Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “Will you care for me again? Will you come with me to Coronnan City? I need you to guide me until I am fully me again.” Darville kissed the back of her hand, as he would the hand of any court lady.

  “No,” Jaylor found himself answering instead. “I need her with me. I have to restore Shayla. She will be one very angry dragon when she comes out of the spell. Brevelan is the only one she trusts. Only Brevelan can keep Shayla from flaming the entire kingdom in revenge for the actions of your cousin.” Mica butted her head against his hand in agreement.

  “Then I must go with you, too. Without Shayla the male dragons will desert the kingdom. They must honor their bonds to me and stay.” As he had many times in past months, Darville curved his jaws around Brevelan’s delicate wrist in wolf greeting.

  I have my beautiful dragon. She is crystal and light. Sunshine will refract from her into a million rainbows. The false Stargods could not produce a miracle so beautiful as my dragon.

  Only Simurgh has the power to change my dragon into glass.

  I have used all of my Tambootie. I must have more to get me back to the capital before the Council knows I have been gone.

  The illusion of my visage on the body of young Lord Marnak cannot last much longer. If the boy wishes to consummate his marriage to my Rejiia, he will follow my orders and retire from court. Disaster will follow if his pockmarked face emerges through my illusion.

  These mountains are full of my trees of magic. In the village there is one who owes me his soul. He will face the dangers and gather the leaves willingly.

  With a fresh supply, this headache will leave me once and for all. I will have the strength to finish what has been ordained by Simurgh. I have my dragon.

  So, now she knew for sure. Krej, her natural father, hadn’t hired a rogue magician. He was the rogue. She’d know his evil laugh anywhere. Brevelan pondered yesterday’s events while she busied herself with preparations for the journey back down the mountain.

  Jaylor already suspected her true parentage. Had he seen through the monster mask as well?

  If he hadn’t, she dare not speak that truth. Jaylor might believe her, but no one else would. She was Krej’s bastard, accused of witchcraft, and a runaway from justice. To accuse a member of the Council of rogue magic promised dire consequences for herself.

  She must keep her own counsel.

  Did Jaylor remember Krej’s comments? He had given no indication that he had heard the magician accuse them of being lovers. If he had heard, he hadn’t acted upon it. Most men she knew would have taken Krej’s assumption as permission from a father to proceed.

  She shook her head and roused herself from her thoughts. The day beckoned with a myriad of tasks.

  Brevelan watched Darville draw lines in the dirt. His stick described the great arc of the bay. At its apex he inscribed a small circle, Coronnan City. Radiating outward from the capital, the boundaries of the twelve provinces took form. Then he added the mountains that nearly encircled the kingdom. At the southeastern corner he marked a large X.

  “Crude, but accurate enough for our purposes.” Jaylor examined the drawing. The sparkle in his eyes denoted the return of his good humor. He was still a little pale, and tight lines formed beside his mouth. But his muscles were firm, and his feet made restless patterns on the cave floor.

  “Can you do better?” Darville stood from his crouch beside the map to his full height. He was defensive, yet easy with his old friend.

  “Only with magic,” Jaylor admitted. “And that I would rather conserve right now.”

  Brevelan watched the two men stare at each other, measuring and assessing. She was reminded of two dominant hunting dogs in the village kennels. Rivals as well as work mates. Rivals for what?

  Jaylor’s eyes caught her own and lingered. Darville too sought to capture her gaze. She raised her chin and stared out the cave entrance defiantly. She would not be the center of their contest. As soon as Shayla was restored, Brevelan would return to the privacy of her clearing. And the loneliness.

  “Once the rogue gets out of the mountains, he can put his burden on a sledge.” Darville avoided naming the nature of that burden. All three of them shivered. “He shouldn’t be hard to track in these hills. We’ve lost part of a day. But we travel light, and we don’t need to guard our backs.”

