The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  Katrina looked up at him without answering, eyes huge in the firelight.

  “Something is different about you, Jack. You are . . . almost vulnerable. Like you were when I first met you.”

  “Lonely. Missing you as I would miss my breath or the beat of my heart.”

  Her chin quivered slightly. She bit her lip.

  Jack waited a moment, hoping she’d say something, anything to reassure him. “I’ll not press you to marry me, Katrina. I know you fear it. But I need to know you are safe. I need to be close to you, look at you, touch you.” He stroked her long, silky plaits.

  Margit might not have been there except for her sneezes. Which tapered off as Jack moved away from her.

  The funny feeling churned in his gut again, and his tailbone needed to twitch. He knew a sudden compulsion to wash his hands and face—especially behind his ears—in the nearby creek.

  “And who is this new companion of yours, Jack? I know you miss Corby, but I never thought I’d see you with a cat,” Katrina continued, as if their future together did not lay between them like an open wound.

  “That is Amaranth.” Silently, Jack sent the flywacket an image of rubbing his black fur against Margit’s trews.

  “Amaranth?” Katrina looked up at him, love and trust shining in her eyes. Could this be just another ordinary conversation catching up on the news?

  “The redundant purple dragon has taken a new form. He’s truly my familiar now.” Jack perched on a rock next to Katrina; close enough to reach out and hold her hand, but not so close as to threaten her.

  “It’s as if he now absorbs all of the light he used to reflect.” She tried to stop the black cat from hopping off her lap, but he wriggled free of her grasp and slunk over to Margit. She had her back to the fire and for a moment her sneezes had abated.

  “Amaranth,” Katrina called him back.

  Under Jack’s prodding the flywacket circled Margit three times, each circuit bringing him closer to her until he rubbed his face against her boots and then her knees.

  “Get away, you awful creature.” Margit hopped and jumped farther away from the fire. But she did not sneeze.

  Jack sent Amaranth another mental command to return to Katrina and stay with her. Amaranth arched his back and stretched, leaning first backward, tail up, front legs extended. Then he leaned forward, stretching his back legs one at a time. At last he shook himself and leaped over the fire, extending only the tips of his wings for balance. He landed next to Katrina and sat. He accepted a few ear scratches, then began to lave his front paws.

  Jack wanted to fish the soap out of his pack and join his familiar in the cleansing ritual.

  Margit whirled to face him, eyes huge, hands fishing within her scrip. “Did you feel that? You must have. It was stronger this time, more urgent.”

  Then Jack put aside his own horrible fears and opened his awareness. His glass thrummed, very lightly; almost as if he had already answered the summons that had brought it to life.

  “What?”

  “A distress call. From that direction.” She pointed. “West by southwest.”

  “I barely felt it before it was gone.”

  “That’s the nature of a distress call, sent out to any magician who might intercept it.”

  Jack looked at her quizzically.

  “That’s what Lyman says. And I’m betting it’s Marcus. I’m following it. Now.” She stooped to pick up her pack at her feet. “You two don’t need me anymore.”

  “Wait, Margit. You can’t go now. It’s dark. The road is uncertain, and we’re very near the border. Who knows what kinds of bandits lurk in the foothills.” Jack gritted his teeth and grabbed Margit’s arm to detain her. His insides coiled in mistrust and an urge to flee.

  The moment he touched her shoulder, Margit sneezed three more times in rapid succession.

  He whirled quickly and sought Amaranth’s aura, clearly outlined in the firelight. Only the pale purple signature color outlined his black body with energy. Jack sought Katrina’s single aura of crystal and white, like her lace. Margit shone three shades of yellow between sneezes that shifted all her energy to orange while she purged himself of some foreign humor in the air.

  Then Jack took a deep breath and sought the first stages of a trance. He stared at the silvery umbilical of life that trailed from his body.

  Very few master magicians could see their umbilical anywhere but in the void. Fewer still ever had a glimpse of their true signature colors in the umbilical.

  Along with Jack’s signature silver and purple—darker than Amaranth’s—he saw a strange coil of life entwined with his own. Red, black, yellow, brown, and a touch of white.

