The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  Power! She did this for power. Political power. Magical power. All she had to do was endure until the baby was born strong and healthy.

  The coven would place her at the center of every ritual because of the power and the fulfillment of their dearest and most ancient goal.

  “Toast to the royal couple, Your Grace,” Lord Laislac suggested. He snapped his fingers to summon his steward.

  The servant stepped forward carrying a tray of jewel-encrusted cups and a matching decanter of wine.

  “Ohhh,” Lady Laislac moaned. She wept loudly into her handkerchief.

  “Must we heap hypocrisy upon scandal?” Darville snarled.

  Lord Andrall and his lady both gasped. Lady Lynetta clung to her husband’s arm, chin quivering.

  The bridegroom, Mardall, looked happily around at the marvelous wall paintings and tapestries in the royal chapel.

  Ariiell was getting tired of his lighthearted mood already. Nothing seemed to upset him for more than a moment.

  “Take the wine away,” Darville commanded. “This ceremony may be necessary, but I do not have to like it. There will be no celebration. And there will be no announcements or discussion at court until I decide.”

  “Your Grace, please . . .” Laislac protested.

  “We will see how long you can keep this secret,” Ariiell told herself silently.

  King Darville cocked his head and frowned at her from his position beside the priest. His aunt, Lady Lynnetta, had a similar gesture. With their identical golden-blond hair and golden-brown eyes, they could have been mother and son.

  The king’s frown deepened.

  Had he heard her whisper? She doubted it. He and his line were notoriously mundane, with no trace of magic in their blood at all. He couldn’t have learned any listening tricks from Jaylor. They had spent most of their dissolute youth together. But tricks were useless without a magical talent to fuel them.

  And Darville’s queen, who might or might not have magical power, depending upon which rumor you believed, had not graced the ceremony with her presence. A deliberate snub that Ariiell intended to revenge as soon as she became regent for her baby.

  Ariiell smiled at the king, with an expression she hoped beguiled him with innocence. Tradition required him to preside over and bless the marriage since the idiot Mardall was his closest blood relative. Darville needed to appear in accord with the marriage that might produce his heir.

  Rossemikka’s absence kept Ariiell’s hopes and aspirations in a shadowy realm. The marriage was legal, but the royal couple strongly disapproved. She’d have a hard time gaining acceptance at court until she killed Darville.

  Never mind. The king would not long survive the birth of the baby.

  “You all have leave to depart for Laislac Province,” King Darville said. “You still have four or five hours of daylight.”

  “Leave!” Ariiell choked. “Surely, I cannot travel now.” She thrust back her shoulders emphasizing the full extent of her bulging belly.

  “By your parent’s reckoning you can’t be more than four months gone. The best healers in the country tell me you may travel safely,” he insisted, daring her to admit the child had resulted from a long-term affair rather than a single incident.

  Such an admission would put the blame and disgrace on her shoulders and remove Mardall from all responsibility. She couldn’t allow that. She had to appear the victim here to gain the sympathy of the court and the Council of Provinces.

  “But . . . but . . .” She couldn’t think of a single argument against the king’s stern order.

  “Surely you wish your cousin to be born at court, Your Grace,” Lord Andrall argued. “Surely you want the Council of Provinces to acknowledge the legitimacy of the birth. Our country will gain a great deal of stability with this birth and acknowledgment.”

  King Darville looked aghast at Lord Andrall, his most loyal supporter and uncle by marriage. Mardall’s father nodded sadly.

  The king’s jaw firmed and his golden-brown eyes narrowed. Wolf eyes. Ariiell suddenly saw herself reflected in those eyes as a small rabbit, easy prey. She shrank away from him, making certain the book of poisons hidden within the folds and pleats of her gown remained out of sight.

  “The child will be born away from court. If it survives and displays normal intelligence, I will acknowledge it in the line of succession. Bad enough I have to preside over this mockery of a marriage. I will not endure the constant reminder of events that should not have happened. All of you are dismissed.” He turned on his heel and exited through the private door behind the altar.

