“It’s almost dawn. Puppy. We might as well get up and begin working the garden.” The wolf responded by leaping up, his tail wagging so hard his hind end moved.
“You’re too eager.” She laughed at his antics. He stood by the door, waiting to be let out.
Mica mewed in protest. Her half-open eyes showed the vertical pupils of a cat again. She settled back into the warmth of the blankets.
Brevelan reached out with her mind and checked each of her charges. The rabbits emerged one by one from their holes for early grazing; the goat still slept. The flustercock stood and strutted for his first crow of the day. Somewhere above, Shayla circled.
You were frightened.
“Only a dream.” Brevelan shivered as she shed her damp shift and pulled on a clean one. Her woolen overgown added warmth. She slipped her feet into thick stockings and clogs against the dawn chill. Later, when the sun found the clearing she would discard them.
More than a dream. A memory.
“From a long time ago, almost a year. I don’t need to worry about it anymore.”
You will.
“Now what is that supposed to mean, Shayla?” For the first time, Brevelan allowed anger to tinge her conversation with the dragon. Just once, she wished Shayla would explain her thoughts.
You will have to face that man again.
She didn’t say mate or husband, just “that man.” That told Brevelan something. In Shayla’s mind the black-haired man was not her husband. The law said differently.
“That man is dead. Isn’t he?”
Blankness. Shayla did not deign to respond.
Darville is well?
“Of course. The wolf thrives.” She wondered why Shayla doted so on the wolf. Dragons usually hunted wolves and other creatures of similar size, rather than feed them and ask after their welfare.
You must protect him. Trust the one who comes to help you.
“Shayla?”
But the dragon was gone. Where, Brevelan had no idea. Somewhere up in the mountains to her lair probably. Someday she’d go up there and find the dragon’s home. Then, when Shayla couldn’t fly away, she’d ask all the questions she’d stored up all winter.
Like why Shayla had summoned her into a raging snowstorm to save an injured wolf. She’d never spoken to a dragon before that awful night. Never known it was possible for anyone outside the royal family to have any contact at all with the magical creatures. But then, if the rumors back home were true, she had royal blood in her veins.
Krej, lord of the castle next to her home village, was first cousin to King Darcine. Krej had the same bright red hair as herself and many children in his villages. The hair was a lingering legacy from the lord’s outland mother.
That was all in the past. She had escaped her abusive husband and her village. Now there was work to be done. Brevelan stepped forward and set about her morning chores with her usual energy. The song she sang lightened her mind as well as the weight of the work.
The work was for herself and her animals, not some duty imposed by an elder.
As she sang, her clearing filled with light and joy. This protected place was hers, and all who resided there responded to the security her songs offered them.
Just beyond where the stream crossed the road Jaylor saw the first obscure markings on the rocks at the side of the road.
YOU APPROACH THE BORDER, said the first sign.
The next mark a few feet beyond was less obvious to the eye. This one was written in ancient runes. The magic rather than the visual image leaped out at Jaylor.
THE KING’S MAGIC CAN NO LONGER PROTECT YOU.
Not exactly the king’s magic. The Commune maintained the border, repelled possible invasion, and kept the overly curious inside. King Darcine had no real magic, nor had any king before him. This king had very little of anything left—health, personality, power. All he did have of value was a son. And no one in the capital had seen the prince for weeks at the time of Jaylor’s departure.
He pushed beyond the sign. The air thickened and resisted his efforts. Jaylor stopped and looked back.
A faint shimmer in the air marked the spot where the last rune rested. Only magic could produce that kind of distortion. Only a magician could see it, penetrate it.
Ordinary folk couldn’t pass that border. The Rovers had. The villagers must if they sought the witchwoman.
The wrongness of the situation bothered him. He should consult with Baamin, and soon. He wasn’t supposed to ask for help on a quest. But it wasn’t help he sought. He needed to warn the Commune. About the border and Rovers entering the kingdom. Warn them of dragons starving out villages and leading large numbers of people astray.
