The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  “I guess you are channeling your heightened senses into me without knowing it, Amaranth,” he commented.

  The flywacket perked his ears and continued purring.

  “Maybe I’ll stay up here one more night. I’ll join them tomorrow,” Jack mused.

  “Mew,” Amaranth agreed.

  The wind shifted to the East, behind Jack. It smelled of rain with a slight tang of salt. Another storm approached from the sea.

  Margit sneezed three times in quick succession.

  Katrina draped a blanket over the apprentice magician’s shoulders.

  Jack crouched down to observe closer. Margit getting sick was not in his plans. She’d delay them. He hoped that once in her own land, Katrina would learn to trust him again, learn that he’d never hurt her, even if they must remain celibate the rest of their lives—a fate he certainly hoped to avoid.

  (Not sick,) Amaranth insisted.

  “Well, nice to hear you speak again, friend,” Jack murmured, stroking the flywacket’s neck and back. His fingers lingered on the slight bump of the extra skin that had rolled back to release the wings.

  (Lonely for Katrina. She lonely, too.) Amaranth launched into a long glide down the rock face. He landed beside Katrina, tucked his wings neatly away and began an obligatory bath.

  Both women squealed, Margit half-frightened, Katrina half-delighted, at their visitor. Margit shifted her bottom to a rock on the opposite side of the fire from the flywacket.

  “I hate cats!” Her words came distinctly to Jack’s ears, despite the wind that blew in the opposite direction.

  True to the perverse nature of all cats, Amaranth followed Margit. He rubbed up against her arm and attempted to crawl into her lap. Margit jumped up with a yelp and began walking circles around the camp. The flywacket followed her lazily.

  Katrina tried luring the black cat into her lap. Amaranth crouched on the other side of the fire, shifting his front paws in hunter mode, ready to leap.

  But Jack saw the cat’s trajectory in his mind and Amaranth’s. He’d land directly on Margit’s shoulder, not Katrina’s lap.

  “Thanks for making my decision for me, Amaranth.” Jack climbed down to retrieve his familiar and restore order in the camp. “I just hope you haven’t created more problems than you solved.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Lanciar threaded his way along the line of march toward Zolltarn’s sledge. The stern and wily clan chieftain popped a whip just above the left ear of the lead pack steed. The animal quickened its pace a bit. The other steeds followed suit.

  The tin weasel, perched on the raised front of the sledge, seemed to wink and drool at the evidence of Zolltarn’s control of the dumb beasts. Its tail lost some of its rigidity and bristled.

  Lanciar quickly crossed his wrists behind his back and wiggled his fingers in an abbreviated ward against evil. The statue was inanimate. It couldn’t move. Could it?

  Zolltarn smiled and so did everyone else in the caravan, including Lanciar, the tin weasel forgotten. That happened a lot. Whatever mood sat on Zolltarn’s shoulders infected the entire clan. Was this part of their connected magic; all of them subtly linked so that what one experienced the others shared? Lanciar hoped not. If that were the case, he was falling under their spell. He needed independence and privacy to steal his son. If he ever found the boy.

  “You have something to ask me?” Zolltarn spoke before Lanciar could open his mouth or even frame his question.

  “You lead us in a strange direction,” Lanciar said.

  “The road leads us. We follow it,” Zolltarn replied in typically cryptic Rover fashion.

  “The road branched three ways less than an hour ago. You could have chosen any one of those directions.”

  “This road seemed more enticing.”

  “This road leads to the mountains. The pass into SeLenicca is haunted by demons and ghosts as well as bandits.”

  “Ghosts have no reason to trouble Rovers. Bandits have learned to leave us alone. And as for demons? Demons can be our friends.” The Rover leader smiled and squinted his eyes in an expression that looked like mischief personified.

  Lanciar refused to repeat the ward behind his back. He’d have to learn to deal with Zolltarn and his smile sooner or later, hopefully later, after he left the clan with his son.

