He sighed, still missing Darville. The necessary silence between them had gone on much longer than either had expected. Margit’s reports of the king’s and queen’s daily activities didn’t feel the same as speaking directly with his best friend.

  Enough speculation on the politics. Jaylor had news for his two journeymen. Yaakke was alive! The ball of witchlight had left a magic trace in the same direction Marcus and Robb had taken. He must contact the boys tonight, before they slipped around the armies guarding the pass and entered SeLenicca.

  Jaylor had a feeling that his former apprentice was in trouble. Otherwise he wouldn’t have sent such an unorthodox message after three years of silence.

  I am Yaakke and I am alive.

  Alive but not well; not returning; not capable of sending a normal summons spell.

  Jaylor added another branch to the fire, to keep it going for the duration of the spell. As the flames caught, he breathed deeply, once, twice, thrice. The void beckoned him. He ignored the enticement of sending himself instead of his thoughts into the spell.

  His trance settled comfortably on his mind and body. Cat purred and kneaded dough on the fabric of his trews. The flames grew larger, more animate in his mind’s eye. A hand that might have been his, but seemed unattached to an arm, brought a large glass into view. The gold rim of the precious tool sparkled in the firelight. The images seen through the magnification grew even larger.

  Carefully, Jaylor plucked one particularly lively flame from its greedy feeding on the wood. A thought melded the flame into the spells surrounding the glass. Then a gentle nudge and the flame surged outward, seeking. Seeking another flame hovering within a glass.

  Down the foothills, through the forest and across rich farmland the flame traveled. Southward toward mountains. Mountains that were once rich in ore and covered in trees but were now barren and mined out. The flame traveled along blue lines of magical power. The magic trapped within the planet gave speed and ease to the journey.

  At the mundane border, the flame hesitated. All of the blue lines ended abruptly—burned out centuries ago. The spark hovered, looking south and north, looking west and east. It wanted to retreat, back along the magic lines. Jaylor pushed it forward. The flame sputtered and tried to die.

  Sweat broke out on Jaylor’s physical body while his mind guided and fed the flame. Another bit of fire. He urged the traveling spark of his spell to seek another flame, any flame to renew itself.

  He cast his senses farther, in all directions. No presence touched him with magic. No living person lived within a league of the spot where the flame flickered and tried once more to die.

  Impossible. Last night Marcus and Robb had been camped on this particular ley line. Surely they couldn’t have traveled farther in one day. Even if they had ridden fleet steeds, they should be within sensing distance of this summons.

  He tried another direction. Hundreds of campfires dotted the landscape, separated by an invisible line. The front. Two armies faced each other in silent impasse. The flame brightened as it neared others of its kind. None of them were magnified by a glass, or a bowl of water, or a ball of witchlight. The flame flickered and hesitated.

  Jaylor’s body sagged, drained of strength. Hastily he pulled the flame back into his glass. He couldn’t allow the spell to leave a telltale that could be traced back to him, should a magician from either army discover any residual power. The secret location of Brevelan’s clearing must remain secret.

  Robb and Marcus knew how to find the clearing and the sprawling buildings of the University just beyond.

  Jaylor sent the flame seeking for a presence again. Nothing. What if the young men had been kidnapped or conscripted into one of the armies? Rovers or solitary rogues could overpower the two young men, not yet fully grown into their powers. Armor was easy to erect around magical minds. An adept rogue would know the boys were in touch with their master and would shield against future communication.

  Jaylor looked closer for an absence. Sometimes the easiest way to find a person was to find the nothing they hid within.

  The flame found vast acres of hills and river valleys, some lush, some barren. It skimmed around scrubby bushes and dipped into burned-out and charred power lines. Across and back it flew, still seeking. Together in spirit, the flame and Jaylor crisscrossed every inch of land within a dozen leagues of Marcus and Robb’s last known camping spot.

  The landscape was as it should be. There were no holes and no lives. The military encampment sheltered, among the soldiers of Coronnan, several latent talents who didn’t respond to the whisper of the flame. Nor did the powerful magicians on the western side of the pass understand the address of the summons. Marcus and Robb had vanished, as if they had never been.

  They had to have been kidnapped. By whom and how? Not just anyone could make two magicians disappear beyond the reach of the Senior Magician of the Commune. That someone was an enemy to be reckoned with.

  How much coercion could the two journeymen endure before they revealed every secret they knew? Including Queen Mikka’s magical talent. Secrets that could be sold to a frightened Council of Provinces and the remnants of the Gnul conspiracy.

  With sickening abruptness, Jaylor dropped back into his body from his trance. No time now to cater to a bouncing stomach and reeling vision.

  “I’ve got to hide Brevelan and the boys. We aren’t safe here anymore.”