  The same colors he’d sensed around Queen Mikka. The same colors as the cat she had lost when she absorbed her pet’s spirit.

  “Ladies, I think I have a problem.”

  CHAPTER 27

  Lanciar shifted the bundle of kindling under his arm for better balance. Satisfied that he’d not drop the load of small sticks and dried grasses, he swung his free arm jauntily and whistled a gay tune as he strolled through the line of trees bordering a chuckling creek. This simple life of trekking across the countryside with the Rovers appealed to him. Almost like being back in the army without the worry and responsibility of seeing to the discipline and well-being of a thousand men under his command.

  Indeed, discipline never seemed to be a problem with the Rovers. Their mind-to-mind links with Zolltarn gave them a sense of unity and purpose he’d never achieved in the army.

  For a moment he felt very alone and left out of the clan. The whistling tune died in his throat. Alone. As he had always been alone except for those few brief hours when he and Jack had sat on a cold mountain trail while they traversed the void together seeking a way to center and awaken Lanciar’s magical talent. Linked to Jack by mind and magic, he had known a short time of belonging with the universe at large and with one other person.

  The next morning he and Jack had parted with hostility. And then, because of his misguided loyalty to the coven, Lanciar had betrayed Jack. Lanciar had never heard if the young magician had survived. He hoped so, even though they belonged to opposing forces on both the magic and mundane planes. Jack’s honesty and unwavering loyalty deserved better than Rejiia had given him.

  Guilt made him long for a tall mug of Maija’s ale.

  “What troubles you, spy?” Maija asked from directly behind him.

  Lanciar gasped and whirled, ready to defend himself with his staff and magic. He’d never get used to the Rover’s ability to creep up on him unannounced. Inanely, he was still clutching the kindling, recognizing its importance to the camp as a whole.

  “What do you want?” he asked rather curtly. His irritation at his own failings suddenly became her fault.

  “I thought you might like to meet your son, spy.”

  “I am not a spy. I have a s’murghin’ name.” He couldn’t allow hope to overshadow his caution.

  “Watch your language,” she replied curtly. “Until you are one of us, we do not acknowledge your name. When you join us, we will give you a name worthy of our clan.”

  “When will I join you—if I decide to join your clan?”

  “When you and I are married. When you and I soar through the heavens on a cloud of bliss on our wedding night. Then you will know the ecstasy of belonging to a clan.” She moved closer. Her scent—soap, berries, and feminine allure—filled Lanciar’s senses with longing.

  Lanciar swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth.

  “Come with me now, spy, and I will introduce you to your son. For the sake of your son, you will marry me. For the sake of your son, you will moderate your language, you will join with us, strengthen our clan with your strength, with your weapons, with your magic.” She drifted closer yet. Her sweet breath fanned his cheek.

  Slowly he shifted his mouth closer to hers. Closer until his lips brushed hers ever so lightly. Fire lit his veins and blanked his mind to all but Maija.r />
  “Come,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him back to the encampment.

  Men and women alike erected the circle of tents and bardos with swift efficiency. Trained soldiers didn’t set up camp any better.

  Still holding his hand, Maija led him to the small red tent with black trim beside Zolltarn’s huge purple one. Together they ducked inside the long strands of wooden beads that served as a curtain. The aromatic incense of Tambootie wood greeted him from the beads as well as the fire. His senses reeled under the onslaught of hypnotic humors.

  Lanciar blinked rapidly for several heartbeats, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the tent interior and for his senses to balance. Maija continued to hold his hand. A fine layer of sweat moistened his palms. His mouth continued to dry. He swallowed convulsively several times, wishing he had a mug of Maija’s very fine ale.

  At last he spotted the curtained cradle swinging between two upright stands set beside the narrow pallet where Maija slept alone each night. A series of gurgles and coos came from the depths of the gauzy linen drapes over the peaked half roof of the cradle.

