The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  “When people refuse to sell us things we need to survive, we often take those things, but we leave something of value behind in payment—just not always what the original owner thinks has value. Half a truth is better than a lie. Parents often give us unwanted children—those who are deformed or simple or sometimes just one too many mouths to feed. The only children we steal are those who are beaten and treated as less than dirt by their parents.” Zebbiah answered each of her accusations in turn with resignation.

  Katrina nodded. “Jack says much the same thing.” She resumed her pacing. This time she alternately touched the walls and ran her fingers through her already disheveled hair.

  “I never thought about slavery before,” Miranda mused. She brushed damp hair off Jaranda’s brow. She seemed cooler, sleeping easier than before. Perhaps the fever had broken. “I never thought about my people before. All I cared about was my lace. I was happy to allow Simeon to take the burden of rule from my shoulders. I was happy not to have to think about the hardship of others. I can’t let that happen again. Slavery in SeLenicca must end.”

  A hole opened in her heart. If she took over the responsibilities of the crown—responsibilities she had inherited but never been allowed to exercise by her parents or husband—then she’d never have the time to work the lace as she had before. She’d never have the concentration to design new patterns or lovingly recreate old ones.

  But then, SeLenicca must never again become dependent upon lace, only one export, to support the entire economy. Her people must be trained to other tasks. The land must be nurtured rather than exploited. Her people must become self-sufficient, as the Rovers were self-sufficient. Only she could change the entire culture of SeLenicca. She had to go back.

  Jaranda whimpered in her sleep. She thrashed in her mother’s arms. Her movements mimicked the rhythm of Katrina’s pacing.

  “Katrina, what ails you?” Zebbiah asked before Miranda could.

  “This place.” Katrina hugged herself. “The cold follows me. My arms are all lumbird bumps. If I were trapped here, as your clan and nobles are, then I do not think I would want to live.”

  “Come sit by the fire. Let it warm you,” Miranda urged, trying to ignore the chill that climbed her spine and set the hairs on her neck standing straight up. “ ’Tis your fatigue talking, nothing more.”

  The invisible eyes seemed to increase and move closer, sensing her unease, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.

  “No!” Katrina protested too violently for the nature of the suggestion. Then she breathed deeply, forcing calm. “Fire. The ghost of Ackerly fears fire.” Slowly she walked closer to the cheery blaze, as if she forced one foot in front of the other.

  “No, P’pa, no,” Jaranda whispered in her sleep. “Don’t kill me, P’pa. I’m too little to sacrifice.”

  “Wake up, Jaranda.” Miranda shook her baby. Memories of Simeon and the tortures he delighted in crowded around her vision, forcing out the present. “Wake up, baby. It’s only a dream. Wake up.”

  “M’ma, don’t let P’pa take me to the fires.”

  “We must leave this place, cherbein Miranda.” Zebbiah stood up, grabbing the packs in one graceful movement. “The ghost will poison all of us if we do not leave. Now.”

  Jaranda’s eyes opened and she stared over her mother’s shoulders. “Go away, P’pa. Go away. You are dead,” she sobbed.

  “Don’t leave me alone here!” Katrina protested. Her eyes darted frantically all around. “Do not leave me with Simeon’s ghost. If he haunts this place, then Brunix will, too.”

  “I would say let us all leave immediately, but we have nowhere else to go,” Miranda reminded them.

  Chapter 39

  “Found it!” Marcus whispered excitedly. He looked around the library for someone to share the good news with. The place was deserted. All the apprentices seemed to prefer taking their books outdoors to study. Had Margit started that tradition? He had had more than enough of the out of doors to last a lifetime.

  At least now he knew how to lay the ghost to rest. He even had an idea of how to remove the curse from the gold. But he needed help.

  This information should go to Jaylor first. Marcus gathered the texts he had studied repeatedly for days. Too many days. How long before the army reached the monastery?

  Moments later he knocked upon the door to Jaylor’s office. The wooden panels echoed emptily within. He rapped again, a little louder and longer.