  “On the contrary, Darville.” Jaylor added a few details to the map. “In the mountains he need only levitate the dragon. She’s heavy, but then so is a wine cup to an apprentice. For a magician so practiced and grown so strong, his travel through here,” he pointed to the southern mountains on the map, “will be easy. We have a better chance of catching him closer to other people, where he must travel surreptitiously.” He surveyed the map which was now more complete, a few lines redrawn to make it more accurate.

  “Which pass will he take out of here?” Darville crouched again to examine their handiwork.

  “This one.” Brevelan found herself pointing outside the cave toward a valley between two lines of peaks. She didn’t need a map. She could follow Shayla without one, she realized. A faint glimmer of the dragon had reawakened in the back of her heart.

  “Not likely,” Darville contradicted. “This one is wider, easier.” He pointed to a different valley.

  “This one is more familiar and direct. It is where he left you to die, knowing no one would try to help an injured wolf when they sought a missing prince,” Brevelan asserted.

  “No one but you.” Darville’s gaze softened as he searched her eyes.

  “I’m an outcast from my people because I do such things. Thorm couldn’t know I was near enough for Shayla to call.” She had to remember not to refer to the rogue by his true name.

  “There is a lot this rogue doesn’t know,” Jaylor interrupted. “But he is so arrogant he won’t admit there is anything about magic he can’t master. That is our true advantage. He thinks my magic traditional and therefore damaged with the loss of Shayla. He will travel openly in the mountains because he thinks he frightened us into believing he is all-powerful.”

  “He’s not all-powerful. He had to fight us to complete his spells,” Brevelan added. She raised her eyes to the tall magician, who moved restlessly back and forth near the cave opening.

  A raindrop landed on the rocks outside. It was fat and heavy, the prelude to more to come. A damp breeze found its way into the cave.

  “Thorm had to draw magic away from Darville to finish his work with Shayla,” Jaylor mused as he paced. “So we know his powers, great as they are, have limits.”

  “If we tax his strength every step of the way, perhaps he will have to drop the spell a little to deal with us.” Darville’s enthusiasm for the upcoming battle speeded up his own steps around the cave.

  “First we have to find him. Let’s go.” Jaylor gathered his pack and staff.

  “It’s raining.” Brevelan draped her thin, homespun cloak about her shoulders. They both looked at Darville in his borrowed, ill-fitting trews and cloak.

  “I can’t stop the rain. Only dragons are supposed to have power over the weather,” Jaylor said.

  “Without the dragons, the rains will be as heavy as they are in SeLenicca—so heavy they damage food crops. Only trees thrive in that amount of rain,” Darville reminded them. “Spring will be delayed, crops will fail.” Some of his eagerness faded.

  “And people will die,” Brevelan said.

  “I can’t change the weather, but I can provide for us.” Jaylor set down his pack. He grabbed his staff with both hands.

  Brevelan felt the change in the energy pulsating from Jaylor’s body. A ball of sparkling lights flew into the cave. Then a small puff of wind brought a new pack, filled with journey foods, and deposited it tidily at her feet. From its top spilled a new cloak, similar to Jaylor’s, but smaller, to fit her shorter height. She dipped her hands into the folds of thick wool and snuggled it against her face. It smelled new and fresh and clean. She felt warmer already.

  Beside her bundle, ano
ther appeared. More food and clothes for Darville. “Raiding the University stores again?” he asked Jaylor. A smile tugged at his lips. Had Jaylor done this often to supply their boyhood pranks?

  “They were intended for the use and comfort of students. I’m still a student, technically.” Jaylor shrugged as he reclaimed his own cloak from his prince. “Get changed. We need to move.”

  “Just who is in command here?” Darville whirled to face the magician. Brevelan held her breath, unsure of her own reaction to this minor skirmish for authority.

  She braced herself for the onslaught of strong emotions that always accompanied this kind of confrontation. She was so prepared she barely felt the slight whoosh that hit her.

  “I am,” Jaylor replied. “We are dealing with magic, not armies and soldiers. I am the better equipped to decide our strategy.”

  He had tight control over his emotions. Darville bared his teeth and growled deeply. The hair on the back of his head began to bristle. She sent him enough peace of mind to ease her own tensions.