  “Rovers are not welcome in SeLenicca,” Lanciar argued. “The land has been stripped of resources. Why borrow trouble, when you can roam Coronnan and live off its lush bounty?”

  “My grandson travels this way. I sense that he needs me.” Zolltarn lifted his head and sniffed the air. His eyes took on a glazed expression.

  “Who calls you, Zolltarn?” Lanciar asked.

  “As I said, my grandson.”

  “You have so few men in the clan. I’m surprised you allowed the man to leave.”

  “In the way of the People, the man goes to his wife’s clan. For my grandson to marry within the clan would violate our laws against incest. He will rule his wife’s clan one day, as I rule my wife’s.”

  “You have not brought in new husbands for the many women here. Instead you indulge in polygamy.”

  ‘You have been brought into the clan. As have many orphaned children.”

  “I travel with you. There is a difference.” But his senses became suddenly alert to the nuances in Zolltarn’s tone. There was only one child that interested him.

  “Is there a difference? We take in the son, so must we take in the father.”

  “I will leave when I have accomplished my mission.”

  “Will you?”

  “S’murghit, I will.”

  Watch your language! He distinctly heard Maija’s reprimand in his mind.

  Lanciar looked around for Zolltarn’s youngest daughter. She frowned at him from three sledges behind him. For once he did not look away and feel ashamed, but boldly held her gaze until she smiled and nodded.

  Only then did Lanciar turn his attention back to the Rover Chieftain’s challenge. Inwardly he shuddered against standing in such close proximity to a dark-eyed outlander; having his son raised by outlanders. Prejudices pounded into him as a child remained firmly rooted in his gut and the back of his mind.

  At one time he’d loved Rejiia. By that time, he’d spent enough time in the company of foreign soldiers and diplomats to overlook many things about outlanders. But still he resented them, felt dirty having to touch one. He’d overlooked Rejiia’s black hair because she had an incredibly lush body and an insatiable sexual appetite. True-blood women were notorious prudes. She also had piercing and beautiful blue eyes—the blue of an endless night sky in deep Winter. True-bloods of SeLenicca always had blue eyes (though several shades lighter than Rejiia’s) and blond hair.

  But she and her lover King Simeon, Queen Miranda’s red-haired consort, had stolen the crown from Simeon’s meek little wife. Rejiia had claimed that her son was fathered by Simeon, hoping to put the child on the throne of SeLenicca as well as Coronnan with claims to Rossemeyer and Hanassa. But Simeon had turned out to be her father’s half brother. Then she claimed the boy died at birth to avoid the taint of incest.

  But Lanciar knew the child to be his, sired during a particularly passionate coven ritual when The Simeon had occupied himself exclusively with Ariiell. She’d been a simpering virgin at the time and screamed loudly enough to satisfy even The Simeon. Rejiia had never screamed during sex and always participated with all of her strength and emotions—even during her first ritual when Simeon claimed her virginity.

  Lanciar wondered if she’d indeed been a virgin or merely used her magic to create that illusion.

  You can’t trust a dark-eyed outlander. The oft repeated phrase burned into Lanciar’s mind.

  “I’ll leave when I accomplish my mission,” he reiterated.

  “You have met my daughter Maija,” Zolltarn continued as if Lanciar had not spoken. “A comely girl.”

  “She’s a good cook.” Lanciar wasn’t about to admit how beautiful he found th
e girl with her flashing eyes, bright smile, long legs, and lush bosom. He didn’t really mind her reprimands about his soldier-bred language. From that first night when she’d asked him to abandon his campsite and join the clan, he’d admired her.

  But the promise of a romp in her bed had remained an elusive taunt between them. All he wanted from her was a romp. A commitment for more would tie him to the clan and he did not want to stay with them any longer than necessary. He wanted his son free of Rover ideas and morals—or lack of morals.

  He sensed a trap in Zolltarn’s words and the girl’s seduction. And he’d witnessed almost no immoral conduct or indiscretions.