  Jaylor always spent the midafternoon in his office while the children napped and he could guarantee at least a little time without familial interference. Puzzled, Marcus sent an inquisitive probe into the room. It circled aimlessly, encountering only empty air and dust.

  “You won’t find our Senior Magician anywhere near the University, Marcus,” Slippy said coming toward him from the direction of the courtyard. “One of the twins is dying. He’s with his family.”

  “Where he belongs,” Marcus replied. “But I need to talk to him. Now. It’s important.”

  “I doubt he wants anyone near except his wife and his sons.” Slippy shook his head. “I sent a message to our representative in the king’s court to inform His Grace. Jaylor and Brevelan may want to share their grief with their oldest friends, but no one else.”

  “I wondered why everyone was so quiet today.” Actually he hadn’t noticed the lack of activity or the conversations in unusually hushed tones until now. His concentration had all been on his research. He looked at his books, weighing them in his hands. Now what? He had to get back to the monastery soon. He’d wasted too much time already.

  “May I be of assistance?” Slippy looked pointedly at the books Marcus carried.

  “Do you know anything about time travel?” Marcus asked.

  “Never! Impossible.” Slippy sniffed with disdain.

  “I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to find the help I need right off.” Marcus excused himself and went in search of Old Lyman. If anyone had ever traveled through time and lived, Lyman was the most likely candidate.

  Marcus hadn’t seen the ancient librarian in any of his usual haunts about the library. He turned his steps toward the master’s quarters on the opposite wing of the sprawling University. But that didn’t feel right. Lyman loved his library and his books. Even if he were dying, he’d want to be there, not in some sterile bedroom.

  Marcus found him in a deep recess at the back of the second gallery, near an open window that looked at the cliff face, between his books and the dragons. The best place for the old man.

  Lyman turned rheumy eyes on Marcus as he tiptoed closer. “Who?” His question came out of tired lungs almost like a whistle, or the call of a baby dragon.

  “It’s Marcus, sir. I have a question that only you can answer.” He knelt beside the old man’s pallet.

  “Marcus? You can’t be here. You are lost between here and there, now and then.”

  “I found my way back home, sir.”

  “That is hard to do, boy.”

  “Easy enough once you have the scent in your mind. In spirit I’ve never left.” In that moment he knew that the one hearth to light his days and cook his meals and the one bed at the end of the day that he craved was here, at the University. But the one smiling face to greet him at the door, cook his meals, warm his bed? He’d loved Margit. He’d loved Vareena. Did either woman belong to his heart and his life forever?

  The image of a smiling woman with a cloud of blond curls and a twinkle of mischief in her eyes while she dealt cartes came to mind.

  Expelling a huge, pent-up breath, he shed a lot of the weight of indecision.

  Lyman closed his eyes and turned his face toward the window. “My time is nearly come, boy. I must leave this body behind very soon. Ask your question and let me get on with this.”

  “Master Librarian, I need to lay a ghost to rest and remove the curse he placed upon a hoard of gold.”

  “Ghosts are easy to get rid of. Curses are not.”

  “How d
o I trick Ackerly into telling me how he laid the curse so that I may reverse it?”

  “Ackerly, eh? Always knew that man would not give up his gold even in death. He’ll not tell you, boy. He invented the tricks you plan to turn on him. The gold must remain cursed even after you lay him to rest.”

  “Won’t the curse dissipate once his presence no longer nourishes it?”

  “If the curse has lasted three hundred years beyond his death then it will not fade in time to save those now cursed by the cursed gold.”

  “Then how do I . . . ?”

  “You must go back in time and watch him throw the spell. Ackerly was tricky. He probably used a mixture of solitary, blood, and dragon magic. You’ll have to use an exact reversal of his ritual. One slip and you fail. One slip and you and the gold become one.”

  “Trapped in the gloaming forever,” Marcus finished for him. “How do I travel back in time?”

  “Jack will have to guide you. He’s done it before. I’m too tired.” Yet he heaved himself to his knees.