  A dozen guards appeared at the main door, as if summoned by the king’s departure. “Your sledges and steeds await you in the postern courtyard, My Lords,” the sergeant said. “We will escort you beyond the city limits now.” His hand rested easily on his sword.

  Lanciar postponed his trip into the void in search of his son. As a military tactician, he knew that intelligence was more important than troop numbers and superior weapons.

  So he sat outside the tavern day after day, drinking the sour ale until it began to taste good and watching the Rover encampment. Then he drank some more, relishing the soft haze around his vision. For the first time since he’d left Queen’s City in SeLenicca, he did not thirst from his very pores and he did not need to shield his eyes from an overly bright sun.

  Day after day he memorized the movements within the Rover encampment. Day after day he learned the faces of the women and the children, which tent or bardo they inhabited, which man they waited for at the end of the day.

  Always, he counted more women than men in each dwelling. His heart beat faster at the thrill of two or three women in his bed. Then he clamped down on his emotions and returned to the task at hand.

  The dearth of men puzzled Lanciar. Fewer angry and armed men to pursue him when he chose to retrieve his son. But where had they all gone? Only old men and young boys, barely mature enough to mate remained. He saw nothing of men in their prime.

  He learned that laundry, cooking, and minding the children were communal chores shared by all of the women. Men and women alike hunted and foraged to feed the entire community.

  Visitors from the inn and nearby campground came to the Rover camp to have their fortunes told, their pots mended, or to buy unique silver jewelry and embroidery. Their few coins bought the things the Rovers could not find in the nearby forest or field.

  He guessed that the statue of Krej resided with Zolltarn in the largest tent, for it was guarded night and day. Zolltarn rarely emerged from the fabric shelter, and then only when a dispute disturbed the usual quiet of the camp. He did not linger with his clan, did not join in the singing or dancing or storytelling. But once disturbed he would flash his smile and his people settled into their chores without protest. Whatever had caused the noisy disagreement, it dispersed like mist in sunshine.

  “Which child are you, son?” Lanciar asked the air repeatedly. All of the children were treated equally with love and respect. All of the children were tended by at least three adults at all times.

  Even if he knew which child to snatch, he’d not travel more than three steps before encountering a vorpal dagger wielded by a very angry Rover. Both men and women carried the nasty rippled blades.

  Lanciar trusted his own ability to wield a weapon, but not while carrying a precious baby in one arm.

  He knew that Rejiia also watched the Rover enclave, but from the relative comfort of the upper window of the inn. She had commandeered their best and biggest room for herself.

  And then the day came when the Rovers broke camp.

  Lanciar had seen nothing unusual in their movement. One night they went to bed after singing and dancing around the campfires until nearly midnight—as was their custom—and the next morning they were gone at sunrise.

  But this time, they had not used the transport spell. Lanciar found their tracks easily. With an illusory coin, he hired a sturdy steed without much energy and only one speed—sl
ow. But it would walk at that plodding pace all day and half the night without pause.

  “Saddle that steed for me, peasant,” Rejiia sneered right behind Lanciar. Rejiia gestured to a high-stepping black steed with a blaze of white on its nose and mane that matched her own raven locks streaked at one temple with white.

  “I’ll see the color of your coin first,” the hostler replied calmly.

  “You’ll see the color of my magic first.” Rejiia flung a ball of witchfire into his face.

  He screamed and stumbled to a watering trough. Batting at the flames, he plunged his head beneath the water.

  The steed pranced and snorted and wheeled, its eyes rolled.

  “S-murghit, stand still!” Rejiia cursed loudly and let a spell fly. The beast froze in place. Two grooms scurried out of the stable with saddle and tack. They prepared him for riding in record time.

  Lanciar sensed the beast straining at the spell. She’d not keep it on a tight rein for long. When it bolted . . .

  He hoped Rejiia landed on her lush bottom in the dirt.