  “Maija has no husband. She has courted a number of suitable men from other clans but found none of them to her liking. Not all of the men are willing to follow me because I am a powerful magician and have ties to the Commune of Magicians. They know that once they mate with one of mine there is no escape. They remain part of my clan even if their bride dies.”

  “I presume, then, that the choice of mate belongs to the women in your clan.” Lanciar found himself edging away from Zolltarn, off the road, away from these people and their alien customs.

  “ ’Tis the way of the Rovers. Once she chooses, she must be faithful. Before she chooses, she must remain untouched. Upon occasion we have relaxed that rule and met with disaster. My eldest daughter Kestra died and her child was stolen from us because we sought a different solution to our needs. Never again.”

  “I’m surprised you have not pushed Maija to choose sooner, bring new blood, another man into the clan.”

  “Ah, but now she has chosen. And she will take your son into her household as soon as he is weaned.” Zolltarn stared directly at Lanciar.

  “I think I need a drink.”

  “Maija brews the best ale of all the Rover clans.”

  Eight black articulated limbs quested outward from the slime-coated, bulbous body of the spider. Vareena stared at the malevolent creature, frozen by fear.

  Poison dripped from the clacking pincers on the forward limbs. Its eyes, positioned near the joint of each leg, flashed demon red. The thing could easily enclose her fist within its eight arms.

  Her heart pounded as loud as festival drums. Cold sweat trickled down her back.

  The spider inched forward, tasting the air with each legtip, glowing as redly as its eyes.

  “Stargods protect me,” she whispered, trying to edge away from her stalker. The stone walls on three sides of her hard bed within the monastery stopped her retreat.

  The spider moved forward faster than she could edge away from it.

  Could she run for the doorway before it swung out on its web and latched onto her vulnerable neck?

  Surely Robb must sense her fear, hear her thudding heartbeat, and come to her rescue.

  The door remained stubbornly closed. The entire monastery was wrapped in the preternatural silence of the gloaming.

  The spider came closer.

  Panic propelled Vareena out of bed and across the room. She tugged at the door. It remained firmly closed and latched. She kicked it and bruised her toes. She pulled with both hands. It did not even rattle.

  Something heavy and hard landed on her hair.

  She screamed . . .

  And awoke in bed drenched in sweat.

  Cautiously, afraid to move lest she bring the spider upon her, she brought a wisp of witchlight to her fingertip.

  Search as she might, she could not find the spider. An empty and torn cobweb hung from the far corner of her cell. She’d thrown witchfire at it before claiming the room as her own.

  The sweat beneath her shift chilled rapidly. She needed to move or wrap the covers more tightly about her. But if she did that, she might disturb the spider.

  The door burst open. Marcus and Robb, both bleary-eyed with sleep-tousled hair stood side by side. Each carried a large ball of witchlight. The direction-less light illuminated every corner of the room.

  “Spider!” she hissed at them, almost daring them to search her blankets.

  Marcus strode forward with confidence and whipped the bedcovers away from her. He shook them vigorously.

  Nothing scuttled away from his search.

  “You must have had a nightmare,” Robb said behind a yawn. “We’ve both had them since coming here. Go back to sleep. The dream will fade with the dawn.”

  “I can’t go back to sleep.” She wished one of them, either of them, both of them, would hold her tight and banish the fear with their strength. Their ghostly energies kept them from touching her.

  “Then get up and do something. Best way to banish a dream is to use the privy and let it drain away. Bake some bread, clean something, count the bricks in the wall. You’ll be sleep again in moments.” Robb backed out of the room.

  “He’s right, Vareena. You need to do something to shake yourself free of the dream.” Marcus shrugged and exited as well.

  “He’s right.” Vareena stood up and took stock of her cell. No shadows hid from her witchlight. “Childish fears. I won’t let them rule me.” With determination, she dressed and went to find flour and yeast. Time to start baking bread for breakfast.

  My powers are weakening! My enemies have weathered every disaster I throw at them. Yet still they gather. Still they plot against me.

