Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “You will or I’ll have you burned as a witch. You and that spawn of Simurgh governess of yours. How about if your mother joins you on the pyre as well?”

  War wasn’t hell. It was piles and piles of detail work! Prince Darville suppressed a groan. Sir Holmes stood in the doorway clutching a bundle of rolled parchments larger than the ones carried by the last three clerks.

  Moonlight glimmered through the diamond panes of the mullioned windows of the prince’s tower room. Crenellated battlements neatly divided the silver orb in two. Almost time for Baamin to initiate a summons to Brevelan.

  “Don’t seem right to me.” Fred lounged in the window-seat, cleaning his fingernails with a knifepoint. “Council’s acting like a bunch of spoiled bullies. You slip through their guard once and they pass a law forbidding any contact between you and the University in general, Lord Baamin specifically,” the new bodyguard grumbled.

  Darville yanked the brown velvet restraint from his queue. Grateful for the release, he flipped his head back and forth, an indulgence he rarely allowed himself in the presence of others. Fred’s fear of Darville’s wolf persona nagged at the prince. And yet the young guard continued his faithful loyalty, in spite of his fears.

  “The Council believes they are protecting His Grace,” Sir Holmes corrected Fred. He knew his prince too well and didn’t retreat from the feral mannerisms.

  Sometimes Darville believed his enemies on the Council fostered the superstitious fear of his magic infection so they wouldn’t have to relinquish any of the power they had gained. A healthy prince might demand to be crowned king.

  “I’ve got to get back to the University tonight!” Darville pounded his desk with a clenched fist. A hand’s breadth now lay between the bottom of the fat moon and the highest castle wall. Some things didn’t wait for any man, prince or no.

  “Do something with those reports, Holmes. Watch my back, Fred. I’m going to try slipping past the ogre across the hall.” Darville reached for the sleeping cat who occupied the corner of his desk. His long fingers scratched her brown and gold head.

  Mica twitched an ear, half opened one eye, and surveyed the prince. The eye appeared round at first, then shifted to the natural vertical slit of her species. She obviously thought her time would be better spent asleep. She allowed her heavy lid to close. Darville scratched the cat’s ear again to encourage her to come completely awake. Mica returned her head to the nest of her paws and ignored him.

  “That might not be wise tonight, sir.” Holmes assumed a rigid pose between Darville and the doorway. “These documents are from the front. Lord Wendray’s messenger must return before dawn. I fear SeLenicca is massing troops for another battle.”

  “Twenty minutes. All I need is twenty minutes with Master Baamin.” The guard across the hall, who stood a head taller than Darville, wouldn’t accept the excuse of the privy again so soon. Less than an hour had lapsed since the last time.

  One of the sentries on the battlements stood beneath the glowing moon. His head and shoulders were outlined in silver. Darville could delay no longer.

  “I’m sorry, Your Grace. The Council of Provinces insists they review your reply before it is sent.” Holmes shifted his feet slightly. He now completely blocked Darville’s exit.

  Stargods! The Council was growing bolder. There had been a time when the Twelve consulted him on every move instead of troubling his ailing father. He had to reestablish that relationship and prove that the magic infection had left him completely before they would crown him king—the first among equals on the Council. Managing the mountains of detail work was only a part of his plan to appease the Council and prove his worth.

  “How long will it take me to read those blasted reports.” Nine of them in the bundle. An hour for each. Then another hour to formulate an answer. At that rate the reply wouldn’t leave the castle until mid-morning. “I’ve just spent hours rewriting the treaty with Rossemeyer.” Something his hovering staff seemed incapable of doing. “My mind is more tired than my body.”

  Darville stretched his back and rubbed his eyes. There was a trapdoor leading to a secret passage beneath the massive desk. If he asked for help in shifting the desk, the exit would no longer be secret. The time might come when he needed that advantage.

  Holmes looked at the bundle he carried in both arms. His expression was bleak. “Lord Wendray thinks we need to convince Rossemeyer we do not need their troops. Such a show might prevent an invasion from Rossemeyer at a later time.”

