The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  “But I haven’t finished writing the paper you requested,” Margit half-protested Jaylor’s exciting news. Dawn had barely crested the horizon. She hadn’t expected anyone to be out and about so early. The Senior Magician had surprised her in her favorite study perch in an oak tree on the edge of the University compound.

  A quest! A chance to journey like a true journeyman . . . er—journeywoman. Could she be considered a journeywoman if she had not undergone the trial by Tambootie smoke?

  She both dreaded and welcomed the ritual. Well . . . she welcomed the advancement the ritual offered. But to endure three days in a windowless room, the only door sealed by magic, with only a Tambootie wood fire for light and warmth, strapping huge bands of pressure around her lungs, squeezing the breath from her. Rumor—almost legend—proclaimed that when Jaylor had undergone the trial, the master magicians had had to battle the demons he conjured for three days before sending them back beyond the void.

  To be trapped in the room for three days would be bad enough. To be trapped with the monsters of her worst nightmares would kill her. She’d die of suffocation before the monsters could take form.

  “Have you finished the research for the paper?” Jaylor asked. He kept looking back toward the clearing, eyes clouded, worry making deep creases beside his mouth. Then he finger-combed his beard and turned those deep brown eyes fully on her.

  Margit felt as if her skin peeled away, revealing more than just her bones and organs. Her very soul was exposed to this man. He had to know how her heart skipped a beat and pounded relentlessly, how her skin jumped and her toes wiggled, eager to begin the journey this very instant.

  Her tree branch became very uncomfortable.

  “I think I’ve read everything others have written about opposing elements and complementary elements. But I need to conduct some experiments before I can know for sure that the theory works.”

  “You can do that on the road. I suggest simple things like a compulsion on your steed to make it travel faster to appease Katrina’s need to flee, then negate it when you find her to delay until Jack can catch up to you.”

  “Is this quest so very important?” She tucked her book inside her tunic and swung down to face the Senior Magician on his own level. She had to look up at the man who held her career in his hands as easily as he held the reins of the entire Commune and University. Not many men topped her by more than half a hand’s span.

  “I, the queen, the entire kingdom, have need of Jack’s special talents and skills. He is worthless unless he knows for certain that Katrina is safe. Can you do that?” The earnestness of his question lost some of its effect as his attention wandered back to his home in the clearing.

  She’d heard that one of the newborn twins was small and sickly, her sister having enough strength and energy for two. Too often, twins were born early—too early for both, or either to survive. She wished she’d paid more attention to how long Brevelan had carried the babies.

  “Are Brevelan and the babies all right?” she asked, rather than speculate. The Commune thrived on rumors and gossip, most of it wrong. If the kingdom needed Jack free of concern and fully concentrating on his tasks, likewise the kingdom and the Commune needed Jaylor free of problems in his personal life.

  “Nothing you need worry about. Now, have you ever scried in a bowl of water?” Jaylor avoided answering. His eyes remained fixed on the trees in the direction of his home.

  “Uh . . . not officially, sir.” How much experimentation should she have done on her own?

  WithyReed discouraged apprentices from working any spell unless directly supervised by him. Slippy and Lyman, on the other hand, applauded initiative, even competition, among their students.

  “Unofficially, then, how much success did you have?”

  “None at all.” Margit hung her head.

  “Come into my study and show me how you worked the spell.”

  “Uh, can we try this out-of-doors, sir?” She stared at the closed door of his private workroom on the back side of the library. Only one entrance and one window, both facing north, toward the clearing and his beloved wife and children.

  Margit didn’t care which direction the openings faced. There weren’t enough of them.

  “Is this unnatural fear you have of being within four walls going to interfere with your ability to work magic?”

  “No. I survived three years in the palace as the queen’s maid.”

  “Survived, but did not flourish. Your magical talent has blossomed well beyond our initial test results since we brought you here. What bothers you so about being indoors?”

  “There isn’t enough air to breathe. Besides, you always have a cat with you. They suck out all the air in confined places.”

  “Cats.” Jaylor stared at her long and hard. “Cats. Very well. Fetch me the bowl on my desk and draw some fresh water from the well. We’ll enjoy the sunshine under this tree. I have to admit, I prefer fresh air myself.” He lifted a drooping everblue branch and ducked beneath it to the open place beside the trunk, as private a place as one could have this close to the classrooms, library, dormitories, and workrooms of the University.

  “Uh, sir, wouldn’t the spell work better with fresh water from a free-flowing creek and a crockery bowl rather than silver?”

  “You have been studying! Amazing.” He sounded very much like old Lyman. “You are correct, of course. The bowl on my desk is crockery. Take it to the creek and fill it half full. What about a crystal to trigger the spell?”

  “Only if it’s uncut. Otherwise, an agate works better.”

  “And you absorbed the entire lesson. Will miracles never cease?” he added on a chuckle. He sounded so much like Old Lyman, Margit wondered if the Commune still needed the ancient librarian now that he slept so much and avoided work even more.

  A few moments later, Margit settled on the carpet of everblue needles, the bowl nestled into a little depression before her. She crossed her legs beneath her and began the deep breathing necessary to focus her concentration.