A few feet farther on, a path wandered off to the east and south. This must be the way to the home of the witchwoman. Kind of far out for her to serve the village. Her home would be in the foothills, possibly near the dragon’s lair.
The path narrowed. Trees closed in, darkening the way. Once more he had the sense of another presence—behind him. Closer this time. A whiff of Tambootie in the air.
The Rovers? He stretched his heightened senses once more and encountered a void. Not just the absence of a presence, the absence of everything. Someone, armored, was sending Jaylor’s awareness around the space he occupied.
A magician. In the pub he had encountered an old derelict who carried an image of himself as a vigorous man in his prime. A man with hair as red as Lord Krej’s.
Three years before Jaylor had entered the University, Krej, the youngest son of the Lord of Faciar had been a journeyman magician. His father and brothers had been killed in a senseless hunting accident. A wild tusker had charged. Arrows went astray. Grief stricken, the new lord renounced his magic and took a bride. He had to have lost most, if not all of his magical powers on his wedding night.
The magician who followed Jaylor could not be Krej himself. Possibly a rogue hired by him, or a cousin from his mother’s country? But why play with outlaw rogues when he’d been educated into the benefits, ethics, and strengths of traditional magic? Jaylor slipped off the path behind a tree. The rough bark was the same color as his dusty cloak. He merged with the tree. Even a master magician would find only a tree.
The reek of burned Tambootie preceded the nearing presence. Jaylor stilled his mind and his magic.
Just as Jaylor expected, it was the one-eyed man from the pub who emerged from around the bend in the path. Old Thorm, someone had called him. No longer drunk or derelict, he walked fully upright with hands extended before him. He sniffed the air carefully as he walked.
Rough bark scraped Jaylor’s face as he pressed closer to the tree. With his mind, he sought the core of the tree, identified with it, made it part of himself.
His pursuer moved forward, still seeking by sense and by magic. He was abreast of Jaylor when he turned and faced him. Jaylor stopped breathing.
“You there, magician,” One-eye hissed, “you can’t hide from me. I can feel your magic.”
Fear climbed Jaylor’s back and brought moisture to his skin. His mind deliberately closed off the seeking words that were a spell in themselves. He thought nothing, moved nothing, was aware only of the smell of Tambootie and the essence of timboor that lingered in his mouth and groin.
The pursuer looked more closely. His head shifted right and left, above and below, seeking and sniffing.
Jaylor’s sheltering tree dissolved before his eyes. His eyes locked with those of his pursuer.
“Whaour!” Some beast above him screamed.
One-eye jerked his eyes away from Jaylor, looking up in fear. His arms flew above his head in protection. Piercing turquoise shafts of glasslike light became speeding arrows aimed at his one good eye. They made contact and splintered into a thousand bright shards of brilliant color. Rainbows arced and danced on every beam of light through the tree branches.
“No! No!” One-eye backed down the path, his arms still over his head and face. “Leave me alone. Go away. Go away.
” He turned and ran back the way he had come. His shrieks of pain and terror marked his path. He left behind a lingering aura of evil.
Relief washed over Jaylor’s entire body in waves of coolness. He looked up at the one small patch of visible sky. The blue-green color shimmered with a magic distortion. Squinting with his extended sight, he could just see the outline of a wing and a long, lashing tail.
The lilting, feminine voice came into his head unbidden. You are safe for now. Hurry. They need you.
Had he just seen and heard a dragon? Startled and bewildered, he grabbed a branch of his tree for support. He jumped back, amazed that the tree hadn’t really dissolved. His hand came away with a clump of gray berries, dried and desiccated from the long winter, clenched in is fist.
Timboor. He’d used a Tambootie tree for shelter. Had the tree aided his magic sight or One-eye’s? The reek he had sensed was Tambootie smoke, not the crisp sap he smelled now. He needed to stop and think about this. But the dragon had urged him forward. He pulled off another handful of the berries and stuffed them into his belt pouch.