  Darville groaned again. This time out loud. Wendray was right. Rossemeyer’s ambassador was less and less careful to gloss over the questionable clauses of the treaty.

  Mica roused from her nap. Without bothering to bathe her face, she wandered across the desk and butted her head against Darville’s chin. Delay no more. Baamin begins his summoning spell now. Her message seemed as clear to him as the thoughts Brevelan conveyed directly into his mind when she was near.

  “Summarize the reports for me. I’ll be back within the hour.” In one smooth movement, the prince rose and scooped the cat onto his shoulder. Fred assumed his post one pace behind and to Darville’s right, giving the prince a clear field for his dominant left arm to wield a sword.

  “Your Grace, these reports really are most important. Your marriage to Princess Rossemikka could be jeopardized by further losses on the western border,” Holmes protested.

  Mica chose that moment to dig her claws into Darville’s padded tunic. He batted the offending paws. Lately she chose references to the impending marriage as a cue to sink her claws into his skin.

  “Please, Your Grace, just a few moments to look at the most urgent report,” Holmes pleaded.

  Darville had waited too long already. Frustration and anger rose in him like a storm tide. His upper lip lifted in a feral snarl. The hair on the back of his neck seemed to stiffen and stand. “You are supposed to be on my side, Holmes.” The power of the wolf fired his blood.

  Holmes pressed his back against the massive wooden door. His mouth worked in silent protest while his eyes stared in unblinking fear. “With my head and heart and the strength of my shoulders, I renounce evil and magic.” Holmes dropped the charts as he hastily crossed himself in the warding gesture of the Stargods.

  Mica’s claws dug deep into Darville’s shoulder again, bringing him back to the current reality. He finger-combed his hair in an attempt to remove the wolf image. Holmes gulped and sidled back into the anteroom. Fred gasped and put two more paces between himself and the prince.

  “Magic isn’t evil,” Darville announced to both of them. “But magicians can be corrupt and black of soul.” Like his cousin, Lord Krej. “I will be back shortly.”

  “If you must, Your Grace.” Holmes stooped to gather up the scattered rolls of parchment.

  Darville sighed. He’d offended and frightened valuable men.

  “No, Your Grace. You may not keep your appointment with Baamin.” A new voice from the doorway caused Darville to pause. Mica hissed at the newcomer, brown fur stiff, back arched.

  “Lord Marnak, by what authority do you interfere with your lawful ruler?” Darville assumed his most haughty posture. Mica hissed again.

  “For your own protection, the Council insists on monitoring your movements. We cannot afford any further magical contamination of the royal family.” Lord Marnak the Younger bowed slightly but remained firmly in place, blocking Darville’s exit.

  Fred’s hand shifted to the hilt of his sword. Darville gestured for him to keep the weapon sheathed.

  “The order from the Council is to soothe their own superstitious fears rather than for my protection,” Darville asserted, even as he took a step toward Marnak. This sniveling weakling was one of four, nongoverning lords hastily appointed to fill the vacant seats left by seceding provinces.

  The elaborate interdependency of the twelve provinces, with the monarch as the key, had been set up three hundred years ago to prevent secession and civil war. Now those relationships were
breaking apart, and Marnak owed his elevated position at court to the Council and not to his prince.

  “Perhaps the order came from your father-in-law, Lord Krej, and not from the Council as a whole.” Darville pressed on, testing the slighter man’s desire for a fight.

  A look of unease came into Marnak’s eyes. His gaze shifted to the side, to the floor, anywhere but directly at Darville.

  “What’s the matter, Marnak? Afraid to think for yourself?” Darville saw the punch coming and ducked under it. A swift jab with his elbow into Marnak’s kidneys sent the young lord sprawling on the floor. Now Darville could honestly say he’d escaped Council supervision to avoid an attack by a member of that august body.

  The prince launched himself into a sprint for cover. Fred closed and barred the door behind him.

  Darville’s soft, indoor shoes whispered across the stone paving with little traction. Behind him, he heard the heavy footfalls of pursuit. The ogre hadn’t wasted any time. He knew who issued his weekly pay—the Council and not the denuded treasury of the crown.

