Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “I can’t . . . you wouldn’t understand.” Lately, most of their conversations ended this way.

  “You forget what I am, Jaylor. Your pain is my pain, your loss is mine. I know what you feel as no one else can. And so does our son.”

  Finally he raised his head to look at her. “You’ve given me more than any man had a right to ask of you. Without you I’d be dead now. Sometimes I almost wish you had let me die. I’m not fully a man without my magic.”

  “You are my husband, the father of my child. Isn’t that enough?”

  “I haven’t been much of a husband since the wedding—for which I was barely conscious, if I remember it at all. And don’t forget the possibility that I am not the child’s father. There were three of us in that bed when I awoke from the Tambootie overdose.”

  “It matters not whose seed started this baby. You will be his father. You will shape his life and teach him to be a man.”

  “How, when I’m not truly a man?”

  “Aren’t you?” A glint of mischief sparkled through Brevelan. “Yaakke has gone to the village. He won’t be back for hours. We are alone, as we haven’t been alone since you . . . since you took ill.” She reached for his hand and kissed his palm. The child within her didn’t stir in recognition of the contact.

  She pressed the shaking hand next to her cheek. Something tight within her unfolded. Just this brief touch flooded her being with light and joy. She stepped closer to feel the warmth of his body. He smelled of sunshine, of rich loam, and clean sweat from hard, honest work.

  Jaylor didn’t draw away. “There was a time I could read your thoughts without trying,” he said wistfully.

  “You are reading them now.” His hand had turned to cup her face with tenderness. Her tongue darted out to touch his palm intimately. “Come back to the hut.”

  “No. I’ve spent too much time in that bed these last five moons. I want you out here in the fresh air, with the scent of newly turned soil and everblue sap on the breeze, with the warmth of the sun on our bare backs.”

  “There’s a lovely bed of moss and a shelter of calubra ferns down by the bathing pool.”

  He dropped the shovel and followed her.

  A weapon. I have a weapon to keep my rival in his proper place within the eight-pointed star. The meek little princess brings a dowry of ten thousand troops. They won’t allow my rival any temporal power. He will resist and drain himself of magic in the process.

  Maman’s death was premature. We had no time to plan for her passing. She named no successor.

  Didn’t she know we would fight to move into her place? Yes, she knew. She made certain we would fight. Only the strongest will succeed. That is what she intended, for the strongest to become the focus.

  I am the strongest. The dragons will never return once I am at the center of the star.

  “Before you execute my timid little cat,” Darville stated evenly, glowering at each of the twelve lords in the circular room, “define the word witch.” Only Krej held his glance. All of the others looked away in embarrassment.

  Darville was confident they wouldn’t find his purring friend where she hid beneath his chair. The gentle rumble erupting from her throat was so low, only he could hear it. After the scene in the University tunnel last night, he was certain that Mica was singing an invisibility spell.

  Hers wasn’t the only spell in the room. A master magician sat behind and slightly to the right of each lord, except Darville. Some of them, at least, were probably throwing armoring spells around themselves and their lords. Why did they feel they needed the protection? They were all working toward the same end. Weren’t they?

  “Your Grace.” Lord Andrall cleared his throat. “I was always taught that a magician throws magic for the good of the country, and a witch spins magic for her own personal interests and no other.”

  “The way I saw the incident Lord Krej has described to you, if there was any magic worked, it was done on my behalf.” Darville speared Lord Krej with his gaze. “That means my cat is a magician and not a witch. Judgment of her actions is therefore subject to the Commune and not the Council.” Darville stood to dismiss the meeting. He wasn’t yet allowed to sit on the empty dragon throne or wear the Coraurlia, the glass dragon crown that sat in the center of the round table, but he meant to reestablish the same dignity and authority granted to the king.

  Before the war with SeLenicca, leather armchairs and rich stained glass lent an aura of calm dignity to the room. Now the strain evident on the men’s faces and their tense posture dominated the atmosphere. Conducting a war without one clear leader, while governing a country facing famine, was taking its toll on all of them. No decision was ever allowed to stand without endless modifications.

