“Perhaps Vareena and her brother have the freedom to leave because they are mundane,” Robb mused. He stroked his dark beard, eyes crossing in thought. In another time and place, Marcus might expect a spell to bounce from the end of his staff. But those ley lines curved and twisted away from each other as if repelled. Neither he nor Robb had been able to tap into their energy for more than the most rudimentary spells.
The summons spell had not exited the walls.
“What does talent or lack of it have to do with escape?” Marcus wormed his way up the wall a little higher. His right foot slipped just as he shifted his balance to move his other foot. Rough stone rasped his palms and cheek while he scrabbled for a better position. “S’murghit! That stings.” His breath whistled through his clenched teeth.
Time was, he could set his mind to any task, and luck would carry him through to the end. He always found a way to come through unscathed no matter how difficult or dangerous the chore.
Robb bore a number of scars from their adventures. They enhanced his rugged appeal. Marcus had no scars to blemish his fair skin and lithe body—yet.
Doggedly he climbed higher, doing his best to ignore the painful scrapes that made him want to curl his fingers tightly over the wounds.
“This would be a lot easier if the builders had put in a parapet and walkway for guards or lookouts. This exterior wall must have been added for protection after the main building was constructed,” Marcus mused rather than think about his luck and his magic draining away.
“We must consider the possibility that this monastery was converted to a prison for rogue magicians at the end of the Great Wars of Disruption.” Robb continued his lecture. “If such were the case, then the Commune would need a powerful spell to keep the criminals in. Something in the nature of the magical border around Coronnan. Until recently it prevented enemies and undesirables from entering the country.”
“Flawed logic, Robb. The border broke down when the number of dragons that supplied our magic decreased. When Shayla flew away and took her mates with her, the border dissolved completely. Why didn’t this spell?” He didn’t want to think what kind of sorcery kept the dragons in SeLenicca. Who could be stronger than a dragon?
Robb made no reply. A quick glance over his shoulder told Marcus that his friend’s eyes crossed almost to opposite sockets as he stroked his beard.
“Another puzzle that I must think on,” Robb replied after several moments.
“If you don’t let your eyes straighten out, Robb, they will remain crossed forever,” he chided his friend.
Robb apparently didn’t hear him, but remained deep in contemplation.
Marcus reached higher. His shoulders and back ached and his face burned from the previous scrape. If he didn’t have an audience, he just might give up and go find a dark corner where he could vent his frustration by stomping a few of the monstrous spiders that thrived in this place. Then he’d nurse his hurts in private.
He edged closer to the top of the wall where it joined the taller gatehouse tower.
At last his left hand clutched the rounded top. Then he pushed high enough to fling his right arm over the top stone and brace his weight. A shout of triumph burst out of his laboring lungs.
It died before it passed his lips. Magical power jolted up his arm to his neck and head. His ears rang and a numbness grew in his head. The blankness spread and he lost his grip. He couldn’t find the other wall with his back. His feet went slack.
He knew he fell, but he couldn’t feel a thing.
He did hear Robb droning on about his theory of how one would create such an enduring protective spell that would not disintegrate with the loss of the dragons.
“That s’murghin’ containment spell is killing my luck,” Marcus cursed.
These men who seek to steal my power are either too stubborn for their own health or too stupid to survive. They have not responded to the dreams of portent I sent them, nor to the subtle persuasion of a kardiaquake. I must think anew. I have time. I am not going anywhere.
“Your Grace?” Jack hissed to King Darville and Queen Rossemikka from the cover of a flowering shrub in the queen’s private garden.
The king stopped quickly, gaze darting for the source the whisper. His hand reached for the ceremonial short sword he always wore on his right hip.
Queen Mikka’s fingers arched away from the arm of her husband that she had clung to as they walked. She opened her mouth in a silent hiss, revealing small pointed teeth. Her eyes narrowed, and the pupils showed as definite vertical slits. Jack suspected that her back arched as well and the hairs on her neck stood up. But her richly textured gown fell in wide folds all around her, disguising her posture.