  Darville dove into an unlit corridor and hugged the shadows. Senses stretched, he paused to catch his breath. Not for the first time he longed for the sharp hearing and keen night vision he bad enjoyed when trapped in a wolf’s body.

  “Nothing down this hallway, Corporal,” Fred spoke with determined authority to the following ogre. “His Grace must have gone down the east corridor.”

  Darville blessed his new friend’s quick thinking. But he couldn’t count on further help. Until the conspiracy to crown the prince grew beyond a few guards loyal to more than their salary and Sir Holmes, he’d have to resort to subterfuge to move about as he needed.

  He eased down the corridor, counting his steps. His legs were longer than they had been the last time he sought the hidden doorway. He adjusted his stride to match the paces of a gangling thirteen-year-old. His fingertips memorized the bumps and crevices of the bare stone wall.

  Forty-seven steps. He caressed an imperfection in the mortar. Under pressure the imperfection grew into a crack just as three men turned into his corridor. More pressure yielded the loud scrape of stone on stone. The crack still wasn’t wide enough to admit his adult body.

  “S’murgh it!” he cursed. With renewed determination he pushed harder on the stone wall. The barrier shifted slightly. Dust and bits of broken stone cascaded onto his head.

  Chapter 3

  Brevelan’s eyes opened within her trance. She searched the confines of her hut, seeking the ripple that had disturbed her concentration. Jaylor lay in exhausted sleep upon their wide cot. Yaakke, Baamin’s apprentice and her link to the University, sat across the open hearth from her, also in trance. All seemed normal, as normal as could be without the presence of Darville and Mica.

  The magic that normally lay hidden deep within her soul rested near the surface of her reality, as Baamin had taught her. In this condition she was ready for the summons that had come through Jaylor’s glass every full moon since last spring.

  Thus attuned, she sensed the harmonic vibrations of all magic within her sphere of power, including Jaylor’s unused staff that was currently barring the door to the hut. Perhaps it was Yaakke’s lack of control over his own trance that had disturbed her.

  In time, with training, she would be able to initiate her own summons, at any phase of the moon. Yaakke could throw the spell sometimes, when he bothered to concentrate and the moon was full to aid him. Jaylor could talk her through the procedure, when he wanted.

  Since his ordeal last spring, when he’d lost his magic and damaged his heart in the process, he avoided all mention of magic. His staff was losing its potency from lack of use. The once twisted and plaited grain of the wood was gradually straightening, except at the two places where Brevelan had spliced the wood, much as she would a broken bone. Those two joins were as strong and twisted as ever.

  Brevelan’s eyes focused and then blurred. Tangible reality faded in and out. One moment she could see the outlines of each familiar person and object clearly. The next those details faded and shimmered with auras.

  Since childhood, she had been reading the colored layers of light surrounding all living things without knowing it. Jaylor’s colors were red and blue, the same signature colors as his magic, radiating out from his reclining body in tight layers. The layers were deeper and the colors truer now than they had been five moons ago. His heart was healing, but not enough to support the great magic that had ripped through it.

  Yaakke’s aura splashed around him in every bright hue the human eye could fathom. The untamed blobs of color shifted and changed with each breath until they filled whatever space surrounded the boy.

  Brevelan had no idea what colors she emitted. The gift of seeing one’s own aura was very rare.

  The glass in her hand thrummed with life. Light flashed from the fire through the glass. Baamin’s face, old and wrinkled, aging almost before her eyes, followed the burst of green and yellow. The rope of entwined colors, so similar to the Senior Magician’s aura, looped around Brevelan and Yaakke, binding them into the spell. Then it circled the room, armoring it against eavesdroppers. Yet it avoided the recumbent form on the bed and a dark corner near the roof tree.

  Was Jaylor setting up unconscious armor against involvement in Baamin’s magic?

  Brevelan hadn’t time to consider.

  “Has Shayla made contact with you, Brevelan?” Baamin asked without preamble.

  “Nothing specific, just a general awareness of her life.” Brevelan sighed with regret. The loss of her dragon friend had left her lonelier than she had expected.

