“Well, we found an active volcano. But that’s the only resemblance to Hanassa—which blew its top and collapsed into a caldera aeons ago.”
“Oh, Kalen, I’ve failed to find you once again.” Powwell beat his fist and his forehead into the hot sand. “How much longer can she hold out in the pit, or the void, or wherever she’s hiding?”
“How long can we last here, with only a few journey rations?” Yaala shifted uncomfortably. Ash hazed the sun like a thick fog, but didn’t deflect much heat. Nor did it provide any moisture. Her exposed hands and face dried and withered under the burning sun. She wondered if the sand was hot enough to burn through her trews and boots.
“At least we know the gate didn’t disappear altogether after the kardiaquake.” Yaala touched Powwell’s smooth back with tentative fingers.
They had survived a lot together in the last year and a half. He’d been as much a victim of her mother’s cruelty as Yaala had in the slave pit below Hanassa.
Thorny poked his nose out of Powwell’s tunic pocket. Powwell caressed the hedgehog’s relaxed spines and murmured comforting words to the creature.
Yaala knew a moment of painful loneliness. She would never have a familiar. No magic coursed within her veins, no matter how many generations of dragons limbed her family tree. She had no family left. The machines in the volcanic pit beneath the city of Hanassa had been more friendly, predictable, and faithful than her mother. She’d rather study the fascinating intricacies of her machines and the ’tricity they generated than trust a pet for companionship.
Powwell loved the funny little hedgehog so much he kept Thorny’s discarded spines. Even on this long journey, Powwell kept the dried spines wrapped in a silk wallet inside his belt pouch.
She shook her head to clear it of the puzzle of magicians and their familiars. She had to think clearly and hopefully.
“Don’t give up yet, Powwell. The dragongate may open again in a few moments. We don’t know what kind of damage occurred in that kardiaquake just before we left Hanassa.”
“What if the dragongate takes weeks to open again at this location? I was sure my calculations were correct. I found the portal. It should open to the pit in Hanassa and nowhere else. So where are we?”
Yaala scanned the land once more. Something about the way the sandy plateau dropped off into a steep cliff, and the narrow valley behind her seemed familiar, but distorted. They sat atop a small mountain. The black lake rippled and shivered. A moment later the land beneath them shifted and quaked. The lake waters rose a few inches and spread. Steam spouted up from the depths. Something . . .
“Maybe we are in Hanassa. But Hanassa of long, long ago, when the volcano was first forming. That lake might lie atop the core of lava at the heart of the mountain.”
“But Shayla said that the dragongate only distorts distance, not time. She should know. She’s a dragon.” Thorny poked his nose out of Powwell’s pocket and wiggled it in agreement.
“Dragons don’t know everything.” Yaala glared at Powwell. “And they don’t always tell the truth.” Her mother hadn’t known how to separate truth from her own desires. Her ancestor, Hanassa, had begun the bloody tradition of reign by terror in the city.
“Dragons know a lot more than they tell.”
“Dragons and magicians aren’t equal to my machines.” Machines couldn’t be as evil as Shayla and Queen Maarie Kaathliin pretended in the infamous dragon dream. Resentment of Powwell for ramming two magicians’ staffs into the guts of her beloved generator as a diversion for their escape from Hanassa rose sharply within her. She thought she’d forgiven him, understood the necessity of his actions. But now . . . now she wanted to strangle him. Then love him back to life.
What did she truly feel? It didn’t matter. She couldn’t trust emotions. Especially her own. Machines didn’t have emotions.
“Well, I broke the machines with mundane tricks. I didn’t even need magic,” Powwell replied, sifting the hot sand through his fingers. “And I’m glad I broke them. Machines create pollution that feeds the plague spores. And when they run out of pollution, they turn on people and start eating them from the inside out.”
“That’s a myth created by the queen to keep technology out of Coronnan. Technology that would replace magicians and give power to every mundane. Besides, Coronnan doesn’t have any machines to create pollution, so the plague can’t thrive.”