  For the next three days, Lanciar followed the caravan. The first two nights, the clan camped within shouting distance of villages with inns. He and Rejiia each hired a room. But on the third night, they had passed into Coronnan. The natives here rarely traveled outside their own lands—except for magicians and the occasional trader caravan—and thus had no need for inns. None of their taverns had guest facilities. He made a rough camp beyond the reach of Rover firelight and perimeter guards.

  He kept his own fire low, and his noise to a minimum. He’d learned the basic skills of camping behind enemy lines in his first years as a recruit in the SeLenese army.

  Of Rejiia, he saw no sign. Perhaps she commandeered lodging at the nearest manor. Perhaps she retreated and watched Zolltarn through a scrying bowl. He found no trace of her within a league of the Rovers with his magical or mundane senses and hoped she had given up the chase.

  With his back against a tree, Lanciar munched on dry journey rations. He watched the Rovers prepare a rich stew of hedgehog and root vegetables, flavored with a fruity red wine. The enticing aromas wafted on the breeze like a compulsion spell. His mouth watered, and his stomach grumbled.

  His bedroll already took on the dampness of dew-fall. The fire sputtered from damp wood and threatened to die.

  All at the Rover camp seemed warm and dry and friendly.

  Lanciar took comfort that his son ate well and slept in a dry cot.

  Ah well, he’d endured worse in rough bivouacs while on patrol behind enemy lines.

  “Spy,” a woman spoke from directly behind his tree.

  “S’murghit! Where did you come from? I didn’t hear you,” he cursed to cover his startlement. His magical and military trained senses should have alerted him to her presence the moment she left camp.

  “Watch your language, spy. We have children nearby.” She glared at him, hands on hips, eyes blazing with outrage.

  “Sorry. You surprised me.” Good thing the darkness hid his flaming cheeks.

  “Spy, you have followed us diligently. You might as well join us. We offer you comfort this rough camp cannot give you.”

  “Wh-what?”

  “You heard me. You’ve watched us and followed us, learning all you can of our people and our habits. We have nothing to hide. You might as well join us.”

  “J-join you?” He’d never heard of an enemy openly inviting a spy into their camp. Never heard of Rovers inviting gadjé adults into their camp either. Children they welcomed, not strangers over the age of ten.

  But the invitation made a twisted kind of sense. They could observe him and control the knowledge he gained under their supervision.

  He could get a closer look at each of the children, see which might have fairer skin or lighter eyes than those born to the clan.

  “I’ll be with you as soon as I put out the fire and gather my bloody bedroll.”

  “Watch your language or you will never be allowed near your son.” She frowned at him sternly.

  Lanciar closed his eyes and dipped his head a fraction in acknowledgment of the rules.

  She smiled at him and twitched her hips as she returned to the protection of her clan.

  “I’ve heard they have good wine and ale in Rover camps.”

  “I brew the best ale of all the Rovers,” the young woman replied. “Come and join us. If we learn to trust you, perhaps we will introduce you to your son.”

  “My . . . my son. How did you know I sought my son?”

  “Zolltarn knows everything.” She flashed a smile as big and enchanting as the Rover chieftain’s.

  “Lead me to the ale. I think I’m going to need it.”

  CHAPTER 21

  Jack came out of the transport spell inside Shayla’s lair. He landed with a jolt to his spine and foot-numbing abruptness. His mind had remained drifting in the void a heartbeat too long. He stumbled and grabbed the closest object to steady his balance.

  He hoped Mikka and Darville had arrived in the dragon lair ahead of him and with more grace.

  Amaranth let out a squeak of distress and jerked away from Jack’s grasp.

  “Sorry, Amaranth.” He petted the bruised and stunted spiral horn bud on the baby dragon’s forehead. “This will all be over soon.”

  The dragonet nuzzled Jack’s side, keeping his sensitive forehead lowered and out of reach. He radiated bewilderment, excitement, and just a touch of fear. Jack cuddled Amaranth a little closer.