  Four of the twelve provinces had already withdrawn from Coronnan and sided with the enemy SeLennica because of the lack of leadership. Apparently, King Simeon’s flirtation with magic seemed safer than living with a fragmented governing Council.

  Stargods! He’d wasted enough time with his infection and dithering over details. He had to cut through the selfish arguing of these men. Appeasement never accomplished anything.

  “Your Grace?” Lord Andrall requested his attention in a tone of voice so meek it seemed an apology. “We seek to protect you. Your ordeal last winter placed a great strain on all of us. When we hear reports of your . . . ah . . . strange behavior,” his glance slid to Marnak, “well, Your Highness, we fear that association with any magic will cause you to revert.”

  Darville stared at his longtime champion. Andrall and his province of Nunio had always, always, been loyal to Darville’s family; they were related on the distaff line. The lord of the northernmost province refused to meet his glance.

  “Baamin has stated time and time again that my blood is clean of magic. The only way I can revert now is if a spell is deliberately thrown for that purpose. The Senior Magician could also protect me from such a spell, if he were allowed his lawful place in this Council as my adviser.”

  “But he is a magician, Your Grace, out to protect his own kind. Of course he will say what he thinks we want to hear rather than the truth,” Jonnias parroted a longstanding justification.

  “Or perhaps you want me to be vulnerable to such a spell from your own magicians.” Darville leaned forward as if to accuse Jonnias of such heinous behavior. “A rogue who I believe sits among us and commands the loyalty of some of you when it rightfully belongs to me, could also cause me to revert. Is that what you want?”

  “Never!” Jonnias sat back, puffing out his fat belly and turning up his nose at such an accusation.

  “Why not banish Lord Krej from the Council and leave me and mine alone?” Darville lifted a casual eyebrow. Only the most rigid self-control kept his voice normal.

  “Lord Krej has been punished enough without proof that he is indeed the rogue magician of your imagining,” Marnak the Younger defended his father-in-law. Marnak the Elder remained silently neutral.

  “How has Lord Krej been punished? He is still Lord of Faciar. He still sits in this Council. He ordered my paymaster to withhold funds from my troops, then when he paid them again, half the drageen owed to them, he told them the coins came from his pocket and they owed him their loyalty, when in truth the money came from my treasury. He commands armies who are more interested in fighting me than our enemies. Tell me how he has been punished for changing me into a wolf and depriving Coronnan of her best protection—the dragon nimbus.” Darville looked each lord and magician in the eye. “Tell me!”

  “Lord Krej is forced to take the witchbane,” someone whispered.

  Darville growled his disagreement in very human tones. He deliberately kept his teeth covered. Still, eleven men reared back in their chairs, anxious to put as much space between themselves and his supposed wolf temperament as possible. He caught a glimpse of a snide smile on the face of the twelfth man, Lord Krej.

  “This is why we must separate you from all contact with magic, Prince Darville.�
� Lord Krej’s contempt for him was clearly visible to all now. “You’ll never be allowed to wear the Coraurlia while you lack control of your beastly instincts.”

  “ ’Tis proximity to you, the cause of my ‘beastly instincts, ’ that makes me lose control, Krej.”

  “Then perhaps I should withdraw to Faciar and run the war from there with my true followers,” Krej challenged. “Many trust my proven leadership over your untried royal blood, in spite of your accusations of rogue magic, and no matter the source of their pay.” The expression on his face appeared suitably humble for the benefit of the Council.

  “You won’t escape the witchbane so easily, Krej. Nor will you divide the Council further. You will remain in Coronnan City where you can be watched. Just stay out of my way and out of my personal life.” Darville stalked to the door of the chamber.

  “A king has no personal life,” Krej called after him. “And the malevolence of your pet is the concern of the Council and of all of your citizens.”

  “Then I demand the presence of Senior Magician Baamin to root out the souce of truly malevolent magic as well as treason. Neither of which come from my cat.”

  “Impossible, Your Grace,” Jonnias half-rose from his chair. “We can’t risk magic contamination.”