  Lanciar dropped the bundle of kindling in his haste to reach his son. The Tambootie smoke had heightened his magical senses. One glimpse of the child’s aura told him that he had sired this fragile scrap of humanity. He slid to his knees beside the cradle, fumbling with the coverings. Desperate to see the boy, afraid that Maija would hide the baby again if Lanciar took too long, he ripped away the fine linen.

  His son stopped wiggling and cooing for one long breathless moment while father and son studied each other. Then at last the boy smiled, revealing toothless gums. He drooled and waved his hands about, happy with his life, with his full tummy, and his clean diaper.

  “He is the most beautiful baby in the world,” Lanciar gasped.

  “Because he is your son.” Maija beamed at him.

  “Have you given him a name?” Lanciar spoke in hushed tones lest he startle the babe and set him crying. He offered the boy a finger to grasp.

  A tiny fist wrapped around the digit with amazing strength and pulled it toward his mouth. Instantly, the baby began gnawing on it.

  “Is he hungry?” Lanciar kept his finger where his son wanted it.

  “No. He just needs to taste you in order to fix you in his tiny mind,” Maija replied. She continued smiling hugely. “He’s also beginning to grow teeth. His gums itch.”

  Lanciar finally gathered enough of his wits to look the boy over. Fine black hair with just a hint of a curl in it. Pink skin, much fairer than the olive tones of the Rovers. And incredibly deep blue eyes, the color of midnight at the full moon.

  Rejiia’s eyes.

  Lanciar allowed his eyes to cross so he could study his son’s aura. Undistinguished layers of purple, blue, red, green, and yellow frothed about him. He hadn’t yet developed enough personality to push one color through to dominance.

  “Marry me, and we will raise the boy together. You need never be separated from him again,” Maija said. She lifted the babe into her arms, one hand beneath his bottom, the other supporting his head as she held him close against her shoulder.

  “And if I choose to take my son back to my own land?”

  “You will never see him again,” she replied sternly.

  “Then I will marry you.” He swallowed, trying to get rid of his increasingly dry throat.

  And then he noticed, eyes still crossed, how Maija’s aura completely engulfed his son’s, replacing it with her own dark purple-and-red coloring, extensions of Zolltarn’s colors. The boy would never have an identity or personality of his own as long as he remained with the clan.

  Lanciar had to get him away from here and soon.

  “But first I need a drink. A very long and cold drink. Let me hold the boy while you fetch the ale.”

  “I will take him with me to the wet nurse. He will be hungry again soon.”

  “But . . .”

  “When we marry, you may hold him all you wish. Until then, he belongs to the wet nurse.”

  “I’ll get my own ale. And lots of it.”

  Jaranda fretted and cried. Her face flushed with fever. Her mother held her on her shoulder, gently rubbing the child’s back.

  “Hush, baby. Hush,” she murmured over and over.

  Jaranda pouted and stuck her thumb into her mouth.

  “Zebbiah, she’s feverish,” Miranda called to her traveling companion. “We have to find someplace warm and dry. My baby needs rest and nourishing broths. We have to stop!”

  Zebbiah frowned, looking up and down the line of march. “We need to stay with the caravan. These parts aren’t safe,” he said quietly. “Look, she’s fallen asleep. I’ll carry her for a while. She’s just not used to traveling.”

  “It’s more than that, Zebbiah. I remember a time of great sickness the Winter she was born. I remember the funeral pyres—the terrible smell. Most of all I remember the fear every time someone spiked a fever in a matter of moments. I will not let my baby die because you refuse to leave the dubious safety of these thieves and vagabonds.”

  “Lady, if I take you to a place where you can rest, will you make lace for me to sell?” Zebbiah asked in a whisper.

  “Travel dust kept me from working the pillow by the campfire. These thieves and vagabonds have already tried to steal the lace. They’d steal the glass beads, silk threads, and bag of lace for the price of a meal. If you find me a quiet place with a roof and a fire pit and proper food, I’ll gladly sit and make lace every day as long as the light allows.” Until she remembered everything.

  She’d gladly separate from this caravan to get away from their fellow travelers. None of them had spoken civilly to her since they’d ousted the leader. And they kept their distance, making sure each evening to light their fires well away from Miranda, Zebbiah, and Jaranda.