  Once, long ago, when I was just beginning, all others thought me weak and of little consequence. But I showed them. I gathered secrets as a miser gathers gold. I gathered power and I learned to use it subtly, so that they never knew from whence the attack came. I taught my children to do the same. They became almost as powerful as me.

  To protect myself and the source of my power, I must delve deep into my memories for a spell that will drain away all that these thieves hold dear. Then, when they are weak and vulnerable, I will scatter them, make them wander lost and alone, powerless. If that fails, I must murder them all.

  CHAPTER 25

  The unnamed woman sat staring into the crackling fire. Zebbiah and Jaranda had left her alone while they made a game of fetching water and washing the roots he had gathered earlier today. Her heart warmed whenever she saw the two of them together. Zebbiah would make an admirable father for the little girl.

  Would he make as fine a husband?

  She nudged the notion aside while she concentrated on the flames. Images from her past flitted in and out of her view.

  She tasted a name on her tongue. Miranda. A common enough name since a former king and queen of SeLenicca had given the name to their only child nineteen years ago.

  Miranda. The name tasted smoky, like the air on this crisp and clear night in the middle of a remote mountain pass.

  Miranda.

  Could that truly be her name?

  She stared into the green-and-yellow flames, seeking answers, wondering if she’d asked the right questions.

  Images danced with the flames, teasing her mind. The strong, red-haired man with deep blue eyes, older than she by many years, dominated every scene she managed to mine from the deep recesses of her fragmented memory.

  Jaranda’s eyes. Her daughter had inherited those midnight blue eyes. True-bloods tended to have eyes as pale as their hair and skin. Washed out. As depleted of color as the land was depleted of vitality and resources.

  She heaved a sigh and tasted the name again. She heard it whispered behind her back by the other travelers. It resonated within her as if it belonged.

  Queen Miranda had married a red-haired outlander: Simeon the sorcerer-king. In her youth and naïveté, Queen Miranda had granted him joint ruling powers. Then she had turned over the government to him so that she could spend all of her time making lace—the proper place for a woman in her culture.

  But Simeon had imposed crushing taxes on her people. He had forced a war with Coronnan. He had enacted stringent laws. For even the tiniest infraction of the new laws he had exacted the extreme punishment, slavery or execution. The executions had been carried out as sacrifices to his blood-thirsty demon god S
imurgh.

  And yet Simeon himself had broken every law he enacted. He’d taken several mistresses—one of them, Rejiia, his own niece. He’d consorted with foreigners. He’d paid no tithes to the temple as required, yet he stole temple funds for his own bizarre religion.

  And then he had outlawed the ancient and beautiful worship of the three Stargod brothers.

  SeLenicca had crumbled under his crushing rule.

  Change had come to SeLenicca. Dramatic, catastrophic, and none too soon.

  The SeLenese had long believed that they were the Chosen of the Stargods. The land was theirs to exploit. Nurturing the land, growing crops, and raising livestock had been delegated to lesser peoples in other countries. By the time Miranda came to the throne, the Chosen of the Stargods had bled SeLenicca of all her natural resources. They had nothing left except their arrogance, their prejudices, and their lace.

  Dared she believe that she and the meek woman who had allowed all that to happen while she closeted herself with her lace were one and the same. Did she want to be that woman?

  What other reason for one and all to desert her and her young daughter in the palace when they fled the kardiaquakes and the fires and the flooding? What other reason than to condemn her for their troubles?

  Miranda.

  “I’ll do better when I return. But first I have to find the strength to be the kind of queen my people need. I need to remember everything, not just bits and pieces glued together with supposition.”

  A noise alerted her to the presence of another. She wasn’t ready to face Zebbiah and Jaranda yet, so she continued staring blankly into the fire. Part of her senses remained focused on the shuffling steps and wheezing breath of the intruder.

  Not Zebbiah.

  She listened more closely and shifted her eyes, but not her head, to catch a glimpse of whoever hovered behind her, near the pack beast and the panniers; the panniers filled with her lace pillow and countless yards of priceless lace.