  “If proximity to a magician is the source of your fears, why haven’t you banished your own magicians? Have any of you considered that possibility? Well, I have. Sergeant!” he called to Fred. “Have the magicians removed from Council. They are all barred from this chamber until further notice.”

  Twelve men-at-arms marched into the room, each carrying a vial of witchbane. Twelve magicians left in a huff, gathering their formal robes close against them, lest they be contaminated by their mundane lords. Lords shouted and raised their fists. Chairs overturned. Chaos reigned. But only Darville pounded on the table with the hilt of his dagger. “Enough!” he shouted. “This session of Council is dissolved.”

  Lord Krej continued to smile and narrow his eyes, as if he knew that Darville had fallen into a trap of his own making.

  Chapter 5

  From her perch on the first spar above the deck, Rosie watched the pod of mandelphs sporting in the wake of the ship. A ray of sunshine caressed her cheek. The summer was waning toward autumn. Her eyes drooped at the loss of the sun’s heat.

  “Your Highness, would you do me the honor of returning to the deck?” Kevin-Rosse, the ambassador to Coronnan looked up to her chosen seat and swallowed nervously.

  A flicker of memory from somewhere hinted that KevinRosse was afraid of heights. Good. Perhaps he’d leave her alone. As the entire crew and entourage were supposed to. Janataea had declared Rosie’s solitude inviolate.

  Rosie turned her attention back to her current elaborate cat’s cradle where it lay nearly forgotten in her lap.

  The ambassador apparently overcame his fears and stepped up on a crate next to the mast to bring him closer to her height. Rosie edged farther out on the spar.

  “Please, Your Highness, I need to talk to you.”

  Rosie looked up and contemplated the crow’s nest. Kevin-Rosse’s gaze lurched upward in the same direction. He paled visibly and came no closer. Rosie didn’t want to talk to Kevin-Rosse. His words always left her feeling guilty and uncomfortable.

  “I’ll talk to her, you bumbling idiot!” Janataea nearly pushed Kevin-Rosse off the crate. She gestured for a gawking sailor to pile up more crates to form a crude staircase. Then, holding onto the mast with one hand and the ambassador’s shoulder with the other, she proceeded to climb to Rosie’s perch.

  Rosie glared at Janataea only briefly before peering upward again. Unfortunately, her governess was between her and the mast, the easiest way up.

  “Tell me what secrets cloud your eyes, Princess?” Janataea retrieved a hairbrush from her pocket and indicated she would gladly brush Rosie’s hair.

  “Why do those fish follow the ship? They seem to want to play with us.” Rosie continued looking at the fish rather than at Janataea. If she looked at her governess, she would have to reveal every thought in her head.

  “Legend claims the Stargods banished the priests of the old religion to the sea.” Janataea settled into a sitting position next to Rosie. She waved the brush tauntingly. “The mandelphs are the descendants of the workers of old magic, trying desperately to return to the land so they may worship their god properly. They seek to play with us to lure us into allowing them to climb aboard.”

  “A sad legend.” Rosie wanted to ask why the priests and their magic had been banished. She didn’t dare. That would lead Janataea to probe deeper into her thoughts.

  Janataea sucked in her breath. “Speak to me, Princess, or I will throw this brush into the sea.”

  Rosie ignored her. She loved to have her hair brushed. But right now, keeping her thoughts her own, no matter how trivial, seemed more important.

  “You have allowed your hair to escape your snood. ’Tis indecent. Speak to me of your thoughts or I will leave you to the not-so-gentle attentions of every man on board this ship!” Janataea stood up, perfectly balanced on the spar. She seemed larger, more dominant than usual.

  Rosie shrank back to avoid the coming compulsion to obey. “I am told that in Coronnan the women cover their breasts, but allow their hair to fall free,” she excused herself.

  “And they are a dying race because the women cannot nurse their children when they need to. False modesty is beneath you, Princess. Cover your hair and tell me what troubles your mind.” Janataea spun a new spell with the lilting cadence of her words. Her pale blond hair was caught demurely beneath a silver head covering, almost the same color as the locks it restrained. Her breasts were full and round, spilling above the deep neckline of her gown. In Rossemeyer, Janataea was considered the ultimate in feminine grace and beauty.

