The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  “Down there.” The child pouted as she glanced at a trapdoor and then back to her mother’s skirts. A cellar or pantry. More food, assuming the place had not been looted when the kardiaquakes sent everyone in flight from the city.

  “You were very brave to climb down there. Will you come with me as we look for more turnips and things.”

  “A rat scared me.” An almost clean thumb crept toward the little girl’s mouth.

  The woman allowed the child to find what little comfort she could from sucking. Stargods knew when they’d live a normal life, in a normal home, with a normal schedule again.

  Schedules.

  The concept of following a routine determined by others sounded oddly comforting and right.

  She stood and held her hand for the child. “We’ll protect each other from the rat, baby. You and I can do anything together.”

  “I’m Jaranda. Not a baby anymore.” The baby rewarded her with a bright smile and clutched her fingers.

  “Of course, Jaranda. How could I forget. You are a big girl now. Big enough to hold the door open for me while I climb down. Be sure you stand so you don’t block the light.”

  “Yes, M’ma.” Jaranda stood a little straighter and took her finger out of her mouth.

  “I don’t suppose you remember my name, Jaranda?” she asked her daughter.

  “M’ma,” Jaranda replied importantly.

  “Somehow I thought you’d say that.”

  CHAPTER 4

  “Where have you hidden my son, Rejiia?” Lanciar asked the bottom of his ale mug. He didn’t really expect an answer. The steed-piss ale of Hanassa didn’t even quench his thirst, let alone show him any truths.

  Briefly, he longed for a simpler time when King Simeon still lived to rule SeLenicca and Lanciar had only a minor magical talent. He didn’t have to think or make decisions. He only had to obey Simeon, and all the wonders of the coven surrounded him with sex and power and influence. He could love Rejiia in secret and experience the thrill of fathering a son on her while Simeon believed the child his own.

  But then Simeon had sent him to seek out the man who wielded enough power within the mines to threaten the coven.

  Lanciar had discovered Jack. The young magician was just beginning to recover his memory and his talent after some adolescent trauma.

  And then the day came when a deep kardiaquake had collapsed the mine. Jack’s newly awakened senses had alerted him to the coming disaster. He, with Lanciar’s help, had rescued an entire team of slaves. But Simeon’s guards and administrators were caught up in the chaos; the entire complex had to be abandoned. All who survived ran for their lives. Lanciar had attached himself to Jack and his friend as ordered.

  On the trail out of the mine Jack had drawn Lanciar deep into a questing spell, seeking the dragon that Simeon had magically wounded and imprisoned. During that long night on a lonely mountain pass, Lanciar’s full talent had awakened.

  Now he was a master magician having to think and make his own decisions in order to survive, and able to see Rejiia for a selfish, power-hungry bitch who used everyone she came in contact with to augment her own illusion of greatness. Lanciar had to rescue his son from Rejiia’s ungentle clutches.

  The Kardia rolled beneath his feet. He braced himself against the exterior wall of the tavern, momentarily reliving the terror of being trapped underground in the mine with tons of Kardia pouring down upon him. He owed Jack his life as well as his respect—probably the only truly honest man he had ever met.

  But it was a little quake this time and did not deserve his fear. Almost a daily occurrence here in Hanassa, the city of outlaws. None of the ragged denizens of the city seemed to notice the disruption.

  Satisfied that the ground beneath his feet was solid once more, he stared into the last few drops of liquid in his cup. Not enough to scry a vision of Rejiia or the child she had stolen from him. The horrible ale served here was too thick to see through anyway.

  Should he drink another? Yes. The dry air within this ancient volcanic caldera that housed the dregs of the world left a constant sour taste in the back of his throat.

  “Let’s try the next tavern,” he suggested to the mug. “Maybe someone there has seen Rejiia with a child. Maybe their ale tastes better.”

  He strolled casually toward the next outcropping of ramshackle buildings. While he wove a slightly drunken path, he kept his eyes moving, taking in every detail of life among the outlaws, mercenaries, rogue magicians, and criminals. No innocents here, and precious few children.

  Where would Rejiia have taken her baby if she didn’t keep him with her.