  “That’s it, breathe deep, one, two, three, hold on three, release on three, hold, one, two, three,” Jaylor chanted quietly. “Let the light trance slide over your mind, concentrate on the water. Focus all of your senses on the water. Now think of whom you seek. Picture Katrina firmly in your mind. If you can’t remember her features, think of her most dominant characteristic.”

  “Silver-blonde hair and a lace pillow,” Margit mumbled as the picture of Katrina, the last time she had seen her, formed within her mind.

  “Yes, the lace pillow. Almost inseparable from her. Now drop the agate into the center of the bowl and watch the ripples, not the agate. See how the ripples reach out from the center, seeking, seeking . . .”

  “There!” Margit breathed. In the water she watched the refugee from SeLenicca riding across the river plains away from the capital. Her lace pillow, barely covered with a bright kerchief, and a small pack rested precariously behind her saddle. Her steed plodded, Katrina’s shoulders drooped, and her head sagged. Had she ridden all night and fallen asleep while riding?

  “Do you recognize any landmarks?”

  “Yes, the queen used to like riding across that meadow. I’ve followed her up that barren hill and around those boulders many times.”

  “Good, now withdraw from the images slowly.”

  Margit allowed her eyes to blink rapidly several times while she let loose her breath that had become pent up with excitement. The pictures faded from the water. Sleepiness fogged her mind and made her head too heavy for her neck to support.

  “Wake up!” Jaylor clapped his hands sharply right beneath her nose.

  Margit shook herself and focused on the tent made by drooping everblue branches. She seemed to return to herself from a great distance. Her stomach growled.

  “Now, Margit, think carefully. What did you do differently from the time you tried this on your own?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Something was differen
t. This time it worked very well. Last time you saw nothing. What is different?”

  Margit scrunched her eyes closed reviewing the entire procedure. “I’ve tried several times to find Marcus. Every time, the water ripples and the agate falls and nothing happens.”

  “Marcus? You’ve tried to find my missing journeyman?”

  “Yes, sir. We—ah—we . . .”

  “Are in love. Yes. I recognized the symptoms.”

  Margit blushed. “I did not think our feelings had become so obvious to others.”

  “Love is something that cannot hide, Margit. It needs to shine forth and grow. Now go get your breakfast. You’ll need to refuel your body while I arrange for riding and pack steeds. You’ll need journey food and camping gear for several days, perhaps a week. Master Lyman, Master Slippy, and I will transport you to the place you recognized when all is ready. When Jack catches up with you in a few days, I want you to stay with Katrina, make sure that both of them get safely into SeLenicca and report back to me every night.” Jaylor stood up and lifted one of the branches for an exit.

  “What about Marcus and Robb?” Margit stayed stubbornly beside the bowl.

  “Keep your eyes open for signs of them. I expect they headed for one of the passes to the south of Sambol. Try to steer Jack and Katrina in that direction. I suspect those roads are less well guarded and safer than through two armies at the headwaters of the River Coronnan.” He left her alone.

  “Oh, and return the water to the creek and the bowl and agate to my desk before you eat.”

  “Am I a journeywoman yet, Master Jaylor?”

  “Probably. But we haven’t time for the trial by Tambootie smoke. We’ll worry about that later. Find yourself a staff anyway. We’ll discuss this further when you get back to me tonight.” He hurried back toward the clearing and his family.

  “I’m going to find you, Marcus, no matter how much I have to improvise,” Margit said to the empty air. “No matter what magical and mundane barriers stand between us, I will find you. Then the two of us will spend the rest of our lives together, traveling the world on missions for the Commune.”

  “Come, daughter.” Lord Laislac grabbed Ariiell’s hand and dragged her off the bed. “A priest and the imbecile await us.”

  “P’pa?” Ariiell sat down on the edge of the high mattress, resisting his efforts to propel her out the door. “What has come over you? Why the sudden hurry?”

  She knew the reason well enough. All day the king and queen had withdrawn from court, smiling longingly into each other’s eyes. Rossemikka’s pale skin had developed a rosy glow, she wore her hair loose about her shoulders, disguising the strange white streaks in the auburn, brown, black, blonde hair. The royal couple laughed and smiled secretly at each other as they held hands.

  They acted like newlyweds, in the first flush of love. Disgusting.

  They were up to something. Something devious and detrimental to Ariiell.

  Rumors flew through the capital. Half the court were certain the queen had conceived again. The other half gleefully named a secret mistress who would produce a child that the royal couple would substitute for the queen’s many failed pregnancies.

  If Ariiell and her father had any hopes of having her child named heir to the throne, they had to insure its legitimacy as quickly as possible.

  “Lord Andrall agrees with me. The kingdom is too unstable to rely on the queen to produce an heir. If she miscarries again, it could well kill her. The brat you carry is the only hope.” Laislac yanked hard on Ariiell’s arm, nearly dislocating her shoulder before she had a chance to balance on her own two feet. The folds of her gown twisted to outline the huge swell of her baby.

  “How far along are you?” Laislac stared at his daughter. “You told your stepmother only four moons.”

  “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 fa
rther, 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.