  Rosie dropped her eyes to her own chest. She was eighteen, fully matured, and her breasts were small and pointed, barely feminine at all. Maybe Prince Darville wouldn’t like her lack of endowments. Then she could return to the safe familiarity of her window seat in the castle.

  But no, Darville needed Rossemeyer’s armies. He would marry Rosie, whether he liked her or not.

  Rosie felt herself weakening under Janataea’s will. She looked to the land that was looming off to her right. The closer they came to Coronnan, the stronger she felt. She was soon to be the wife of the Prince of Coronnan. One day she would be queen. Keeping her thoughts private seemed imperative.

  Janataea’s words grew into a song, weaving around Rosie with insidious tendrils of will-sapping lethargy.

  “Tell me your thoughts. Tell me what instructions the ambassador gave you. Tell me how you will ensure Rossemeyer’s domination over your new country.”

  “I am to seek out the one who defies my husband,” Rosie found herself reciting in a monotone. “I am to kill him because he will ally with SeLenicca.”

  “Krej!” Janataea hissed in alarm. “The Lord Regent believes King Simeon of SeLenicca will honor such a treaty. More fool he,” she muttered almost to herself.

  “Then I am to poison the leader of the magicians. The Commune of Magicians must never again be allowed to advise my husband against Rossemeyer.”

  “Oh, my,” Janataea giggled. “Marvelous idea. I wonder why I didn’t think of that? Hee, hee,” she tittered in growing laughter. “Such wonderful fun to bring old Baamin to his just deserts. Krej has been trying to do that for years without success. But you and I will succeed. Won’t we, my little princess? First we will make him grovel. Hee hee, ho, haw haw!”

  To Rosie’s dismay, her dignified governess laughed long and loud. She laughed so hard she had to grasp the mast for support. Her breasts escaped the confines Of her gown entirely, bouncing with the rhythm of her laughter. The riotous sound of her laughter rose to the peaks of the mountains on their left. It swelled and spilled across the waves to the distant blur of land on the right. It filled Rosie’s head with growing unease.

  One for the tabl
e. Six for the root cellar. Jaylor drove his shovel deep into the ground, seeking yet another yampion plant. The blade bit into the dirt and held.

  Sweat ran in rivulets from his back and brow. The sun was hot for this late in the year. Perhaps the good weather would hold until all of Coronnan’s harvest was in.

  Stargods, but they needed a good harvest after a winter of unrelenting rain that rotted stored foods and bred new diseases, followed by the incredibly cold spring and wet summer. Many villages would barely have enough food to last through the coming winter as it was.

  He drove the shovel deeper. A shiver of something . . . something powerful and special rippled up the handle of the shovel. Jaylor stopped his toil and waited for his heart to miss a beat. His pulse skittered in recognition of the rippling energy. He had hit a line of magic power, a ley line according to an ancient tome he’d read last spring. If his magic was gone, he shouldn’t feel the tingle all the way to his hair.

  On the distant wind, a peal of laughter echoed around the mountains. Jaylor raised his head to listen. It was a sound that didn’t belong there. Out of long habit he squinted his eyes to focus on the silvery-blue line of power gripping his shovel. He shifted his body until he was comfortable drawing the magic into himself through the twisted wooden handle of the shovel. A thought and a word channeled the magic to ears and eyes.

  Aided by magic, his FarSight extended through the forest, over the hills and beyond the horizon. An easy spell that cost only concentration and maybe a headache and temporarily blurred vision afterward.

  A ship was sailing through the Great Bay below him. A foreign ship. Two women perched on a spar. One of them was laughing uncontrollably.

  Then Jaylor remembered that he no longer had any magic, nor would his heart support the massive power surges through his body. He had used up a lifetime of magic, and then some, in his massive spell to break Shayla free from Krej’s prison of glass. His awareness of the ship and the laughter vanished.