  “And I am your prince, possibly king already!”

  “You are still partly wolf, and I can make you one again if you push me.” There was no malice in Jaylor’s voice, only authority.

  “Would you really?” Darville laughed at the obvious absurdity.

  “If necessary.” Jaylor smiled too.

  “And I will make you both rabbits if we don’t begin this quest,” Brevelan replied. She looked back at them from the entrance. “Are you coming, boys?”

  As they passed in front of her, Brevelan tugged at Jaylor’s sleeve. “Jaylor, if it is this easy for you to transport food and clothing across the kingdom, what will prevent Thorm from sending Shayla to his castle by the same method?”

  “I don’t know. Unless she is still alive within the glass and transport will kill her.”

  Chapter 21

  The sensation of being followed crawled up Jaylor’s back like a swarm of hungry wood ticks. He shrugged his shoulders underneath his pack.

  “Mrreww,” Mica protested sleepily from her customary perch.

  “Oh, hush, Mica.” He reached up to scratch between her ears. She rubbed her head against his palm, and he felt her concern.

  “Who follows us, Mica, when we know our enemy is ahead?” he whispered to the cat even as he checked Brevelan’s position in front of him. Darville strode beside her. Jaylor could see in the unevenness of each step that the prince was having trouble matching his impatient stride to her short legs. The need to range ahead, then circle behind haunted Darville.

  “What’s wrong?” Brevelan swung around to face Jaylor.

  Darville stopped, too. His hand reached for a sword that, under normal circumstances, should swing at his hip. At the same time his lips pulled back in a snarl. His nose twitched, testing the air.

  “Mica thinks we’re being followed.” Jaylor continued to stroke the cat’s ears.

  “Are we?” Brevelan’s eyes searched about her. She too was stretching her senses.

  “I think so.”

  “Into the bushes.” Darville pushed them off the path into the low shrubbery.

  Around the smaller plants that verged on the path, taller, straighter trees cast sheltering shadows. Jaylor looked at each trunk until he realized he was searching for the distinctive mottled bark of the Tambootie. It was early spring, with little chance of finding any timboor to help hide them. On this, the uphill side of the path the trees were all long-needled everblues. Their pungent resin filled his nose and mouth with a healthy clean scent.

  Across the path, on the downhill slope, nestled a clump of the trees he sought. His senses were so filled with everblue, he couldn’t smell the Tambootie, nor could he see the bark in the deep shadows. However, the unmistakable flat tops of the trees lower down the hill were clearly visible.

  “Stay down,” Darville hissed at him.

  Jaylor wasn’t aware that he had half stood. He crouched down again. Tight muscles in his thighs and back reminded him of yesterday’s exertions. Darville was as comfortable sitting on his haunches as he had been the day before—when he was still a wolf.

  The hiss of Brevelan’s deep, in-drawn breath alerted him to the presence of their followers. He desperately needed to ask what she felt from the intruders. Darville’s glare warned him that absolute silence was essential.

  “There’s another dragon tree.” One voice drifted to them from around a curve in the path.

  “Ain’t we got enough s’murghin’ leaves for the master?” A second, gruffer voice responded. The timbre of the voice triggered a sour taste in Jaylor’s mouth. Why?

  “Master said two baskets full. Then meet him where the creek joins the river that flows to the bay.”

  Brevelan’s eyes went wide. Shock stilled her features. She knew something.

  From somewhere deep inside him, Jaylor found a thin line of magic. He strung it out in an umbilical to Brevelan.

  The meeting place, it’s close to the village, on the back path to my clearing. Her thoughts came to him clearly. But she held something back, as if she sensed his magical eavesdropping.

  What, my sweet? What disturbs you? he prodded.

  The barkeep.

  The gruff-voiced man. The rancid taste of steed-piss ale. The man approaching them had been among the villagers who tried to burn Brevelan’s home. He would acknowledge only one master—his legal lord, Krej.

  The other man is a steward at Krej’s castle. He, too, may be a magician. Brevelan’s thoughts found him on their own.