  “Darville has been trying to contact me for three days. Every time the Council and their magicians have stopped him. I fear his message has something to do with the dragon.” Baamin shook his head in dismay. “Jaylor must return to assist me. The master magicians have diverted their loyalty from the Commune and Coronnan to their individual lords. The Council of Provinces ended yesterday’s session fragmented. Krej’s faction has forbidden all contact between palace and University. The Council, as a whole, can decide nothing.”

  “My husband is not well enough to travel.” Brevelan couldn’t take Jaylor out of the protective clearing. Not yet. Not while his spirit ailed and his body still mended.

  “I could send him to the capital,” Yaakke announced brightly.

  “How, son?” Baamin’s face looked puzzled.

  “With a blink of the eye, sir. Same way I bring meat from the University kitchens.” His adolescent face colored. “Ooops, sorry, Brevelan.”

  She frowned at the boy. He knew very well she never allowed meat within the boundary of her clearing. She felt the death of all living creatures. Sometimes the physical pain was so great her magic closed down for several hours, or even days.

  “No, no, ’tis too dangerous to transport a living person, Boy . . . I mean Yaakke. No one has ever accomplished such a feat and had his charge live through it,” Baamin intervened.

  Brevelan sensed his alarm and nearly rejoiced in it. As long as Baamin was hesitant, Yaakke would not risk such a transport.

  She hoped.

  “If I sent a litter and steeds, could Jaylor travel?” Baamin seemed desperate.

  The ripple in Brevelan’s concentration returned. She had the acute sensation that someone was listening, someone who had no right.

  “Jaylor can barely walk the length and breadth of the clearing. He could not survive the journey,” she protested fiercely. Yaakke looked at her strangely. They both knew that Jaylor was stronger than she indicated. She returned the boy’s look with a glare, praying he would not reveal her prevarication.

  “What do you need Jaylor for?” Yaakke asked instead.

  Brevelan breathed a sigh of relief. “Perhaps Yaakke could return to you.”

  “I need Jaylor. Only he knows enough of this rogue magic to ferret out the true loyalties of both the Council and the Commune. Without the controls of dragon magic, every member of the Com
mune is a law unto himself. I have no power or authority over them anymore,” Baamin’s voice faded into a mere whisper. “Twice this week I have intervened in magic duels. Last week a lord was severely wounded by the magician of a rival lord. This must stop. I need help.”

  Brevelan grieved with him for the loss of a unified Commune and Council. Without Shayla—or any dragon—Darville could not be consecrated king. A unanimous Council could authorize a coronation. That was an unlikely event, considering Lord Krej’s rival ambitions.

  Brevelan again searched the place in her heart where Shayla should be, as she fruitlessly did, many times each day. The invisible dragon lived. The faintest of glimmers brightened Brevelan’s being. But she didn’t know where Shayla laired and she couldn’t discover if the eleven dragonets had whelped yet.

  The black vacant spot near the roof tree of the hut spread outward and down. There was a presence within that blackness. A presence that Baamin’s magic should have armored them against.

  The child within Brevelan’s womb kicked in recognition of that presence. Alarm spread through her veins. Her heart pounded in her ears. She began to hum. Her song lifted to the roof tree, cleansing the hut of alien minds. Her soul lifted with the song, rising out of her body. It spread upward, outward, until she filled the clearing. Her mind sniffed for the intruder. It was gone.

  Below, her baby cried out. Its unformed mind sought wildly for the comfort of her ever-present thoughts. The cries stopped abruptly. Comforted by someone else? Jaylor perhaps?

  Brevelan sent a tendril of copper-colored magic backward to tether herself to her own body and the baby. When her empathic contact with her child was once more firmly established, she allowed her soul to rise higher, above the trees. She sang a spell to reinforce the boundaries of her home. Her inner vision sought farther, up the mountainside to Shayla’s empty lair, down the course of the creek to the village, outward to the nearby border of Coronnan.

  Nothing.

  Whatever had disturbed her was gone, fled before an identity could be recognized by any but the baby.