Powwell glared at her, then returned his attention to running his fingers through the sand. “Maybe these sands will tell me something. They’ve been here a long time. A memory of time distortion might be embedded in them.” He took three deep, slow breaths, triggering a magical trance. The sand continued to drift through his fingers.
His eyes rolled up and his face took on the blank look of a deep trance. “Fire. Fire burning deep within the Kardia. Fire spreading upward. Fire melting rock. Icy air shattering. Fire. Ice. Time. Time . . .” he chanted in a voice much deeper than his own.
His words sent chills down her spine, despite the heat. “We have to find Rollett and send him back to help Scarface. Don’t lose track of Kalen. You came to rescue your sister and Rollett,” she interrupted his meditation. Concern for his childhood idol and his half sister should snap him out of the trance.
Powwell didn’t reply. He shuddered as he pushed himself back into awareness. He jerked his hand away from the sand as if it burned his skin.
“Rollett can take care of himself. Kalen is much more vulnerable, so young, so untrained. . . .”
His priorities had always centered on Kalen. And yet . . .
Didn’t he feel ’tricity shooting through his veins like she did when they touched, even casually?
“Well, we aren’t going anywhere until the dragongate opens again.” Yaala grimaced as the Kardia shifted beneath her feet again. If they didn’t get out of here soon, the volcano might erupt, with them in the middle of the explosion.
“The gate can’t open again until the ash clears and the sun creates an arch-shaped shadow for the gate to form in,” Powwell reminded her. “The arch is crucial.”
“That could take a lifetime or three,” she replied.
Chapter 6
Ancient plateau of Hanassa, time unknown
Powwell paused before hefting another rock to scan the arid landscape around the plateau. Off in the distance a winged ceature drifted on a rising air current. A dragon?
Help me! he called, trying desperately to contact the being with his mind.
His head remained empty of outside thoughts. Either it wasn’t a dragon, or the dragons in this place didn’t recognize the need to maintain contact with humans.
The sands, when he sifted them through his fingers, had told him only of fierce eruptions and cyclonic winds over a long period of time. Yaala had interrupted him before he’d had time to sort through the images to see if this had once been Hanassa, or would be at some time in the future. His gut told him the dragongate had returned him to Hanassa, but the portal had destroyed his planetary orientation—or maybe the time shift had. He had no idea where the magnetic poles lay, which was closest, what phase of the moon they entered or which season.
He returned to his self-appointed task and dropped a heavy piece of black rock onto the red sandstone where he thought the dragongate had been. He added a second and third rock to the growing pile that came close to matching the pile two long strides to his left. Maybe, if he could get the piles high enough, he could get something akin to an arch shape for the dragongate to form in.
He couldn’t tell for sure, but he thought the portal had to open and close on the exact same coordinates each time. But then again, maybe it only needed to be in the same vicinity.
If the natural shadows wouldn’t form an arch, he’d make one. No matter how long it took. The passage of the sun told him that he and Yaala had only been in this landscape less than one day. His magic senses insisted they had spent a week or more here. Magnetic poles tugged at him from all directions.
&nbs
p; To verify his time sense, he’d set up a kind of sundial around the piles of rocks. The sun moved far too slowly.
He and Yaala were trapped here in this alien landscape without food or water beyond their meager journey rations or protection from the merciless sun.
If only he’d had more time to study the dragongate back in his days of slavery in Hanassa. If only he’d kept a tighter hold on Kalen to keep her from running after Wiggles, her ferret familiar, as he and Yaala and the others had escaped Hanassa through the dragonate over a year ago. If only . . .
Guilt and “if onlys” didn’t change the fact that he’d made a serious error in judgment when he stepped through the dragongate this time. But the gate had always worked the same way.
(No it hasn’t always worked the same. The destinations changed. The frequency of opening changed,) a voice in the back of his head reminded him—a dragon or his conscience? He looked around for the source. Maybe the dragon in the distance had heard his cry for help after all.