  Emotional distraction kept him from adding any other reassurance. He needed to be on the road following Katrina. Jaylor had confidence in Margit’s ability to take care of Katrina. Jack didn’t trust anyone but himself where Katrina’s well-being was concerned.

  Amaranth almost purred under his caresses. Magical power flooded Jack’s being. The dragonet opened his mind to Jack. Vivid images of the dragonet’s daily hunt and swim in the bay with his brothers filled Jack’s head.

  For a moment he felt like part of the group, a member of the family. He pushed it aside; the only family he wanted now was Katrina.

  But the premature bond he had inadvertently awakened in Amaranth did not allow him to shut out the images or the emotions. Nor could he forget his preparation for the spell with Baamin, the blue-tipped dragon who had been his mentor at the old University in a previous life. He’d always have a family with the dragons.

  “Amaranth, where is Baamin, the elder blue-tipped dragon?”

  (Here, son,) a new voice replied. Soothing, confident, wise.

  Jack breathed deeply, more comfortable with himself just hearing the voice of his mentor. His father—though neither of them had known of the relationship while the old man lived in his human body.

  For Jack, just knowing that Old Baamin lived on in the dragon body gave him a sense of continuity with the past, something that had been missing most of his life. But at the moment he could not comprehend his life extending forward to new generations, not until he and Katrina found a way to overcome her fears.

  “Are you here in the lair, Baamin? Or here in my head?” Jack asked.

  (In your head, Jack. There isn’t room for me in the lair tonight.)

  “Can you check on Katrina for me? Is she safe? Is she lonely?”

  (Yes, and yes. You have time to complete your tasks and then catch up with her. She needs this time alone.)

  Jack nodded his acceptance of the dragon’s words, knowing the old man would read his emotions. Other than himself, he trusted Baamin more than anyone on Kardia Hodos. As long as Baamin watched Katrina, no one would beset her intending harm.

  (Stop feeling sorry for yourself and get on with your spell, boy,) the dragon reprimanded him, sounding very much like the master magician in charge of exuberant and inattentive apprentices.

  “Is everyone here?” Jack asked the assembly in the lair. He counted noses: at least ten master magicians and a horde of journeymen and apprentices, Shayla and the two purple dragonets, Jaylor and Brevelan n
ear the slightly raised platform that usually held Shayla’s nest. Brevelan sat on a boulder that seemed molded to her slight frame. She held one of her newborn twins, the tiny quiet one that everyone feared might not live, a small scrap of life who held everyone’s heart and concern. Queen Mikka sat beside her on another boulder holding the other baby, a squalling, squirming bundle of aggressive humanity with an aura big enough for two. King Darville leaned over his queen inspecting the baby. A look of wistful regret passed between the king and queen. They’d lost five babes before Mikka could carry them to full term. The cat spirit within the queen’s body caused an imbalance that affected her ability to produce the long hoped-for heir.

  “After tonight, maybe you’ll have your own brood of sons and daughters,” Jack whispered.

  Shayla must have banished the other ten dragonets to keep them from interfering with the spell. Ten curious dragon babies could wreak havoc on the simplest of activities. He almost chuckled at the antics that had greeted him the first time he’d encountered the dragons in a cave hidden behind a waterfall deep within the mountains of SeLenicca.

  Jaylor came out from behind his wife with an outstretched hand, greeting Jack like an equal. He beamed proudly. Of his two sons, Jack saw no sign. Good. Amaranth’s clumsiness created enough chaos in the lair. Two rambunctious and under-cautious young boys would only add to the confusion Jack was about to create.

  Jack did not envy the four apprentices assigned to sit with the boys this night. They needed four adults to handle the two boys. Four apprentices or Brevelan.

  With one arm draped around Amaranth’s neck—to keep him from falling into the campfire ignited for the humans’ benefit, Jack nearly stumbled again with an awesome sense of having done this before. And failed.

  No. He forced himself to remember that this time he had the backing of the full Commune of Magicians. He had a purple dragon to give him extra magic that he normally could not gather. Never again would he be as alone or lonely as he had been before he met Katrina.