  That was a sobering thought. What if she had fostered the child elsewhere? How would Lanciar ever find his son if she had?

  A party of richly clad magicians strolled past Lanciar. He knew their profession because they all carried long staffs, some topped with intricate carvings or natural crystals, and they all wore flowing robes embroidered or painted with arcane sigils. At the center of the group strode Rejiia, daughter of the late unlamented Lord Krej, and cousin to King Darville of Coronnan. Under other circumstances, she would be the heir to Darville’s dragon throne. But her magic, her illicit alliance with Simeon, the murdered sorcerer-king of SeLenicca, and her own murderous proclivities made her an exile from her native country.

  Her father’s treason against King Darville didn’t help her status either. Lord Krej had thrown one too many illegal spells in a desperate attempt to usurp power in Coronnan. His last piece of magic had been intended to turn Darville into a statue of whatever creature reflected his personality—probably a golden wolf. But the new king had worn his enchanted crown that protected him from all magic. Krej’s spell had backlashed into his own eyes, transforming him into a tin weasel with flaking gilt paint.

  Rejiia had rescued the statue of her father from Darville’s dungeon on the king’s coronation day. Simeon had had custody of the tin weasel for a time. But when Jack and his companion from the mines—what was his name?—had murdered the King of SeLenicca a few weeks ago, Rejiia had grabbed the statue and taken it with her in a desperate attempt to murder Jack before he could reunite the dragons with the Commune of Magicians.

  She’d failed to do more than enhance Jack’s status as a master magician in full command of his powers as she fled that battle scene in disgrace. But she’d managed to keep Krej with her during her escape.

  No one knew for sure if Krej lived within the tin casing or not. No one dared probe it lest they be drawn into the statue as well.

  As Rejiia toured Hanassa, she levitated the tin weasel behind her in a subservient position, much as Krej had done to her in her youth. Lanciar knew how much humiliation she had suffered under her father. Now she took her revenge.

  But she needed Krej animate to fill in the missing ranks of the dispersing coven. Lanciar could stand in only one corner of the eight-pointed ritual star. He was supposed to be anchoring that corner in SeLenicca rather than here, searching for his son.

  He no longer trusted Rejiia or any of the other members of the coven. He’d rather work as a solitary magician than ever work magic with Rejiia again.

  Lanciar kept his face buried in his mug, pretending to be just another mercenary waiting for a war to break out until Rejiia passed. She shouldn’t recognize him with a full beard. He’d added layers of dirt to his hands and clothing to complete his disguise.

  The tilt of her head, the sway of her hips, the way her black hair with a single white streak at her left temple fell in enticing waves, curling around her breasts, triggered memories of better times with her. Lanciar felt a stir of his old lust. Pregnancy and childbirth had filled out her breasts and hips without detracting from her long legs and slender waist. She ran long, elegant fingers through the white streak in her flowing name. The eyes of every man in the vicinity followed the path of those fingers.

  She didn’t need a staff to focus her magic. She had other tools.

  Lanciar’s heart ached to hold her on
e more time. He had loved her once. But then she had tried to pass their infant son off as King Simeon’s bastard, possible blood heir to all three kingdoms on this continent. When she discovered that Simeon had been half brother to her father, Lord Krej, she had tried to tell the world that the brat died at birth.

  Lanciar knew she lied. Lied more easily than she told the truth.

  He hardened his heart against her, likening her to the empty mug in his hand.

  Rejiia looked his way.

  He raised the mug as if taking a long pull on the sour brew to hide his face from her view. He automatically armored his aura and magical signature and buried them deep inside his gut.

  Rejiia and her entourage of magicians passed him by without a second glance. He saw no nannies or servants carrying her infant son. Where had she stashed the boy? Certainly not in the bottom of his mug where he looked for answers.

  When he lifted his gaze once more, he noticed that Krej had dropped into the dust. The statue remained stubbornly still. Had the spirit of the man revived enough to try to defy Rejiia? Lanciar smiled at the thought of the inevitable battle of wills that would ensue.