The only living being he saw was Yaala. She sat huddled in the tiny shadow of a boulder watching him work. The few large rocks on this plateau offered her scant protection from the diffuse rays pouring through the ash haze.
Powwell’s darker skin fared a little better than Yaala’s. The backs of his hands had begun to darken and redden, though. They’d both have painful blisters before long.
She had draped a kerchief over her head, knotting it above her left ear, Rover style. She’d worn the same headgear in the pit, protecting herself from the intense heat of the lava core. Now she needed it as a barrier between her fair skin and the pounding rays of light. But the kerchief didn’t shade her eyes or protect her face.
He hated the thought of her reverting to the grimy desert rat who had first befriended him in the pit. She’d remained aloof from everyone but him in Coronnan City. Her mother had outlawed her and condemned her to the pit. Yaala had nothing and no one outside of Hanassa. Now he had delayed her return to Hanassa and her beloved machines. Would she ever truly belong anywhere?
Wasn’t that a definition of a renegade?
The kardia shifted beneath Powwell’s feet. Not much. A precursor to the main shock. He braced himself for the rolling disturbance, like being aboard a ship in a storm. Just a little quake this time. No new fissures opened in the dry ground. But the movement disrupted his balance. He sat down heavily. Instinctively, he reached with his magic to find the nearest pole for a sense of where and when to reestablish his equilibrium. Nothing. The moon and seasons eluded him as well.
All he knew was the relentless sun. They had to get out of here soon.
Thirst tasted sour in his throat. He sipped a little of his dwindling water supply. They each had a leather container of water and a pack of journey food, enough to take them from one village to the next in Coronnan.
His waterskin seemed far too light. Not enough to last in this searing heat. He thought he’d rationed his water wisely, only taking a few sips each hour as marked on his sundial.
“Powwell, I see shadows!” Yaala called. She rose from her crouched position beside a boulder.
“Shadows? Where?” He peered at the few boulders, willing their shade to expand.
Hot wind sand-blasted his face. The sun seemed brighter. Less ash obscured the horizon. The wind increased, grew hotter yet. It came from his left away from the direction he’d placed his cairns of rocks.
He turned in place, awakening all of his senses for hints of change. A shimmering distortion, like a mirage in a distant heat haze, grew between himself and Yaala within the minuscule puddle of shade cast by the nearest boulder.
“The gate is opening!” Yaala dashed toward him, through the forming gate, and disappeared within the shifting swirls of light! Just like Kalen had when she’d been thrown into the lava core before the dragongate fully formed.
“Yaala!” he screamed and dove after her. He couldn’t let her die in the volatile gate. Stargods only knew where she’d end up. They had to complete this quest together.
Loneliness and despair swamped him. He’d not lose another dear one.
Mining village in Balthazaan Province, south of Coronnan City
Bessel sensed the grief of his gathered siblings. Nine all told counting himself. They stood in a circle around their mother’s bed in descending order by age maintaining the ritual death watch.
He watched the grief play over the faces of his oldest brother and two older sisters, the ones he knew from his childhood. They choked back sobs and closed their eyes against tears. He did, too, as much for the lost companionship of his family as for the death of their mother. The fourth young adult in the circle, another sister one year younger than himself, had been only a small child when he left the mining village. He barely remembered her.
The five siblings born after his father’s accident in the mine wept openly, darting glances of fear toward their father. Maydon had always ruled the family with a heavy fist and violent temper.
Anger replaced Bessel’s grief. Anger that these youngsters had to stand and watch M’ma die. They had said their good-byes to her during her last moments of consciousness. Why did they have to bow to tradition and watch blood trickle from M’ma’s mouth and ears while knowing they could do nothing to help? Why couldn’t Maydon release them to grieve in quiet privacy until it was all over?
