The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  “Closer to seven,” Ariiell dropped her eyes, feigning embarrassment.

  “We’ve no time to waste, then, do we?” her father stated.

  She cringed away from him, expecting a hard slap, or a burning bruise on her upper arm. When the hurt did not come, she chanced a glance at him. A wry smile tugged at her father’s lips.

  “Stargods, I wish your brothers were half as cunning as you. How often did you have to endure the imbecile in your bed before you arranged to be found?”

  “Only three times.” Mardall, for all of his slow mind and stalled emotional growth, had been a rather considerate lover. More so than some. Mardall wanted to please. Her other lovers—usually within a ritual eight-pointed star of the coven—wanted only their own pleasure and the power of domination. “When I knew for certain that Mardall’s seed had found fertile ground, I deliberately made mistakes in arranging the next tryst.” Ariiell returned her father’s smile. “You’ll be the grandfather of the next king, P’pa. ’Twill be easy enough to arrange a joint regency between you and Lord Andrall.”

  “Tell me, daughter, did you choose to foster with Andrall after your mother died and before I remarried with this in mind?”

  Ariiell smiled at her father, letting him draw his own conclusions. If she allowed him to guess part of the truth, he’d not look further for the entire truth.

  “Lord Andrall and Lady Lynnetta are very kind and trusting. Too bad they have withdrawn from court so often this last year and more.” Ariiell kept her eyes on the floor—she couldn’t see her toes anymore for the bulk of the baby. Let her father think what he liked. She’d never tell him that she had anchored the eight-pointed star in Nunio. She’d never tell him how the coven had arranged for her fosterage and her pregnancy.

  “Everyone knows Andrall retreats to the quiet of the country because his heart has weakened. Too much distress over keeping his nephew safe on the throne.” This time Laislac laughed heartily. “Rumor claims he has not long to live. Perhaps someone can hasten to give truth to the rumor, eh?” He cocked his head and smiled with half his mouth. His eyes glittered with malice and greed.

  Ariiell rearranged her gown to once more draw men’s eyes away from her belly to the more enticing swell of her breasts. Then she draped a filmy veil over her hair and shoulders. The belled fringe fluttered in another off-center illusion. Each step created a delicate chiming of the silver ornaments.

  “We’ll leave for home directly after the ceremony,” Lord Laislac pronounced. “You’ll deliver safely within the confines of our castle. I shall control the time and place of the announcement of the birth.”

  “But, P’pa, won’t our presence be more advantageous at court, where we can watch Darville and his foreign queen, make certain he does not survive long enough to father a child that the queen might carry full term?”

  “We have time. The queen has lost five babes before the fifth month. The last miscarriage nearly killed her. She won’t risk another pregnancy so soon. The servants will pack for you. Come. Your groom awaits you.”

  “Perhaps you are right, P’pa. If Darville witnesses the marriage, he cannot later deny the legitimacy of my child. Best he be born in safety. At court the Gnuls might kill me and the child just to make sure we do not succeed Darville.” She clenched her fist in her gown, praying to Simurgh that her father would remain true to form and immediately counter her wishes.

  “Precisely. Now come along so the servants can get busy packing.”

  “But, P’pa!” She couldn’t allow servants to dismantle her room. They’d find the book beneath the mattress. She had only had time to acquire half the ingredients for the poison she wanted to use. She had not had time to memorize the entire spell and components to recreate it without the book.

  “Stop acting the fool and come, before Andrall changes his mind and takes the imbecile back to Nunio.” Laislac grabbed her arm once more. This time his grip threatened to leave large bruises. “He can do that after the wedding. We won’t need him once he says the vows. I hope Andrall prompts his son correctly. I don’t want any doubts about the legality of the marriage or the birth.”

  Ariiell dropped to her knees. If her father dragged her farther, he’d ruin her gown so that she appeared at the wedding reluctant and disgraced.

  “What now?” he stared down at her, hands on hips. The lines around his mouth clearly showed his need to release his temper.