  “That one.” The two men came into view. The steward pointed to a healthy tree, not quite as tall as its neighbors. The barkeep set down his two oversized baskets. One was full, nestled into the other, empty one. “Don’t look big enough to climb to the top,” the barkeep grumbled.

  “You don’t have to go to the top to get the new leaf shoots.”

  “Your master specified top leaves only.”

  “Because dragons eat from the top. That’s the only part of the tree they can reach while they fly. I’m sure a dragon would nibble any part of a Tambootie tree it could get to. Just fill the basket so we can move on.”

  “Can’t understand why,” the barkeep whined as he stooped to separate the baskets. “Ain’t good for nothin’. Can’t even eat ’em. Almost as poison as the fruit. Poison to every livin’ thing except s’murghin’ dragons.”

  Almost as poison as timboor? Jaylor pondered the statement. He could eat timboor, so could Brevelan. He’d bet Darville couldn’t, nor the barkeep or Krej’s steward. But the master himself, Krej, Lord of Faciar, cousin to the king, and rogue magician, probably could. What was his use for the leaves of the same tree? And was this the evidence he sought to convict the rogue in the eyes of the Council?

  “Just get to work. And stop grumbling,” the steward ordered. “When Krej is king, you won’t question his orders.”

  Darville growled. He reached for the absent sword even as he leaped onto the path to challenge the two men.

  Mistake. Once again the wolf instincts to defend had taken over. Jaylor couldn’t take a chance. If either of the men should recognize their prince, and escape, Krej would know that Darville was restored. That piece of information had to be kept secret for as long as possible.

  Jaylor’s magic caught up with Darville in mid-leap. From one eye-blink to the next, a bundle of clothes landed on the path as the angry prince grew shorter, hairier, meaner, and even more angry. Once more he was a menacing wolf determined to rip out the throats of his adversaries.

  The shock of landing on all fours sent ripples of pain along Darville’s back. The unnatural jarring did not disturb the momentum of his quest. The two men needed to die. He needed to do the deed. His eyes narrowed. From deep in his belly came the sound of blood lust. He leaped again before the men could react.

  The first man, the one he’d never seen before, was his target. Familiarity with the other man made him divert his attack. But they were both evil. They both would
die.

  His weight carried both himself and the man to the ground. Triumph pounded through him as his mouth watered. Saliva dripped from his teeth. He could taste the hot blood even before he sank his fangs into the quivering, pale flesh of the hairless man.

  This man would die easily. Then he would kill the other.

  Screams erupted around him. He paid no heed.

  Louder they came. And louder again. They were the screams of the man beneath him. He shouldn’t be able to make a sound with his throat ripped and his blood in Darville’s mouth.

  A cry of distress penetrated his need to kill. The distress grew and became his own. Brevelan called him.

  The death of this man would kill Brevelan as well.

  Brevelan.

  His other self.

  He sat back on his haunches. The man rolled away and scrabbled up the slope. The other man was gone. His frantic cries echoed through the valley below as he slipped on the rough path.

  “The witchwoman! The witchwoman lives. She has sent the wolf to kill us all.”

  Darville forgot the men and his need to kill. Brevelan was calling him.

  He had defended Brevelan and sent the men fleeing. To show just how pleased he was with himself, he scooted downhill a few paces in mock pursuit. He stopped and bayed at his retreating quarry. The exercise burned some of the extra energy pounding through him. Then he bounded back to Brevelan’s side, tail thumping.

  Her foot invited him to sit on it. So he did. Her arm was within easy reach. He greeted her by taking her wrist, ever so gently, into his open mouth, even as he leaned his full weight into her.

  Brevelan.

  This was where he belonged.

  Tears sprang to Brevelan’s eyes. Darville’s love and sense of belonging washed over her. She welcomed the familiarity of his wolfish greeting. She needed the warm contact of his body pressed against hers. For a few moments longer she cherished the bond that held him close.

  “He is a man, Brevelan,” Jaylor gently reminded her. “And a prince.”