  A moment later, Rejiia paused and scowled at the statue. She sighed heavily and snapped her fingers. The statue rose a hand’s span above the dirt and floated behind her once more.

  How long before Rejiia turned her full attention to reversing the spell? Krej’s magic would give the coven a seventh magician—if Lanciar decided to remain one of them. They needed nine.

  She probably would not attempt to revive Krej until she was ready to depose Darville of Coronnan and claim the Coraurlia—the magnificent dragon crown made of precious glass—for herself.

  Then she’d set up Lanciar’s son as her heir.

  Not as long as Lanciar lived. He planned on keeping his boy safe from the machinations of the coven.

  He decided to search Rejiia’s quarters in the palace while she paraded around the city causing misery.

  Rejiia’s not-so-dainty footprints showed clearly when he allowed his eyes to cross slightly. She carelessly left her magical signature of deep black and blood red in each of her footsteps. Easy enough to retrace her path. He placed his own foot atop her prints, allowing her magical signature to mask his own.

  One hundred steps, and he faced the gaping cave mouth that served as entrance to the palace of Hanassa. A lazy guard propped up the wall while he cleaned his fingernails with his dagger.

  He took one more step toward the cave mouth and halted in mid-stride. A band of Rover men emerged from the palace. Their leader, a middle-aged man with distinguished wings of gray in his thick black hair, followed the same footsteps Lanciar traced—but in reverse. The Rovers trailed Rejiia. Why? Up to mischief certainly.

  Their leader grinned widely. Sunlight glinted off his teeth, his eyes twinkled and years of care fled his face. Zolltarn. The self-styled king of the Rovers had beguiled the hardest of hearts and wisest of mages with that smile.

  Lanciar closed his eyes and still saw that smile though the image of the man behind it faded from memory.

  What plot drove Zolltarn to follow Rejiia?

  Lanciar’s mouth turned dry, and he wished for another drink.

  Lanciar waited until the garishly clad Rovers in purple and red over black—obviously all members of the same clan—passed. Then he followed them.

  Sure enough, within a few moments, the Rovers caught up with Rejiia as she toured the city. She kept up the pretense of examining every detail of life trapped within the walls of this ancient volcano as if she intended to govern here—or use the denizens as an army to back her claims to more important crowns.

  She paused in front of a silk merchant. All of the goods had been stolen from a trading caravan that dared the pass between the desert kingdom of Rossemeyer and Coronnan.

  “I want black! Black with silver embroidery. This entire shipment is useless.” Rejiia spat and threw two bolts of costly fabric to the ground. She aimed a crystal-topped wand at the merchandise and set it afire.

  The tubby little merchant hastened to retrieve the jewel-toned bolts. He slapped at the flames, threw some of the ever-present dust on them, and eventually backed away from the heat generated by Rejiia’s witchfire.

  Rejiia drew back her substantial foot and kicked the man in the ribs while he bent down. She laughed heartily while he clutched his middle and moaned in pain. The nearby burning cloth sent tendrils of flame too close to his head and spread to his hair. He yelped and scuttled away.

  Lanciar sent a quick spell to negate the witchfire—only magic could douse it.

  Rejiia whirled to confront the one who dared to interfere with her games. Blotches of red on her white skin showed her outrage.

  Lanciar ducked out of sight.

  At that moment of distraction, Zolltarn physically grabbed the statue of Krej and retreated. He and his men seemed to disappear before Lanciar’s eyes.

  But Lanciar knew Zolltarn of old. The Rover used tricks that mimicked magic, requiring little actual magical energy. Here in Hanassa magicians could not tap the energy of ley lines or of dragons. Both shunned the city of outlaws.

  Lanciar allowed his eyes to cross once more and looked for the distortions in light patterns that meant stealthy movement. He had to smile at the trick played upon Rejiia. Her own arrogance had given her a false sense of security. Good. She’d be so outraged at the challenges to her authority she might drop her guard around her son.

  Ripples in the light showed all of the Rovers headed for the tunnel exit from the city. The rest of the clan waited just outside the gates with their loaded sledges, and their steeds, ready to flee.