The gown hung too heavily on her thin frame. Since her last miscarriage—a very dangerous one that had required Brevelan and Jaylor to transport to the capital to heal her—Mikka had been listless and pale with little appetite. If Jack did not succeed with his special project soon, she might die of a broken heart.
“Your Grace, it’s only me.” Jack half rose from his crouched position, then ducked quickly back within the broad leaves and abundant red blossoms. He wanted to sneeze away the heavy perfume of the flowers, but didn’t dare. Even here, guards trailed behind the royal couple. Two of them, Jack suspected of being at least spies for the Gnuls, if not actual witch-sniffers. And they closed in upon the royal couple, alerted by Darville’s startlement.
After his conversation with Aquilla, he suspected more people than he had this morning. He dared not use even the tiniest of spells as long as any of these men were present.
Darville soothed his wife with a gentle hand to her mane of multicolored hair. She leaned into his caress and kissed his palm.
“I need to speak with you privately, Your Grace.”
“My office. You are on duty later today.”
“This won’t wait, and there are too many curious people hanging around the barracks. I can’t get in there yet to change to a clean uniform,” Jack insisted. He’d dried his tunic and trews as best he could before Aquilla’s fire, but the uniform was crumpled and stained, not fit to be worn in the king’s presence.
“Your Grace, what do you fear?” Sergeant Fred asked. He held his functional battle sword at the ready while he scanned the bushes and tree branches for signs of an enemy. Equally alert, his five attending soldiers spread out in a wide circle.
Jack trusted Fred. The slightly older soldier had been with the king for a number of years as personal bodyguard and confidant. Of all the palace guard, only Fred knew Jack’s true reason for being in the capital disguised as another trusted soldier.
“Only a bird scuttling in the bushes after a worm, Sergeant,” Darville dismissed the six hovering attendants.
Fred gestured to the men to retreat the required ten paces to grant the king and queen an illusion of privacy.
Rossemikka bent to sniff at the red blossoms that concealed Jack from mundane eyes. Her fingers relaxed and when she blinked, her eyes had returned to a normal round pupil.
Darville rubbed the back of his wrist idly. Were the red weals beneath his fingertips cat scratches? The queen must be in a high state of agitation if she allowed the cat persona trapped within her to rise to the surface so readily. She hadn’t scratched her husband in weeks.
“Are you any closer to finding a cure for me?” the queen asked in her slightly accented voice. She hailed from the desert kingdom of Rossemeyer where the land was so harsh, the people traded for all of their food and most of their household goods with mercenaries and the fiery liquor called beta’arack. “I would be rid of this cat.”
“Alas, Your Grace, no. I wish I had found the proper spell. I came today to warn you both of extreme danger. A boatload of witch-sniffers arrived at the port islands this morning.” Three islands at the edge of deep water in the Great Bay marked the sailing limit for large vessels. Only shallow draft barges piloted by Guild of Bay Pilot members could negotiate the mudflats of the inner
bay. “They await transport into the city. Another one hundred are due to arrive next week. Some of these foreign seekers are extremely sensitive. They may ‘smell’ the cat within you since it was put there by magic.”
Jack checked the position of the soldiers. The two he suspected had inched forward, right arms slightly extended and circling. They kept the signature gesture of a witch-sniffer subtle. But Jack knew they sought him.
Darville must have seen them as well. He shifted his position so that he stood between his beloved queen and the sniffers. Years ago, before he ascended to the throne, Darville had been kidnapped by his cousin, the rogue magician Krej, and ensorcelled into the body of a golden wolf. When Jaylor had rescued him and exposed the plot, Darville had fallen ill from the effects of too many spells being cast upon a mundane within too short a time. The illness had given the Council of Provinces reason to deny him the crown for many moons.
He could always claim that the sniffers smelled him and not his queen who did have magic in her blood even before the cat had joined her in that body.
“Why don’t you just dismiss those men?” Jack mused, not realizing he had spoken until he heard his words.
