The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

“I’m an engineer. Given a few days of tearing that thing apart, I might be able to tell you how it works, but to fly it is something else entirely.”

  “That woman landed it. She must have if the pilot is dead. If Powwell and I can access her mind . . .”

  Powwell pushed past them and climbed the two steps that folded out of the machine’s portal.

  “Powwell!” Yaala protested. “The plague.”

  “Don’t worry, Yaala. I should be immune. The Tambootie in my system from the old days is supposed to protect me from any number of ailments.” He turned and grinned at her.

  Somehow his reassurance fell flat as he muttered, “If Old Lyman’s books are accurate.”

  “Of course my books are accurate,” the old man returned indignantly. “Let’s see if King Kinnsell is truly dead, or if you can help him. I’ll gladly read his mind while he’s still unconscious and undefended. He has much to answer for, bringing the plague, sabotaging King Quinnault’s authority. . . .” Muttering further descriptions of Kinnsell’s crimes, Lyman disappeared into the machine’s interior. Maia continued to stand in the doorway, wringing her hands.

  A ripple of disturbance in the crowd revealed the presence of Piedro and his Rover guards, six of them. They surged toward Maia. An evil grin split Piedro’s face.

  “At last, lovely lady, you return to us.” Piedro reached up a hand to help Maia descend, as if she were returning royalty instead of the mistress of their former leader—Piedro’s now dead rival. “Our group mind has been lacking since your departure. You must have much to tell us.”

  “Don’t even think about moving,” Yaala commanded, stepping up beside Piedro. “I won’t let you spread that disease to my city!”

  “The Kaalipha! Yaassima’s daughter, our true Kaalipha!” the people shouted, surging forward dangerously close to the machine and the plague.

  Piedro dropped Maia’s hand and stared openmouthed at Yaala. His surprise lasted only a moment.

  “Seize her, she’s one of the traitors!” he screamed. “I thought we left you dead in the pit,” he hissed more quietly.

  “Long live the Kaalipha returned from the dead!” the people screamed hysterically. The ones closest pushed and jostled, trying to touch Yaala.

  “Open the gates to the city, Kaalipha.”

  “Save us, Kaalipha.”

  “Feed us, Kaalipha.”

  They shoved and pushed uncontrollably, separating Yaala from proximity with the Rovers. The steps of the machine dug sharply into her legs. She wanted to run back into the protection and the silence of the pit.

  All these people, pushing and demanding her attention. All these people shouting at her, robbing her of her privacy. She couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe.

  She stumbled against the steps, clutching at the sides of the portal. Air left her lungs. The bitter taste of the plague filled her mouth.

  Midafternoon, home of Myrilandel, Ambassador from the Nimbus of Dragons, Coronnan City

  “Did you hear the row Scarface just had with the king?” Luucian, a journeyman healer Bessel knew slightly from the old days before dragon magic, rushed into Myrilandel’s kitchen. He clutched a pile of greenery against his chest. His breath came in excited gasps.

  “I do not indulge in gossip,” Bessel said calmly to cover his anxiety. Scarface had been dismissed as chief adviser to the king. His anger could lash out at any moment in any form, catching them all in the backlash.

  “But you heard, you were eavesdropping at the servants’ door!” Luucian prodded. He dumped his trove of plants on the worktable in the center of the kitchen.

  “The kettle is about to boil, there’s cheese in the cold cellar, and bread in the pantry. They’ll all want nourishment when they’re done with the master. Can you handle it?” Bessel marched from his listening post to the outside door.

  “Wait a minute, Bessel, where are you going? Didn’t you hear that Scarface is out? He’s no longer Senior Magician, so you can return to the University. Don’t you want to stick around and make sure they,” Luucian nodded his head toward the interior of the house where master magicians hovered, “remember you are Senior Journeyman, almost ready for elevation to Master status? Promotion is as much politics as merit. You need to keep your face in front of as many masters as possible to get your final quest.”

  “None of that will matter if Scarface decides to retaliate. Cover for me.”

  Mopsie pawed at the door, as eager to be gone as Bessel. He whined and yipped anxiously.