Jaylor pushed on. He pondered the significance of the tree, of the man who’d followed him, and the dragon, and how they were all related to the magic that came to him with increasing ease. He hummed a strange little tune that visited him on the wind, the vibration of the music swelling in his chest and tingling through his body.
Song burst from him in joy. Nonsense words flowed through his mind as he tried to find their meaning. None came. He just sang with uplifting cheerfulness over a narrow escape, a good quest before him, a firm road to tread, and fresh air to breathe.
The song grew in him. He built a harmony to round it out. His strides lengthened, his mind cleared. This grand adventure was the best part of his training. He reaffirmed his determination to enjoy it.
The path rounded a bend to reveal a wide clearing bathed in glimmering sunlight. Near the center stood a neatly thatched cottage. Before the home stood a beautiful red-haired young woman. Her song lifted and swirled around and around her.
A robin perched on her shoulder, chirping his own version of the song, while a rabbit nibbled at her toes. Squirrels chased each other about the garden area in a joyful dance. A mouse peeped out from the thatch, its nose twitching in greeting.
Jaylor had found the witchwoman.
Chapter 6
Darville trotted into the undergrowth. Each step brought new and interesting smells to his active nose. He sorted through them with care and delight. Dominating all, was that of Brevelan, just as she dominated the existence of all the forest creatures. Underneath her human scent he detected the familiar traces of Mica, the goat, a pair of squirrels, the flustercock and his mates. Darville disregarded the odor left by anyone who shared the clearing with Brevelan. She would never forgive him if he killed any of her special friends.
He tested the air to right and left. Nothing new. He trotted farther, delighting in the spongy surface beneath his feet, the cool air on his tongue, and the sense of power in his frame.
A stream crossed the path. Exuberantly, he bounced into the chill water, rolling into an icy splash with a playful lunge. The cold couldn’t penetrate his thick winter fur. His tongue lolled out in pure delight. He flexed his hind legs and bounded from the stream.
Instinctively, he shook water from his coat. The spray bounced back into his face. He wanted to share his joy in the shooting drops of water. Brevelan wasn’t here. So the trees and ferns received the gift of his shaking. A little farther along Darville caught a new scent. Hare. He tasted and savored it. Just enough for a tasty meal, without any leftovers to distress Brevelan.
For a moment he wondered why the feelings of a woman should matter. They never had before. Brevelan’s approval and goodwill were as essential to his being as was the dragon who flew the skies above. He’d never owed his life to a woman before. The least he could do was respect her wishes.
In the meantime he would take pleasure in the power of his body, the keenness of his senses, and the beauty of the day.
A short time later he licked the last morsel of hare from a bone just as a new sensation enveloped him.
Fear. The smell of it, taste of it, was thick in the air. It lapped at the pit of his belly.
Darville channeled all of his alerted senses into his search for the source of that mind-numbing fear. There. Into the wind, he found it. Brevelan was afraid. His muscles bunched and propelled him forward. Brevelan. He had to save her, just as she and the dragon had snatched him away from death last winter. Whatever threatened her would die. Shayla might help. But he no longer knew how to call her.
Darville raced along the path in the most direct route to the clearing, crashing through the undergrowth. His passage disturbed the homes of several creatures. He didn’t care.
His breath came quick and sharp, his heart beat and beat, pumping blood to make him fast and strong. He had to protect Brevelan!
There at last was the clearing and Brevelan, his beloved. She stood, hunted-still, staring at a man with a walking staff. Her fear beat around Darville in waves. It echoed and reverberated through his bones.
Darville could almost taste the hot blood from the man’s throat as he cleared the last few strides. This man would die. Brevelan would be safe.
Instinctively, his front paws fought for traction while his hind legs bunched and coiled. Teeth bared, fur bristling, he leaped.
He hit a wall. Bounced. Fell. Pain. PAIN. Blackness.
A flying ball of fur crossed Jaylor’s vision.