“Because the Gnuls control my council. Any retaliation against them brings worse reprisals against innocents. I am only the first among equals, not a tyrant. I must defer to the wishes of the lords who help me govern,” the king said sadly. “I thought I had pounded some sense into them, but apparently not.”
“What will we do, Darville?” Rossemikka turned wide, frightened eyes up to her husband. Her fingers curled again. The cat wanted dominance.
“What we always do. Dissemble, divert, claim they persecute us with unfounded accusations merely to overthrow me and claim the throne for themselves.”
“They can’t depose you, Your Grace. Your coronation was dragon-blessed. Thousands witnessed B—” he couldn’t say the true name of the blue-tipped dragon out loud. The secret of Baamin’s origins must remain secret a while longer. “They all saw the same thing I saw. The dragons blessed your crown and your queen.”
“But no one has seen a dragon since. Before and after my coronation, the dragon nimbus remained in exile. Baamin returned only long enough to show himself at the coronation.” The king grinned widely, letting Jack know that not much remained secret from him.
“Our enemies have grown in strength while the dragons remained in SeLenicca. They now discount the reality of the dragons you returned to Coronnan. The Gnuls will try to kill any dragons who show themselves, claiming them the spawn of Simurgh.”
“But what do you want me to do about the influx of witch-sniffers?”
“Can you whip up a storm that will strand them in the port for a time?”
“I don’t dare with those two watching everything in the palace so closely.”
“Then we must invent a disease that will close the port to all people, but not goods.”
“That I can do, Your Grace. I have a friend who will gladly dispense a convincing rumor.” Jack eased backward through the clump of bushes until he stood on a path well hidden from the view of the guards. Within moments he was running back to Aquilla, just like when he was nothing more than a scullery lad and wharf rat needing protection from bullies. Gnuls, bullies, what was the difference?
CHAPTER 10
Lanciar tried hard to think in convoluted circles like a Rover. The more he drank, the straighter the path his mind followed. In the end, logic prevailed. Lanciar left Hanassa by the same dizzyingly steep path he had entered the haven for outlaws—on foot.
Zolltarn could not have transported his entire clan and all of their goods far. That much magic was unprecedented, even if the entire Rover clan joined the spell. Logic also told Lanciar that the Rovers must head for Coronnan and the Commune of Magicians. No one else would value the statue of Lord Krej. And no Rover would steal something unless it held value to someone. Besides, Zolltarn had deserted the coven for the Commune three years ago.
Was the entire adventure merely a ploy to lead Rejiia to the Commune? If so, then he had a better chance of claiming his son by following the Rovers into Coronnan than treading in Rejiia’s footsteps.
Rumors claimed the dragons had returned to the Commune. Neither Rejiia, nor the entire coven—especially with its depleted numbers—could stand against a Commune united by dragon magic. Dragon magic had its limits when wielded by a single magician. But unlike the coven’s blood rituals that enhanced power, or the Rovers’ secret ceremonies, dragon magic allowed talented men to join their talents, augmenting the strength of every spell by orders of magnitude. With this united power they could impose laws, ethics, and honor upon their members, and overcome all those who opposed them.
Fortunately for the Rovers, the coven, and solitary magicians, their honor and ethics kept them from going to war against their own people to wrest political power from the Gnostic Utilitarian cult.
Once more he wondered if his old adversary Jack had managed to return the dragons to Coronnan or if he had died beneath the rubble of Queen’s City. “We’ll have to see if Jack awakened the ability to gather dragon magic as well as my other magical powers,” Lanciar mused.
If it would help regain his son, Lanciar would join the Commune and submit to the limitations and laws of dragon magic in order to negate the power of Rejiia and the coven and the Gnuls.
Once outside the volcanic crater of Hanassa, Lanciar found a thin ley line deep within the surface of the Kardia. He drew its meager energies into him. Weak power infiltrated his blood. He needed to get farther away from the mountain fastness before he’d have access to more power.