  “But I’ve got orders to help Queen Katie prepare the Fairy Bells into a drug instead of pure poison. I need to know how to do it. You fix the food. I need knowledge to earn my promotion.”

  “You can handle both, Luucian, I have confidence in you.” Bessel didn’t wait any longer. He had to follow Scarface now, before he destroyed everything dear to the Commune, and to Coronnan.

  Yet he wished he could share the communion of magic with the other magicians one more time—with or without Scarface.

  A crowd had gathered in front of Myrilandel’s home, the dragon embassy, attracted by the presence of the royal couple and their entourage. Bessel slipped through their ranks, keeping his face averted.

  His best and safest route lay in anonymity.

  Bessel caught sight of Scarface forcing his way through the crowd like a ship plowing through heavy waves with the wind coming from a cross quarter. The anxious people made way for the Senior Magician with only nominal nods of their heads in respect for his rank, not for the man.

  Curious. Last year he had been hailed as a hero and welcomed in the city. Now the populace merely tolerated him.

  Scarface passed the Rossemeyerian Embassy. A black-clad mercenary still stood vigil on the front stoop. A blood-red banner drooped above his head, limp from the damp river air. Bessel held his breath as he followed the Senior Magician’s path. He willed Mopsie to make himself invisible in the crowd. The assassin had seen the dog with Bessel and might look beyond the common fisherman’s clothes to find the man blamed for the death of Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse.

  But the mercenary looked right past Bessel toward Nimbulan’s and Myrilandel’s house, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other hand fingering some unseen weapon beneath his voluminous robes.

  Bessel looked directly at the mercenary. No recognition flickered on the man’s face. Bessel smiled to himself. For once he faded into the background when he really wanted to. Had his ordeal in the river settled the skill in his bones as the trial by Tambootie smoke settled a magician’s talent?

  Once past Embassy Row, Scarface began weaving his hands in a complicated gesture. Bessel recognized the movement before he sensed the spell that followed. The Senior Magician summoned the Commune to attend him in the tower room. The order contained a subtle, but illegal, compulsion to obey. Only rogue magic could power a compulsion!

  In a flash of insight, Bessel knew that this was the spell Scarface had been working yesterday during the storm. The Senior Magician had to tap a ley line in order to compel people to obey him. That was why he’d noticed when Bessel also tapped a ley line.

  Bessel erected his armor before Scarface finished the spell. No sense in taking a chance it might work past his natural barriers. He intended to follow Scarface unseen and counter the Senior Magician’s plans with any magic available to him.

  They neared the open courtyard in front of the University. Bessel ducked into the shadows beneath the last bridge. In his mind he envisioned the dark depths blending with a river fog. He saw no differences in the patterns of light and shadow with his physical eyes, but the apprentices and masters who obeyed Scarface’s summons looked right at him without paying him any mind. Even the pesky newcomers who had more curiosity than sense ignored him.

  Only Wind-drift looked his way. But he did not linger and did not inform any of the others of Bessel’s presence.

  For a brief moment, as their eyes locked, Bessel knew the tremendous joy of communal magic at work. Bessel broke
the contact, knowing he could not continue within the Commune. Wind-drift shook his head sadly and returned to the summons.

  Bessel’s heart ached at the separation.

  He reasserted the shadows that hid him. He didn’t question the source of the energy that fueled his trick. Scarface had exiled him from the Commune. His oath to use only dragon magic had lost validity with that exile. He still served his Commune, Coronnan, and King Quinnault, but he would do so by whatever means he found available against a man who intended to destroy the delicate balance of King, Commune, and Coronnan.

  How? What form would Scarface’s retaliation take?

  Witchlight glowed from the stained-glass windows in the tower room. Bridge traffic in and out of the University ceased. Bessel crept out of his hiding place, keeping the shadows and mist draped around him like a cloak.

  He entered through the library. The slightly musty smell of old books, ink, and parchment reached out to welcome him. He drew the comforting scent deep into his lungs, cherishing his return to the familiar sanctuary of learning.