  “I expected more subtlety from you, Zolltarn,” Lanciar chuckled.

  The Rover chieftain flashed his magnificent smile in Lanciar’s direction. Zolltarn spoke directly into Lanciar’s mind, The game is not yet finished, young soldier. But time is short. She planned to free Krej this night. The Commune cannot allow that.

  The statue of Krej passed from Rover hand to Rover hand. One wrapped it in silk. Another threw a coarse blanket over it. Then it disappeared inside the round cabinlike structure atop the lead sledge.

  Lanciar could find no trace of the statue or the life it contained with either his magic or his mundane senses.

  Rejiia whirled and watched the activity.

  “After him! I want Zolltarn’s head.” She stamped her foot, and three magicians ran to do her bidding. “One thousand gold drageen for the return of my father!” she added.

  Krej didn’t seem nearly as important to her as the blemish to her dignity.

  Rejiia’s magician entourage wrung their hands in indecision.

  Zolltarn turned and saluted Rejiia with his famous smile and a wave of his hand.

  “Damn!” Rejiia stamped her foot again.

  Was that an aftershock of the previous quake that seemed to drop the Kardia from beneath Lanciar’s feet or a measure of her anger?

  “When I retrieve my father, I’ll have my son back from his Rover wet nurse as well,” Rejiia called in the wake of her magicians.

  What?

  Lanciar burned with anger equal to Rejiia’s. Had one of the babies carried by the Rover tribe been his son?

  Rejiia drew in a deep breath, held it, and let it out through her teeth three times in preparation for a trance.

  Lanciar mimicked her actions. He’d follow both Rejiia and Zolltarn into the void and back if he had to. Quickly, he sought Zolltarn’s mind along the path of his earlier communication. This little bit of magic would drain his energy reserves, but he had to try. He needed to know the Rover’s next trick.

  He met a blankness deeper than the void. All Rovers had impressive and instinctive magical armor.

  Rejiia scrunched her face in an ugly scowl of frustration. She hadn’t been able to penetrate Zolltarn’s mind either.

  A peculiar sparkle appeared in the light surrounding the entire Rover clan and their possessions. All of them disappeared in a flash of
crackling lightning.

  Wind rushed to fill the vacuum left by their transport to elsewhere. It moved so quickly and violently that bits of wood and cloth, ash, leftover food, and broken tools swirled together in a series of tornadoes.

  Lanciar threw up an arm to protect his eyes.

  Then all became quiet again.

  S’murghit! Zolltarn had mastered the transport spell. Lanciar couldn’t follow them. He didn’t know the secret of coming out the other side alive.

  Another flash of sparkling light signaled Rejiia’s disappearance.

  Double s’murghit! She knew the secret, too.

  How was he to find his son now?

  He stared at the bottom of his empty mug wishing for inspiration. “I need a drink while I think about it.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Jack inspected long strands of thread dyed in a rainbow of colors. “Katrina said she wanted purple dye,” he muttered to the merchant. His neck burned with embarrassment. This arcane feminine errand made him more uncomfortable than the soul-penetrating stare of a dragon.

  “This is a lovely shade of lavender,” the woman with sparkling eyes said with the slight lisp of a foreign accent. She pulled one long thread free of the bundle and held it against a black cloth for contrast.

  “Too pale.” Jack suspected his betrothed wanted her threads to match a particular shade. “Amaranth,” he said, hoping the plant matched its namesake.

  “Ah!” The merchant tossed her dark curls flirtatiously as she retrieved another thread from the bundle. This one had more pink to it and was several shades darker than the lavender.

  “That’s close. Can I see it against white?”

  “White? As in the cream of the queen’s new gown or the stark white of SeLenese lace?” Her accent came through thicker with that statement. She must come from Jihab, Jack decided.

  Her mouth twitched in laughter.

  In another time and place Jack would love to flirt with her.

  “Stark white, like lace,” he replied.

  “Is this for the little lacemaker recently taking refuge as the queen’s favorite companion?” The merchant draped the thread on top of a piece of lace. Jack recognized the pattern as similar to one Katrina was working at the moment.