Three deep breaths triggered his light trance. He used his power to levitate himself down the zigzag path of stairs cut into the steep cliff’s side. He kept his eyes firmly on the steps rather than evaluate the deadly drop-off into the ravine below. One false step would send him careening down the mountain. Levitation—exhausting though it was—was less daunting than walking.
A simple thing like looking down this near vertical cliff should not make his stomach queasy and detach his head from his shoulders. He’d spent most of his life training to be a soldier. He should be able to tackle any physical challenge. He’d faced death in battle many times. He’d killed men before, in battle and in magical sacrifice. Still his head reeled if he looked beyond the path.
At the bottom of the cliff, some three hundred feet below Hanassa’s plateau, the land leveled out and showed signs of a little more rainfall than on the desert plateau. Scrawny shrubs and a few fistfuls of grass clung to precious bits of dirt beside the path. Indeed, the path became a road broad enough for men to walk two and three abreast with pack steeds. Two miles farther on, an inn perched precariously atop another cliff beside a thundering waterfall. Caravans and their beasts camped across the river from the inn. A wobbly bridge strung together with odd bits of rope and mismatched planks spanned the rushing stream.
Lanciar’s head spun at the thought of crashing through the bridge into the river and then plummeting over the cataract onto the broken rocks one hundred feet below. He gulped and turned his eyes and attention away from such thoughts.
Three pairs of men wrestled in the inn’s forecourt, exchanging blows. The pointless brawl spread to several of the spectators. Lanciar spat in the dust in disgust. “Waste of energy and discipline. If you were part of my army, I’d have all of you flogged.”
Rejiia might aspire to the title of Kaalipha of Hanassa, but she didn’t have the discipline to organize the city, only to terrorize it. Lanciar could do it. If he wanted to. The people of Coronnan, SeLenicca, and Rossemeyer would rise up in rebellion against her tyranny. She’d not last long as queen of any place. Lanciar had to retrieve his son before Rejiia put the boy in the way of vengeful assassins.
Lanciar walked a little way past the inn. He paused, drinking in the colors of the place and the clean smell of the air. Green grass beside the river, red tile roof, bright yellow mud walls, a shrub or two, and bright
tents in a variety of colors—red, purple, green, and blue. But mostly the tents were the red and purple with black trim of Zolltarn’s clan. A dozen or more dark-haired men and women, dressed in the same colors as the tents, worked hard to rig the tents and start cooking fires.
Indeed, the Rovers had not gone far.
How to approach them undetected? And how to find his son among the numerous babies he’d seen in packs on the backs of the clan women?
He went into the inn and ordered an ale. The first one slid down his throat in welcome relief. He needed to replenish his bodily reserves after the long levitation down the mountain with only a faint and spindly ley line to fuel his talent. Another ale and a meal sent the magic humming through his body once more.
He took his third ale outside while he watched the Rover camp. A pleasant buzz accompanied him. A placid smile spread through him as he sought a place to sit.
“This is too nice a day to do more than watch other people work.” He settled onto a bench at the back of the inn beside the corral, beneath a spreading hardwood tree. He didn’t know the variety and frankly did not care since it bore plain blue/green leaves rather than the pink-veined, thick and oily foliage of a Tambootie tree.
He could eat a few leaves of the Tambootie to enhance his magic. No. He wasn’t that desperate yet. King Simeon’s insanity near the end had been caused by addiction to the leaves. He suspected Rejiia’s instability stemmed from an overuse of Tambootie as well.
But where the Tambootie grew, dragons flew. Tambootie provided essential nutrients to the huge, winged beasts. Those nutrients allowed them to emit magical energy magicians could gather.
Lanciar opened himself to the air, as if drinking in the power contained within the ley lines that crisscrossed the planet. Nothing.
He’d try again later, deeper into Coronnan where dragons might fly once more.
At first the tents and activity across the rapid stream seemed all a jumble. He might have dozed a bit, lulled by the buzz of insects, the warm air, and the ale. Bright colors flowed behind his closed eyes like the umbilicals of life one saw in the void between the planes of existence.
The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) Page 8