  But he didn’t have time to linger here in the great room he’d always thought of as home. Silently he crept up the stairs to the tower room. The stone steps muffled his footsteps. His spell of invisibility muffled the shouts coming from the private enclave of the master magicians. Nothing could block out the intense sound altogether.

  “The plague is upon us, masters, apprentices, and journeymen,” Scarface intoned, as if preaching to a multitude. “The Tambootie is the only cure to this insidious disease. The Tambootie is reserved for dragons and magicians. If we allow the king to harvest enough of the tree of magic to eradicate the seeds of the plague, there will be none left for the dragons to eat or for the Commune to provide the trial by Tambootie smoke for our apprentices as they approach manhood and promotion to journeyman.”

  A murmur of protest broke out, mostly young voices, probably the apprentices who saw this as a threat to their careers as magicians.

  “If the dragons die or desert Coronnan because we allow the destruction of the Tambootie, then we will have no communal magic to bind this kingdom together. We will have to resort to solitary magic and the chaos it brings.” Scarface’s authoritative tones allowed for no challenge.

  But one master spoke up. Bessel thought it might be Saber Cat, one of the former Battlemages turned mercenary who had escaped from Hanassa shortly after Nimbulan and Scarface had last year. He had very prominent canine teeth that stuck out from his upper lip like the predatory cat’s. “Master Aaddler, if we do not allow the Tambootie to be harvested and distilled into the remedy for this plague, then we will die too.”

  “No, we won’t,” Scarface countered. “The trial by Tambootie smoke makes us immune. We magicians can survive and use our communal magic to heal those who are worthy of healing without the loss of the precious tree of magic.”

  “What about the apprentices?” another master asked. Bessel couldn’t discern which one.

  “I order all of them to undergo an abbreviated Tambootie smoke ritual immediately. By tomorrow morning at dawn they will be ready to assist us in the greater task of preserving the Tambootie.”

  Bessel sensed the compulsion oozing out of Scarface. Instinctively, he drew on a ley line to refuel his armor before he believed the logic behind the master magician’s words.

  “How do we save the Tambootie?” many voices asked.

  “We must destroy the knowledge that Tambootie is the only cure.”

  A chill ran down Bessel’s spine.

  “What great magic do you plan, Master Scarface?” Saber Cat asked without hesitation or reservation.

  “Wait and see. At dawn we will undertake this great task that will save us.”

  Bessel drew on every morsel of power he could reach in order to penetrate Scarface’s thoughts.

  All of the dangerous books in the library will be burned in the central courtyard, above the source of illegal rogue magic. I must control that knowledge to protect myself and the Commune from my enemies. Quinnault, Nimbulan, the Rovers, they all want to kill me because I will not be their tool. I must destroy the knowledge that will give them the power to kill me. Knowledge of solitary magic, Rovers, subverting familiars, and dragon secrets must die forever in the cleansing flames. Then and only then will I be safe.

  Chapter 41

  Afternoon, city of Hanassa

  “Don’t you dare get sick on me, Yaala. I’ll give you up to Rollett, but I’ll be damned if I give you up to the plague,” Powwell said, dragging her free of the pressing crowd and their incessant demands.

  “You can’t heal both Yaala and the queen’s father,” Lyman reminded him. “You have already exhausted your magic talent. I’m surprised you are still walking.”

  “I’ll survive. But we have to know how to fly this thing to get us out of here. Once we are free, we can dose Yaala with Tambootie. Her dragon heritage should protect her from the toxins in the raw leaves.” Powwell brushed the hair out of Yaala’s eyes. “You’ll be all right, sweetheart. I promise.”

  “Kinnsell lives?” she asked, looking at the supine figure on the floor.

  “Barely. I know I can keep him alive a little longer, but I’m not sure I can cure him. He’s pretty far gone.” Powwell shook his head sadly.

  “I’ll check out the controls.” Yaala touched Powwell’s face briefly, affectionately. “You will always be my best friend, Powwell. I trust you.”

  Brave words from the woman who trusted machines more than people.

  Just then, Rollett dove into the shuttle headfirst. He landed awkwardly on the floor. “Shut the door!” That mob is getting angrier by the minute.”