  “I . . . I lost my balance. The babe . . .” Ariiell heaved herself upright, using the bed as a crutch. With her back to her father, she slipped the precious book from beneath the mattress into a secret pocket within an extra fold of her skirt. She redraped the scarf to further conceal it. The fluttering bells would disguise and distract anyone from looking too closely at any misalignment of her gown.

  Darville would not long survive the birth of her child even if she had to steal the transport spell from Rejiia to return to court.

  Chapter 20

  “You may now kiss the bride,” the red-robed priest intoned. His clean-shaven face showed not a trace of emotion.

  Ariiell stared equally stone-faced straight ahead at the tapestry icon of the Stargods descending upon a cloud of silver flame. The metallic embroidery had been cunningly worked to take on the outline of a dragon in certain lights. The flickering candles on the altar gave her tantalizing glimpses of the magical creatures.

  She wished a dragon would swoop down and whisk away her bridegroom.

  “Go ahead, kiss her, Mardall,” Lord Andrall prompted his son.

  King Darville looked away, his upper lip curled in a feral snarl. He looked as if he’d like to retreat from the dais where he stood beside the priest. Queen Rossemikka was notably missing from the ceremony.

  Mardall blushed slightly as he pursed his lips and leaned vaguely in Ariiell’s direction. She turned her head so that his damp mouth touched only her cheek. At least he didn’t drool. She’d almost cured him of that in the time she was actively trying to get pregnant. One more spell and she thought she’d eliminate the problem.

  Ariiell batted her eyes at the king and tried to look hurt at his rebuff. Inside, she nearly shouted in triumph. The marriage ceremony was complete. Her child legitimate and likely to sit on the throne wearing the Coraurlia as soon as Darville died. The coven had achieved their primary aim: one of their own would be heir to the throne of rich and powerful Coronnan.

  Power! She did this for power. Political power. Magical power. All she had to do was endure until the baby was born strong and healthy.

  The coven would place her at the center of every ritual because of the power and the fulfillment of their dearest and most ancient goal.

  “Toast to the royal couple, Your Grace,” Lord Laislac suggested. He snapped his fingers to summon his steward.

  The servant stepped forward carrying a tray of jewel-encrusted cups and a matching decanter of wine.

  “Ohhh,” Lady Laislac moaned. She wept loudly into her handkerchief.

  “Must we heap hypocrisy upon scandal?” Darville snarled.

  Lord Andrall and his lady both gasped. Lady Lynetta clung to her husband’s arm, chin quivering.

  The bridegroom, Mardall, looked happily around at the marvelous wall paintings and tapestries in the royal chapel.

  Ariiell was getting tired of his lighthearted mood already. Nothing seemed to upset him for more than a moment.

  “Take the wine away,” Darville commanded. “This ceremony may be necessary, but I do not have to like it. There will be no celebration. And there will be no announcements or discussion at court until I decide.”

  “Your Grace, please . . .” Laislac protested.

  “We will see how long you can keep this secret,” Ariiell told herself silently.

  King Darville cocked his head and frowned at her from his position beside the priest. His aunt, Lady Lynnetta, had a similar gesture. With their identical golden-blond hair and golden-brown eyes, they could have been mother and son.

  The king�
��s frown deepened.

  Had he heard her whisper? She doubted it. He and his line were notoriously mundane, with no trace of magic in their blood at all. He couldn’t have learned any listening tricks from Jaylor. They had spent most of their dissolute youth together. But tricks were useless without a magical talent to fuel them.

  And Darville’s queen, who might or might not have magical power, depending upon which rumor you believed, had not graced the ceremony with her presence. A deliberate snub that Ariiell intended to revenge as soon as she became regent for her baby.

  Ariiell smiled at the king, with an expression she hoped beguiled him with innocence. Tradition required him to preside over and bless the marriage since the idiot Mardall was his closest blood relative. Darville needed to appear in accord with the marriage that might produce his heir.