  She had pieces of her memory, her name and that of her husband, flashes of faces from the past, but little else.

  “Lady, where I plan to take you, I’ll have access to witchlight come Winter. You’ll be able to make lace in the darkest corner in quiet privacy.”

  “Witchlight?” she gasped, frightened and exhilarated by the danger of sorcery. Often enough on this long trek through the mountains she’d seen the other travelers make the ward against witchcraft and evil whenever Zebbiah passed. She knew the motion of crossed wrists, right over left, and then flapping hands from a deep memory that seemed a part of her from her very beginnings. She wished she knew the origin of the gesture. Then perhaps she could understand the nature of the magic it warded against.

  Something flapping, like a bird’s wings . . .

  She yanked her mind back to the immediate problem. Letting herself drift with minor remembrance often led to a true memory. But she didn’t have time for that now.

  “Yes, take me to this place, and I will make lace for you to sell while my baby recovers. Turn the place into a home, and I might stay there forever, content to make lace and raise my child in peace.” Easier than returning to SeLenicca to take up the reins of government.

  “Peace I cannot guarantee for long. But not many people know of this abandoned monastery. Most who know of it shun it because it is haunted. I have yet to meet a ghost there. It is not far from here, a day at most. We will break away from the caravan at the first bird chirp.”

  Jaranda stirred in Zebbiah’s arms, snuggling close to him. She slept peacefully, thumb slipping free of her mouth. Something solid and honest about the man soothed her more than her mother’s presence.

  “We leave before dawn,” the woman agreed.

  “Take your baby now. I will make sure we camp close to the hidden path within the hour. I don’t want to have to backtrack. Not on the open road. These vagabonds and thieves might well follow and attack us as soon as we are out of sight. I need to make plans to divert them.”

  CHAPTER 28

  “We’ve only the one room above, the rest of you must take pallets in the great room—or the stabl
e. Take your pick,” the innkeeper announced. “Caravan came through from the pass yesterday and ain’t left yet.” She stood with fists atop her broad hips and a frown making deep creases in her heavy jowls. A thick wooden rolling pin with numerous dents sprouted from one of his fists. She looked as if she’d used it often to keep order in her tavern.

  “I will have the private room to myself!” Ariiell stated firmly.

  “I am the lord of this province, daughter. I shall have the room, with my wife, of course.” Laislac glared at her with equal stubbornness. His face darkened. He’d explode with flying fists in a moment.

  “I am a new bride and I carry the heir to the throne of all Coronnan. I believe I take precedence here.”

  Mardall giggled beside her. A bit of drool escaped his lips. His mother gently wiped it away with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  “Protocol is useless in a situation like this.” Andrall shouldered his way between Laislac and Ariiell. “If truth be told, Lady Lynnetta is senior in nobility to all of us. She is the daughter of one king, sister to another, and aunt to the current one. The only sensible thing to do is for all six of us to share the room above. Our retainers will bed down here and in the stable.”

  “Oh, why couldn’t we have waited to leave Coronnan City. Then we could have traveled by our usual route, taking hospitality from minor lords who treat us as we deserve. Instead we have stayed with ungrateful merchants. Now we must spend tonight in this foul inn that breeds disease and crime,” Lady Laislac wailed and sobbed into her own handkerchief—not nearly as fine as Lady Lynnetta’s.

  The innkeeper frowned more deeply. She looked as if she’d gladly throw them all out to fend for themselves in the nightly drizzle.

  “We left in midafternoon because the king commanded it,” Andrall reminded them all. “If we had gone to my own castle at Nunio, we’d be there by now. ’Twould be more seemly for the child to be born in his father’s ancestral home.”

  “I want my daughter comfortable, in familiar surroundings, where I can protect her and the babe.” Laislac faced his new great-brother, his face darkening further. “You know the threats by the Gnuls. They want Darville to die heirless so the kingdom will fall into chaos. My daughter and her child will be safe in Laislac. Nunio is too close to the capital and the Gnuls.”