  Lyman fussed with a series of buttons set beside the door until it whooshed shut. Maia remained outside with her Rover clan.

  “They’re insane,” Rollett muttered as the closing door muffled the noise. “Maia is telling Piedro that Rovers must start adding the Tambootie to their food to offset the plague. She’s planning recipes spiced with timboor—the berries for Stargods’ sake—the most toxic part of the entire tree. She’ll kill them all.”

  “They’re all magicians,” Powwell said. “They’ll give each other immunity from the Tambootie through their strange magic.”

  The muffled shouts of the mob outside continued to filter into the much quieter machine.

  “What about the rest of them out there?” Yaala asked. She thrust out her chin, challenging her companions to give her a solution. “Not everyone in Hanassa is a Rover or a magician. A lot of people will die from the plague unless we do something to help.”

  “Rollett, go forward with Yaala,” Powwell said. “Keep her there while I do this.”

  “You give orders as if you expect to be obeyed. You’ve grown up, Powwell.” Rollett eyed him curiously.

  “That happens when you’ve killed your sister and undertaken your only option for escape, which may just kill us all.” Powwell turned his back on the other two magicians. He sought a pulse in the neck of the desperately ill man. A feeble flutter told him the man’s heart continued to beat—irregularly.

  Decisively, before his fears could stop him, Powwell sat crossed-legged beside Kinnsell. When he was comfortable, he took three deep breaths to trigger a trance. His focus narrowed to himself and Kinnsell. The edges of his vision darkened. His head lightened as if he floated toward the void.

  He removed a sheaf of pages torn from one of Lyman’s precious books back home and studied them a moment. When he had the ritual memorized, he took one of Thorny’s dried spines from his pocket. He examined it closely for the sharpest point. Thorny hunched and protested inside Powwell’s pocket. The little hedgehog crawled out of the protective hiding place, digging his claws into Powwell. His gibbering insisted that Powwell stop.

  Powwell ignored the advice of his familiar and stabbed his palm deeply, ripping his palm open in a jagged slash with the spine. He squeezed the edges of the wound until it bled freely. He repeated the procedure with Kinnsell�
�s limp hand.

  Thorny jumped off Powwell’s lap and scurried away.

  “No, Powwell! You can’t do this. You don’t know for sure it will work. Thorny is frightened. Listen to your familiar.” Yaala launched herself onto his back, jerking his bloody palm away from contact with Kinnsell.

  “I said, keep her up front and don’t interfere,” Powwell barked.

  “I can’t let you kill yourself, Powwell. We’ll find another way out of Hanassa.” Yaala kicked at Rollett as he dragged her away from Powwell.

  “I have to do this, Yaala. It’s the only way. Comfort Thorny. He likes you.”

  “But . . .” Her protests died on a sob.

  Powwell took three more deep breaths to bring himself completely into his trance. His vision narrowed again. His hand glowed, the blood taking on a luminescence like a ruby in the sunlight. Or a red-tipped dragon soaring across the Great Bay. The void beckoned Powwell to soar with dragons in the vast nothingness between the planes of existence.

  He resisted the urge to flee into the blackness and away from his task. Stinging pain in his hand signaled a weakening of his magic and his resolve.

  The aura of power shining around his self-inflicted wound extended to Kinnsell’s hand. The king’s blood didn’t shine or reflect light, a sure sign of the advancing disease.

  Resolutely, Powwell placed his palm atop Kinnsell’s, aligning the wounds perfectly. Lacking a silk scarf to bind the two hands together he signaled Lyman to wrap his old-fashioned sash belt around them. The moment the cool blue fabric touched his skin, he knew it to be silk. Leave it to Lyman’s antique wardrobe to cover all contingencies.

  “My blood to your blood,” Powwell recited the litany of healing he’d stolen from the library. Behind his eyes he

  “saw” his blood mingling with his patient’s. He pushed the residual Tambootie in his blood to the surface, forcing the essence of the tree to flow into Kinnsell.

  “My skin becomes your skin.” His entire hand burned with the binding.