  Rossemikka’s absence kept Ariiell’s hopes and aspirations in a shadowy realm. The marriage was legal, but the royal couple strongly disapproved. She’d have a hard time gaining acceptance at court until she killed Darville.

  Never mind. The king would not long survive the birth of the baby.

  “You all have leave to depart for Laislac Province,” King Darville said. “You still have four or five hours of daylight.”

  “Leave!” Ariiell choked. “Surely, I cannot travel now.” She thrust back her shoulders emphasizing the full extent of her bulging belly.

  “By your parent’s reckoning you can’t be more than four months gone. The best healers in the country tell me you may travel safely,” he insisted, daring her to admit the child had resulted from a long-term affair rather than a single incident.

  Such an admission would put the blame and disgrace on her shoulders and remove Mardall from all responsibility. She couldn’t allow that. She had to appear the victim here to gain the sympathy of the court and the Council of Provinces.

  “But . . . but . . .” She couldn’t think of a single argument against the king’s stern order.

  “Surely you wish your cousin to be born at court, Your Grace,” Lord Andrall argued. “Surely you want the Council of Provinces to acknowledge the legitimacy of the birth. Our country will gain a great deal of stability with this birth and acknowledgment.”

  King Darville looked aghast at Lord Andrall, his most loyal supporter and uncle by marriage. Mardall’s father nodded sadly.

  The king’s jaw firmed and his golden-brown eyes narrowed. Wolf eyes. Ariiell suddenly saw herself reflected in those eyes as a small rabbit, easy prey. She shrank away from him, making certain the book of poisons hidden within the folds and pleats of her gown remained out of sight.

  “The child will be born away from court. If it survives and displays normal intelligence, I will acknowledge it in the line of succession. Bad enough I have to preside over this mockery of a marriage. I will not endure the constant reminder of events that should not have happened. All of you are dismissed.” He turned on his heel and exited through the private door behind the altar.

  A dozen guards appeared at the main door, as if summoned by the king’s departure. “Your sledges and steeds await you in the postern courtyard, my lords,” the sergeant said. “We will escort you beyond the city limits now.” His hand rested easily on his sword.

  Lanciar postponed his trip into the void in search of his son. As a military tactician, he knew that intelligence was more important than troop numbers and superior weapons.

  So he sat outside the tavern day after day, drinking the sour ale until it began to taste good and watching the Rover encampment. Then he drank some more, relishing the soft haze around his vision. For the first time since he’d left Queen’s City in SeLenicca, he did not thirst from his very pores and he did not need to shield his eyes from an overly bright sun.

  Day after day he memorized the movements within the Rover encampment. Day after day he learned the faces of the women and the children, which tent or bardo they inhabited, which man they waited for at the end of the day.

  Always, he counted more women than men in each dwelling. His heart beat faster at the thrill of two or three women in his bed. Then he clamped down on his emotions and returned to the task at hand.

  The dearth of men puzzled Lanciar. Fewer angry and armed men to pursue him when he chose to retrieve his son. But where had they all gone? Only old men and young boys, barely mature enough to mate remained. He saw nothing of men in their prime.

  He learned that laundry, cooking, and minding the children were communal chores shared by all of the women. Men and women alike hunted and foraged to feed the entire community.

  Visitors from the inn and nearby campground came to the Rover camp to have their fortunes told, their pots mended, or to buy unique silver jewelry and embroidery. Their few coins bought the things the Rovers could not find in the nearby forest or field.

  He guessed that the statue of Krej resided with Zolltarn in the largest tent, for it was guarded night and day. Zolltarn rarely emerged from the fabric shelter, and then only when a dispute disturbed the usual quiet of the camp. He did not linger with his clan, did not join in the singing or dancing or storytelling. But once disturbed he would flash his smile and his people settled into their chores without protest. Whatever had caused the noisy disagreement, it dispersed like mist in sunshine.

  “Which child are you, son?” Lanciar asked the air repeatedly. All of the children were treated equally with love and respect. All of the children were tended by at least three adults at all times.