  Marcus offered him an arm for support. Surprisingly the old man leaned heavily upon him. Lyman had always asserted his ability to get around in fierce defiance of his age. “Brevelan’s child is nearly ready to give up the fight. I must be there when she does. Take me to the Clearing, boy.”

  “Shouldn’t you rest, sir? Here, where you are at home, between your books and the dragons?”

  “Ah, to be a dragon again,” Lyman sighed. For a moment his face took on a vacant expression as he looked far into his past. “I had hoped to tell my story to Jack. He’s the one who deserves to know this, but there isn’t time. Be sure to repeat this to him word for word.”

  “Save your words, Master Lyman. You are too weak to walk and talk.” Marcus didn’t know how to handle the stubborn old man. Surely, if he were indeed dying, he’d want to conserve his strength and remain in this existence as long as possible.

  Unless he looked forward to his next existence.

  “Let me call for some help. We’ll carry you, Master.”

  “Nonsense. I’ll not have my story repeated among the apprentices like some ancient legend that grows with each telling. This is for you and for Jack. Jack earned the right to hear the truth. You, my boy, are merely the messenger.” Lyman fixed him with a fierce gaze. For an instant, his watery old eyes blazed forth in silver-and-purple lights, whirling in a hypnotic stare.

  The world faded from Marcus’ perceptions. All that existed was the elderly librarian’s voice.

  “Listen and learn, young Marcus. Learn that many aeons ago, before weak and insignificant humans learned to harness the power of dragons, or cared to, when the Stargods were but pups dreaming of their first outrageous adventures, I was born Iianthe, twin purple-tipped dragon to Hanassa.”

  “But only one purple-tip can live at any one time,” Marcus heard himself protest the old man’s litany. Somehow, in the process of speaking, they had descended three staircases to the ground level.

  “ ’Twas the destiny of my twin Hanassa to choose another life form or to die. In choosing, he must find a new life path that would benefit all of Kardia Hodos. He chose to become human. But he was weak and envied the power of the Stargods. He wanted to control all that he touched. And so he sought to mimic the gods and awakened many dark powers. Plagues followed in his wake and eventually the humans, with the power of the Stargods to back them, exiled my twin to the land we now know as Hanassa. There he ruled for many generations, choosing to inhabit the body of one of his descendants as each body wore out.”

  “Hanassa, the home of outlaws and rebels and rogue magicians.” Marcus nearly whistled on his exhalation. “How did he take new bodies?”

  Lyman waved away the question. “Hanassa became the home of the outcasts and misfits of society. That city of outlaws was, and is, a bloodthirsty place and saw many terrible tortures before Hanassa finally died. But seven hundred years passed before he gave up his last body. That is a tale you will find in the journals of a magician named Powwell. It is hidden in my room, beneath a loose board in the flooring. Only Jack should read it, but you will have to take it to him. I know you will read it. You were always a curious one. If you or Jack chooses to share the tale, think long and hard about who can safely carry the knowledge.” The old man’s voice cracked with dryness and he ceased walking while his knees sagged. “Powwell was Ackerly’s son. His journal may help you lay the ghost to rest.”

  They had made it as far as the path to the Clearing.

  “Rest, Master. I’ll take the journal to Jack.”

  “No time to rest. Jaylor’s daughter is eager for her next existence. She is tired of fighting to retain possession of her body.” Lyman took a deep breath and continued his tale and his final journey.

  “When Shayla birthed a new pair of purple-tipped dragons, my existence as Iianthe had to come to an end. I should have passed into the void and gone on without memory of my past. But Hanassa had not completed his destiny. I had to live out the life he had forsaken. So I chose the body of an old man and joined Nimbulan in his search for a way to control magic and make it ethical.”

  “But that was three hundred years ago!”

  “Haven’t you been listening, boy? I already said I had lived over seven hundred years as the purple-tipped dragon Iianthe. I have worn out dozens of aging bodies in the past three hundred years. Always, there was one more task to complete, one more life to save, one more apprentice to guide forward. Now this body is giving out and I still have work to do.”