  Marcus and Robb! Jaylor choked a moment in grief. He was Master now. The safety and well-being of those two boys fell on his shoulders. He’d sent them on their quest too soon. Just as he had with Yaakke. None of them were ready for the responsibilities and rigors of a quest.

  He rose to his knees and doused the campfire with dirt. He didn’t have time for regret and sorrow. More lives than two journeymen who knew the risks were at stake.

  “What have I done to you? Lost. Yaakke, Marcus, Robb. All lost.” He sent a silent prayer for their safety even as he ran the length of the clearing to begin the work of moving his family and his University where no one could find them.

  As Jack led Lanciar and Fraank down the far side of the pass, the wind died and the sun broke free of the early morning cloud cover. Corby squawked and sprang from his perch on Jack’s shoulder into the air, flapping his wings noisily. His tail rose convulsively and let drop a smelly white blob, inches from Jack�
�s boot.

  “Filthy bird!” He stumbled slightly as he hopped to avoid the splatter.

  “Crawk!” The bird answered back crankily.

  “You’re so ornery maybe I should call you Baamin,” Jack mused.

  “Newak,” the bird gave a negative reply, almost indignantly. “Corby, Corby, Corby.” He resumed his flight path and quickly gained enough altitude to catch a rising current of warm air. Gliding effortlessly, he soared in lazy circles above their heads.

  For a moment, Jack envied the bird its freedom. If he could fly like that, he’d be over Shayla’s lair in a matter of hours instead of the week he estimated the journey would take. Maybe longer if Fraank’s breathing didn’t improve.

  Lanciar didn’t look too healthy this morning either. His first foray into the realm of magic had left him limp and drained, too tired to eat. Without food he’d never replenish the energy that magic depleted. The dry journey rations in their packs were unappetizing on a healthy stomach. Maybe the mountain village just below the pass would feed them, give them warm shelter for a night or two.

  Fresh meat. Milk full of rich cream. Bread hot from the oven. Jack’s mouth watered and he lengthened his stride in anticipation.

  Ten more steps, around a boulder and under an overhang, brought him to a point where he could see far out across the lower slopes of the mountain range. Hill after barren hill rolled out in a wide vista. Pockets of morning mist clung to the valleys. A few small and isolated trees struggled toward sunlight in inaccessible ravines.

  And not a rooftop in sight.

  Jack looked up at the circling jackdaw, trying to peer through the bird’s eyes as he had once before.

  “Croawk!” The cranky bird chose that moment to slip into a new updraft and out of sight behind the boulders.

  Jack’s probe went astray. “Dragon dung! How are you supposed to become my familiar if you won’t stick around long enough to be familiar?” He shook his fist at the last place he saw the bird. Corby didn’t return.

  “Where’s the village?” Lanciar asked. His eyes looked hollow and his cheeks gaunt. He nibbled on a piece of dry meat, but not fast enough to feed his fading reserves of strength. None of the pockets of ley lines seemed to have revived in this area to support the use of magic and restore a body’s reserves.

  And yet a vibration hung in the air, almost like a Song. He listened closer, and the sensation faded like a perfume dissipating in the wind.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.” Jack stomped forward looking for the jagged line of two dozen homes that were here last night. Both he and Lanciar had seen the village during their mystic journey. The bird had revealed the location to him earlier in the day.

  “Villages don’t just up and move overnight,” Lanciar protested.

  “Ley lines don’t either. They’re gone, too.” Jack scratched the dirt with the toe of his worn boot. “We haven’t time to puzzle this out. We need food and shelter. This was once heavy timber country. Where there was one village there ought to be another not far away.” He shifted the pack on his back to a more comfortable position.

  “There’s a river valley.” Lanciar pointed west by northwest. “The harvesters used to float the trees down the rivers to Queen’s City and other ports. Maybe we’ll find something that way.”

  “I prefer that path.” Jack pointed to a different valley farther south. Mistrust of everything Lanciar suggested rose in him like a creeping poison. There weren’t supposed to be any ley lines in SeLenicca. None at all. But a slender one tingling with raw power suddenly sprang up beneath his feet, begging him to tap into it.

  He didn’t trust the line either. It could be an illusion. It could be a dragon-dream. He could be wrong in all his perceptions.

  “The dragon is that way.” Jack stepped toward his chosen path.

  “But we’ll find food to the west. We need to replenish our supplies,” Lanciar protested.

  “Then we’ll hunt.” Jack began walking. Fraank followed silently in his wake, too tired and hungry to make a decision on his own.

  “Hunting takes time and energy.” Lanciar stood firmly in place.

  “So does lying and betrayal. How many of King Simeon’s agents are waiting in that valley, ready to pounce on us and drag us to Queen’s City in chains, or back to the mine?” Jack didn’t bother looking at either of his companions. He expected them to follow; Fraank because he couldn’t do anything else, Lanciar because his mission was incomplete without a magician to turn over to Simeon and the coven.