His arm came up, automatically, in a gesture of warding. The words of a spell rippled along his tongue.
“No!” the witchwoman screamed.
Time slowed. Jaylor could see only dripping fangs, sprouting from a gaping muzzle. Fangs meant for his throat. The wolf’s body hit the height of its arc and kept coming toward him. He could see the anger, the hunger in the animal’s eyes. And still it kept coming.
Jaylor looked into the golden, hate-filled eyes. He tasted the same hot blood, the same sense of urgency.
The wolf recoiled against Jaylor’s armor and dropped to the ground. His huge golden body crumpled in the grass.
“No!” The witchwoman screamed again as she ran to the fallen beast. She knelt beside the wolf, hands gently probing the slack body.
“Get away. He’s in pain. He’ll bite anyone.” Jaylor tried to pull her away from the head and lethal teeth. “He’ll savage us both before he’s fully conscious again.”
“My Puppy would never bite me. Never.”
“I don’t know much about animals,” he argued. Most of the last ten years he’d been isolated at the University. “But I do know wild animals can’t be trusted, especially when they’re in pain. Stay away from his teeth!”
She ignored him. Her hands caressed the wolf’s fur and a soothing hum rose from her throat.
This beast must be very special to the woman. A companion. Or a familiar? One-eye’s description came back to haunt him.
No. Women didn’t have magic so they couldn’t have a familiar, a focus for magic like his staff. This was probably just a pet raised by the woman from a pup. She’d called him “Puppy.”
If that was the case, the wolf’s health was important to her. The villagers had said, if they could be trusted to tell the truth, that he had to get past the witchwoman in order to find the dragon. Therefore, the woman’s goodwill was important to Jaylor if he wanted to find out anything more about dragons.
“Let me see him. I think I just stunned him.” Jaylor decided to try his few healing techniques.
“Get away. Haven’t you hurt him enough?” Her despair stopped him just short of contact with the wolf’s body. She probed at the front leg, which jutted at an awkward angle. The hum at the back of her throat intensified as she kneaded the thick fur.
Witchwomen had all kinds of tricks to make people believe they had magic. None of them really worked. His own mental probe revealed the source of pain.
; “I can help him. Get around behind and hold his head. He might not bite you, but he will bite me,” he grumbled. She didn’t move. “Trust me, please. I know what I’m doing.”
His eyes locked with hers. He looked away first.
“Do you?” Her tone froze any good feelings he’d been having. This woman was beautiful. She had an aura that invited confidence. But Jaylor wasn’t tempted, not anymore. He’d seen her anger and despair when the wolf dropped to the ground.
“Do you have the brute strength to reset a dislocated shoulder?” He stepped back to allow her the distance she had deliberately set between them. “Your herbal potions and false chants won’t do him any good. Magic won’t help either. Not even the University healers can set bones that way.”
She glared at him as if deeply insulted. Then, mutely, she dipped her face deep into the animal’s fur, dangerously close to the mouth and huge teeth. Teeth that had so recently been aimed at Jaylor’s throat. He pushed down his instinctive fear.
“You’re a magician,” she said flatly. “I should have known. The dreams were so detailed, I should have understood.”
Stargods! What the s’murghin Tambootie did that mean? Silently, the girl shifted behind her pet. Her small hands gathered the wolf’s head onto her lap. The low hum came again.
Jaylor felt the soothing effect of her music. He was calm as he knelt beside the animal.
He shouldn’t be. A wild wolf was unpredictable even in the best of spirits.
He rested his right hand gently on the wolf’s injured shoulder. His mind sought the source of the damage.
When his fingers tingled, he knew he’d found the proper place. He applied pressure while his strong left hand encircled the paw.
Golden eyes opened and looked up into his own, with perfect trust and understanding.
Something in those eyes was familiar. They spoke to Jaylor in sentiments he was too nervous to understand.
“Careful now. He’s awake and this is going to hurt.” He pulled on the paw slightly, testing the wolf’s reaction.
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 6