“Then why did you ask to Sing?”
“Because Singing is the one thing they could not give me.”
“On your mother’s side, the magic is strong,” Janataea continued. “Lord Rumbellesth started training as a magician when he was very young. But he gave it up because his power didn’t come fast enough, or full enough. He enjoys a different kind of power now.”
“He enjoys making other people miserable. But that won’t help me escape.”
“Still, there is magic in your family. You carry the potential in your body, either for yourself or your offspring.” Janataea had narrowed her restless pacing and was examining the princess with a critical eye.
“Tell me what you are plotting,” Mikka urged.
“Your bond with the cat is very strong. She is almost a part of you.” Now Janataea was dipping into the folds of her skirt pocket for a little leather bag she always carried. “The cat has the freedom of the castle. You do not.”
“So?”
“So you and the cat will exchange places.”
“I can’t very well go creeping about the castle on all fours, expecting people to believe I’m a cat,” Mikka snorted.
“You could if your soul was in the cat’s body, and Rosse’s less rebellious personality was in yours.”
Stunning possibilities rolled over Mikka. As a cat, she could prowl the castle, spy on anyone. She could even leave the grounds, go into Erda’s market stall unescorted. And if she could go that far, she could leave Rossemeyer’s desert plateaus altogether. Perhaps she could travel west, across the mountains to find a nation of women warriors who would welcome her strength and intelligence, instead of reviling her.
“Let me think about it.”
“Do not take too long in the thinking. The dark of the moon is only days away. That will be the best time to make the exchange.”
Three days later, after a diet of stale bread and water, and no exercise for mind or body, Mikka knew she had to take drastic measures to escape.
“How?” she asked Janataea, without preamble on the evening of the dark of the moon.
“First you must fully relax, my princess,” Janataea crooned. “Lie down on the cot with Rosse on your chest.” Her words took on a lilting quality, unlike anything Mikka had heard emerge from a female throat.
Mikka obeyed. Rosse curled her tiny brown body into a ball for a nap. Her one white eye and ear were barely slitted to observe the ceremony.
Janataea pulled nine candles from her pockets. She placed eight of them around the bed where Mikka lay. The ninth she held over the princess’ recumbent form. With a pass of the hand, the candles flared to life. Another wave of the hand and the ninth hovered in the air above Mikka’s forehead without support.
“Now, Rossemikka, breathe slowly, ever so slowly. In, two, three. Hold, two, three. Out, two, three. Hold, two, three. Again. In, hold, out, hold.” Over and over again the Song guided Mikka’s breathing until the unnatural rhythm took on new importance and her body knew no other sequence.
Breathing became a dance, slow, stately, magical.
With each breath Mikka’s muscles relaxed a little more. Her mind drifted, separated from her body, and observed.
“Think of the cat. You are Mikka, she is Rosse. Together you are Rossemikka. You are one being. Woman-cat. Cat-woman,” Janataea intoned.
Mikka’s other self watched as the two images on the narrow cot merged into one blurry lump of variegated brown and gold. The image took on the iridescent glow of Rosse’s gorgeous fur, instead of Mikka’s own dull brown.
“Bring the cat into yourself. Take yourself into the cat.”
The images blurred further, separated, and blurred again.
“Keep the cat within you.” Janataea sprinkled a little powder from her pouch over the entire length of princess and cat. The candles flared high. “Step away from the cat. Take her body away from her.” The governess clapped her hands three times, spun in place three times, widdershins again, and repeated the clap as she sang the instructions.
Waves and waves of sound rolled around and around the circular room. The mysterious powder erupted into cold flame, unnatural red flame that turned hair and fur to burnished gold. Janataea’s magic fire flashed and bounced from girl to ceiling, to floor and back again. Mikka’s consciousness was yanked downward with unimaginable force.
And the deed was done. Mikka blinked her cat’s eyes at the distorted images around her.
“From time to time you will remember who you are.” Janataea’s voice sounded strange and distant. Her words didn’t quite make sense, but Mikka understood them. “As time goes by, your memories will dim and you will truly become a cat. You may never again be a princess, unless both you and Rosse are embraced and willing.” Janataea smiled as she caressed the hair of the reclining princess.
At dawn, a tiny brindled brown cat slipped from the castle while a brown-haired princess with a single white streak at her right temple slept.
A long time later, the little cat found a clearing that called to her, comforted her, and protected her in the mountains west and north of Rossemeyer.
Chapter 15
LIFE bursting with colorful emotions. DEATH with all its pain and sorrow. Grief, joy, love, hate, vengeance, lust, hunger, replete.
All the emotions of thousands of capital inhabitants burst upon Brevelan before she fully emerged from the void. The baby moved restlessly within her womb. She wasn’t sure if the child was as uncomfortable as she amid the onslaught of emotions, or if he sought closer contact with the life all around them.