  Even if he knew which child to snatch, he’d not travel more than three steps before encountering a vorpal dagger wielded by a very angry Rover. Both men and women carried the nasty rippled blades.

  Lanciar trusted his own ability to wield a weapon, but not while carrying a precious baby in one arm.

  He knew that Rejiia also watched the Rover enclave, but from the relative comfort of the upper window of the inn. She had commandeered their best and biggest room for herself.

  And then the day came when the Rovers broke camp.

  Lanciar had seen nothing unusual in their movement. One night they went to bed after singing and dancing around the campfires until nearly midnight—as was their custom—and the next morning they were gone at sunrise.

  But this time, they had not used the transport spell. Lanciar found their tracks easily. With an illusory coin, he hired a sturdy steed without much energy and only one speed—slow. But it would walk at that plodding pace all day and half the night without pause.

  “Saddle that steed for me, peasant,” Rejiia sneered right behind Lanciar. Rejiia gestured to a high-stepping black steed with a blaze of white on its nose and mane that matched her own raven locks streaked at one temple with white.

  “I’ll see the color of your coin first,” the hostler replied calmly.

  “You’ll see the color of my magic first.” Rejiia flung a ball of witchfire into his face.

  He screamed and stumbled to a watering trough. Batting at the flames, he plunged his head beneath the water.

  The steed pranced and snorted and wheeled, its eyes rolled.

  “S’murghit, stand still!” Rejiia cursed loudly and let a spell fly. The beast froze in place. Two grooms scurried out of the stable with saddle and tack. They prepared him for riding in record time.

  Lanciar sensed the beast straining at the spell. She’d not keep it on a tight rein for long. When it bolted . . .

  He hoped Rejiia landed on her lush bottom in the dirt.

  For the next three days, Lanciar followed the caravan. The first two nights, the clan camped within shouting distance of villages with inns. He and Rejiia each hired a room. But on the third night, they had passed into Coronnan. The natives here rarely traveled outside their own lands—except for magicians and the occasional trader caravan—and thus had no need for inns. None of their taverns had guest facilities. He made a rough camp beyond the reach of Rover firelight and perimeter guards.

  He kept his own fire low, and his noise to a minimum. He’d learned the basic sk
ills of camping behind enemy lines in his first years as a recruit in the SeLenese army.

  Of Rejiia, he saw no sign. Perhaps she commandeered lodging at the nearest manor. Perhaps she retreated and watched Zolltarn through a scrying bowl. He found no trace of her within a league of the Rovers with his magical or mundane senses and hoped she had given up the chase.

  With his back against a tree, Lanciar munched on dry journey rations. He watched the Rovers prepare a rich stew of hedgehog and root vegetables, flavored with a fruity red wine. The enticing aromas wafted on the breeze like a compulsion spell. His mouth watered, and his stomach grumbled.

  His bedroll already took on the dampness of dewfall. The fire sputtered from damp wood and threatened to die.

  All at the Rover camp seemed warm and dry and friendly.

  Lanciar took comfort that his son ate well and slept in a dry cot.

  Ah well, he’d endured worse in rough bivouacs while on patrol behind enemy lines.

  “Spy,” a woman spoke from directly behind his tree.

  “S’murghit! Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you,” he cursed to cover his startlement. His magical and military trained senses should have alerted him to her presence the moment she left camp.

  “Watch your language, spy. We have children nearby.” She glared at him, hands on hips, eyes blazing with outrage.

  “Sorry. You surprised me.” Good thing the darkness hid his flaming cheeks.

  “Spy, you have followed us diligently. You might as well join us. We offer you comfort this rough camp cannot give you.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You heard me. You’ve watched us and followed us, learning all you can of our people and our habits. We have nothing to hide. You might as well join us.”

  “J-join you?” He’d never heard of an enemy openly inviting a spy into their camp. Never heard of Rovers inviting gadjé adults into their camp either. Children they welcomed, not strangers over the age of ten.