  “Jaylor’s daughter! You plan to take the baby’s body the moment she gives it up.” Inspiration dawned in Marcus at the moment Lyman’s knees gave up the fight to walk all the way to the clearing.

  “The little girl has not the determination to fight for her life. If she would hang on only a while longer, her body would heal. But she will not. So I must.”

  “Climb onto my back, Master. I’ll carry you the rest of the way.”

  Marcus draped the old man’s arms over his shoulders and hoisted his legs near his hips. Old Lyman weighed next to nothing.

  “Be sure to tell the tale to Jack word for word, except for the last. No one else must know where I send my spirit next.”

  “I’ll tell Jack to look for you in the most unlikely place, right under his nose.”

  “He’ll think I’ve given Amaranth a little sense and grace.” The old man wheezed heavily in something approximating a chuckle.

  “Only a little way to go, Master.” Marcus could see the eldritch shimmer of the protective barrier that surrounded the clearing. They’d not get through it without Jaylor’s or Brevelan’s permission. And they were undoubtedly distracted at the moment.

  “Close enough. The spirit knows no boundaries imposed upon frail bodies. Remember Powwell’s journal.” Lyman grew limp, slipped down, and breathed his last in Marcus’ arms.

  Chapter 40

  Jack awoke in a cold sweat. His heart beat in his chest. He lay on cold stone, without so much as a few rushes to ease his sleep. He dreamed of the time Rejiia had sent a magical probe through his eye in that noisome dungeon cell. Memory relived the shafts of pain. Only by massive willpower had he kept the probe from stripping his mind and leaving him a brainless hulk. But he had babbled endlessly about the transport spell. Thanks to him, Coronnan’s greatest enemy could now travel anywhere she chose without restraint.

  The ancient stone walls of his cell too closely resembled the prison beneath King Simeon’s palace. Disoriented, he lay on his pallet for many long moments, desperately afraid he had not broken free of that dank and miserable death-trap.

  Then sanity returned. He knew he rested in the old monastery near a small mountain pass between Coronnan and SeLenicca. He knew that Katrina rested just the other side of this wall in her own cell. They had survived Rejiia’s tortures once. He’d not let the witch capture him again.

  He sent out a probe automatically, seeking Rejiia’s location. Surprisingly, she remained in the tower p
rison he and Robb had made for her yesterday. Why hadn’t she used the transport spell to free herself from this prison?

  Because one of Ackerly’s coins remained on her person and the curse on the gold kept her here. She hadn’t been able to remove her magical restraints either.

  Why?

  Because the gloaming—that frightful place that traversed two realities while retaining part of the void that lay between them—limited the amount of magic that could leave a magician. Jack, Robb, and Marcus had not fully entered the haze at the time of the spell since they had none of the cursed gold on them, so their magic might be stronger than Rejiia’s. She was still in her ghostly form.

  He hoped. He feared she might use hidden talents to overcome any of the obstacles in her way. She’d done it before, popping up in odd places without warning at moments when she could inflict the most damage.

  Resolutely, Jack threw off the bedroll and placed his feet on the stone floor. The midnight chill banished the last fog of his nightmare.

  While he slept, the approaching army had days to travel closer. If he hadn’t sent Amaranth back to Shayla, he could send the flywacket in search of them.

  “Best check on Rejiia. Make sure those magical chains still hold her.” Though the chains that held Rejiia had been woven by three separate magicians, none of them would be as strong as he liked.

  He ran a hand through his sweat-damp hair and heaved himself upright. This old building never seemed to warm up. He threw on his clothes and boots, pulling on extra thick stockings to ward against the chill, and made his way into the colonnade. A faint glow of green firelight flickered beneath the doorways all along the outdoor passageway. The others must feel the chill as badly as he did.

  Out in the courtyard he could almost see the stars in their slow dance across the universe. He drank in the crisp night air, grateful that his nightmare had been merely a memory dream and not reality. His planetary awareness centered and he knew precisely where and when he was despite a slight time distortion caused by the gloaming.