  “I have to go this way!” Lanciar took a step in the opposite direction.

  “Then you go alone.” Jack turned his back with a hastily erected wall of armor around himself and Fraank.

  Katrina knelt before the little side altar in the grand temple. Her hands folded in front of her, and head bowed, she hoped the crowd of petitioners in the main sanctuary believed her lost in prayer. Like so many in the capital.

  Queen Miranda still lay deep in a coma. Her citizens trooped into the temples daily to plead with the Stargods for a return of their monarch’s health.

  Isolated in the factory, with little free time or opportunity to travel outside the industrial district, Katrina hadn’t realized how neglected the temple had become in the last five years.

  The belief that SeLenicca was the land of the Chosen, theirs to exploit, was falling apart as the mines gave out and the timber did not regrow. King Simeon preached that the duty of all true-blood SeLenese was to conquer other lands, grabbing resources as they went and leaving behind everlasting evidence of the supremacy of the winged god, Simurgh.

  Since Simeon’s marriage to Miranda, attendance at the temples and contributions had fallen to mere pittances. Mortar crumbled and mold grew on the walls. The few priests left were ancient. They trembled with cold and nursed painfully swollen joints. Like the bent old man who shuffled behind the altar where Katrina knelt. His hands were so misshapen from the joint disease, he could barely hold his taper steady enough to renew the candles.

  Worship of the Stargods hadn’t been forbidden, but it had definitely fallen into disfavor. Until their beloved queen lay near death and her husband had named himself monarch. Not regent for the young princess, but ruling king.

  Katrina wasn’t the only one who had seen the magical bolt of blue fire that caused Miranda’s steed to rear and bolt. All who had seen knew who had launched it. No one dared accuse the king, or the king’s black-haired, outland mistress. Such an accusation was an invitation to a torturously long death. Iza had returned to the lace factory from Simeon’s dungeons, with numerous bruises but no broken bones. Her mind drifted aimlessly and she spoke no more. She still wound bobbins and straightened pins, the chores of a lifetime not easily forgotten.

  Surprisingly, Brunix continued to allow her to live in the dormitory despite her growing clumsiness.

  The populace returned to their neglected temples with apologies and prayers and offerings. The Stargods were benevolent. Simurgh would not restore their queen and depose the bloodthirsty king. The Stargods might.

  New candles on the altar cast flickering shadows on the walls of this tiny and nearly forgotten chapel. The geometric shapes, carved into the stone, faded in and out of visibility with each shift of the light. Katrina peered at them until her eyes burned.

  The motifs in the lace shawl’s flower centers were the same runes that decorated this wall, variations of the limited ledger language. She’d studied the lace shawl often enough to know the symbols by heart. Three runes out of the hundred displayed resembled the words for illegal trade; none of the others were familiar.

  What did they mean? No one understood this ancient language anymore. Tattia Kaantille must have known something of it, or she wouldn’t have included the runes in the shawl. A message or merely an unusual twist in the design?

  Surely not the latter. The runes were interesting and in a different motif could have been lovely. The flowers surrounding the runes were too soft and flowing to suppor
t the hard angles and straight lines of this forgotten alphabet.

  An ancient priest wheezed as he slipped out from behind the little altar. He wobbled past Katrina to replace the sputtering candles on the stand at the opening to the chapel. His threadbare robes had once been fiery green, but the dyes had faded with time and too many washings to muddy brown.

  “Excuse me, good sir,” Katrina whispered to the priest. “Do you know anything of these runes?”

  “Eh?” He bent toward her, cupping an ear with his hand.

  “The runes.” She pointed to the chiseled markings. “Do you know what they say?” She raised her voice a little. Hope of a discreet inquiry and quick answer faded.

  The old priest turned to face the wall, peered at the ancient writing, and shook his head. Then he bent closer, holding his lighted taper right up against the markings.

  Sigils flared bright red against black stone as if gathering life from the flame. Seemingly random nines in a distinctive geometric pattern leaped away from the wall burning their image into Katrina’s mind. The same symbols, in the same order as the ones Tattia used.

  Katrina’s eyes widened in surprise and excitement. The old priest backed away from the wall shaking his head. “I’m sorry, daughter. I can’t see well enough anymore to read this wall.”

  “But you know something of the ancient alphabet, perhaps something of the old prophecy? Did you read the wall for my mother three years ago?” She rose in her eagerness to get to the bottom of this puzzle.

  “Knowledge of the runes has been forgotten by most. Best you spend your time and energy praying for the queen.” The priest wandered off again.

  “Maybe the knowledge has been forgotten, but you read the wall, old man. I’ll find the truth yet.” She turned to follow, eager to pursue her questions in a more private place.

  “A word, Mistress Kaantille?” A stranger restrained her with a whisper.

  She knew that voice! The man who had offered her freedom for the shawl. The shawl had a message. For this man or another?