M’ma started coughing again, weakly. Baarben rushed to help her sister-in-law sit up. The children made space for her in the circle. None of them knew how to ease the insistent blockage in their mother’s lungs. No one in this mining village learned anything more than their assigned place in life allowed. Maiden aunts were expected to nurse the family’s ills. Aunt Baarben was the one who must help M’ma sit up, not the children who stood closer.
But it was late for anyone to help M’ma. She opened her mouth for one last inhalation. Blood streamed from her mouth. She opened her eyes wide, seeing nothing. Then she collapsed. Her life’s spirit exited her body.
“Bring her back. You’ve got to make her live again!” Maydon pounded on Bessel’s shoulder. “You’re a magician, bring her back to life.”
All of Bessel’s siblings looked at him, hope brimming in their eyes along with their tears.
“I can’t.” Bessel bowed his head. “Even if I could, the Stargods forbid reanimating a dead body for any reason.”
“I’ll get Lord Balthazaan’s magicians to compel you to do it. Make your mother live again!” Maydon grabbed Bessel’s shoulders and shook him hard, letting his crutches fall to the floor. For a moment, he was entirely dependent upon his estranged son.
Bessel didn’t let his small smile of triumph touch his face. Because of the trauma of his experiences in the outlaw camp, no magician had since been able to compel him to do anything he didn’t want to do.
“No such spell of reanimation exits. Your ignorance assigns me more power and fewer ethics than any true magician could hope for.” Gently, Bessel removed his father’s hands from his shoulders, then restored the man’s crutches. “If I could have helped her, I would have done it hours ago while she still lived.” But he might have helped her, if he’d had the courage to tap a ley line and access the void.
The healer would have come from Lord Balthazaan’s castle if Bessel had asked. He’d have come to help another magician. But Bessel wasn’t a true magician yet. He hadn’t achieved master status.
He was still an outsider looking in. Never more than in this large family that shared his blood but not his talent or his experiences.
“Can’t or won’t?” Maydon sneered at Bessel. “You can hurt me any way you like, I’m the one who threw you and your cursed talent to the wolves. Kill me if you must, but don’t hurt your mother. Bring her back!”
“I can’t. No matter what you think, I am not all-powerful. Nor will I break sacred laws.”
Bessel walked out of his father’s house, not once looking back. Bitterness and regret were his only companions.
S’murghit! The Starg
ods had taught the first magicians how to cure a plague. Where was that knowledge when he needed it?
Certainly no one in the village knew the first thing about true healing. Midwives and maiden aunts knew how to use a few herbs and poultices. They could bandage wounds and set broken limbs. None of them knew how to read to learn more. Maydon had taught his children a little ciphering, enough to keep household accounts. Nothing more. Tradition said they needed no more. None of them had ever expressed a dream of achieving anything more than their father had or than Lord Balthazaan expected of them.
And now a plague beset them, and their ignorance was killing them.
The strange scent he had detected in his father’s house assailed him again. Stronger, deeper. The village was filled with it along with the black coal dust from the deep mine. Was the dust a kind of pollution for the plague to feed upon?
He stopped in the center of the pathway between houses and turned a full circle. His magic talent bristled a warning deep inside him.
Death stalked this community, just as it had stalked the strangers in the dragon dream Shayla had given Powwell, Master Nimbulan, and the king and queen. Everyone in the Commune had heard of the dream in the minutest detail. Powwell had been most specific about the scent of the plague, relaying it to his classmates in direct telepathic communication. That was the familiar smell.
Queen Maarie Kaathliin’s plague had come to Coronnan, and no one knew how to cure it.
Chapter 7
Midnight, forested knoll outside Coronnan City
Kinnsell O’Hara scanned the forest landscape uncertainly. Why did these primitive bushies always insist upon clandestine meetings in the midst of all of these trees? And they always chose midnight, when civilized men should conduct delicate negotiations over a fine port wine in cozy dens furnished with large, well-padded chairs. Not standing out in the cold wind freezing their arses off.
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III Page 7