Her feet touched the stone floor. She drew one deep breath through her mouth and held it until she opened her eyes. Even without the passage of air through her nose, she was aware of the cooking odors that permeated this portion of the building. Many animals had died to feed the population within these walls. At least she hadn’t known any of the creatures, hadn’t treated their small ailments. Their deaths weighed upon her, but not heavily.
Life bloomed too vibrantly within her to dwell on death outside herself.
“Jaylor?” Brevelan sought her husband.
“Here.” His voice was weak and shaky. Had the transport affected his heart in some adverse manner?
“What’s wrong?” She touched his mind with comfort. The empathy twisted to despair and bounced back. He was heavily armored.
There was enough light seeping into the room from the kitchen hearth to discern his shaking figure sprawled in the corner beside long shelves of cleaning supplies. Two wine cups sat on the floor in front of him. They appeared to be full.
She knelt beside her husband and reached a tentative hand to encircle his fists, clenched upon his knees. Her touch was repulsed before she made contact. His armor extended through his entire body, not just his mind.
“Are you ill? Did the spell harm you?” She peered closely at his face. Lines of sorrow were etched from his mouth to his chin, from his eyes to his brow. His eyes would have told her the entire story—if he had raised them from the wine cups.
“Let Yaakke know you are safe, then we must find Baamin,” he murmured around his clenched jaw, still not looking at her.
“Not until you tell me what is wrong!” She forced her hand under his armor, as only she could do, to run an exploratory finger down his face. No fever. Some small physical pains, nothing worrisome. Just this tremendous sadness and . . . and fear.
“I don’t know what’s wrong.” Still his voice didn’t rise above a whisper, nor would he look at her. She thought she saw a drop of blood at the corner of his mouth, but couldn’t be sure in the dim light.
“I am a healer, Jaylor. I snatched you away from Death’s greedy maw when you poured your life into your magic to save Shayla. But I can’t help you if you don’t tell me what’s wrong.”
“Don’t try, Brevelan. ’Twould kill me thrice over if you were harmed by my malady. Promise me you will not heal me with magic. Promise me!” Finally he looked up. A dark twisted shadow cloud
ed his eyes.
“If I promise to restrain my natural healing instincts, will you promise to seek another healer?”
He swallowed in indecision.
“I cannot risk anyone’s life and magic.”
“Then I cannot promise.”
“Brevelan, you must. Don’t you see that your life is much more important than mine?”
“No, I don’t. Without you my life is nothing.”
“And the babe? Think, Brevelan. Darville is the heir to the dragon throne. Lord Krej is next in the bloodline. Krej is your father. If Darville sired your baby, then he has an undisputed claim to be king someday. In these uncertain times, you dare not risk yourself or the baby in any way!” The drop of dark moisture became a slow trickle down his chin. His words were slightly slurred, as if his tongue were swollen, or badly bitten.
“Your son’s claim will be disputed. I was born out of wedlock. This child was conceived before we wed. We will discuss this further after we have found and consulted with Master Baamin.” She rose from her crouch, not daring to look at him. Could the child ever fill the emptiness Jaylor’s absence evoked in her?
Over a year ago she had fled from all people, family and strangers, seeking a solitary life with only the forest creatures for companionship. She had been happy in her protected clearing with a pet wolf the dragon had named Darville, with the cat, Mica, who had taken possession of the clearing before her, a few flusterhens, and a goat.
Then Jaylor had burst into her clearing and her life. She could not go back to the clearing alone. Even if she had to tolerate all of the thousands of people here in the city and their rampant emotions, she would stay with Jaylor, heal him, cherish him, give him the children he deserved.
“Where will we find Baamin at this hour?” She kept her back to Jaylor, lest he sense the direction of her thoughts. He could follow her thoughts without magic, as she could his, as they both could Darville’s.
“In his study, or his chamber. Possibly the library.”
She felt her husband approach and knew he reached a hand to touch her, then dropped it before contact could be made and her healing invoked.
“You needn’t fear touching me, Jaylor.” Not so long ago she had feared his nearness. Now she needed constant doses of it. “Seek Baamin with your magic.”
“I can’t.”
“You have magic. I can see it in your aura. A small spell will help keep your heart strong, now that the blockage is dissolved.”
“I don’t dare.”
“You’ve resisted healing for over five moons. When will you accept the fact that your last spell didn’t kill you or your magic?”
“You don’t understand!”
Just then their packs and Jaylor’s staff clattered to the floor. Yaakke had sent them as soon as he was rested from the two transport spells—not that the boy ever seemed to need rest from any exertion. The staff rolled across the stones to Jaylor’s feet, like iron to a lodestone. But it wasn’t a smooth motion. The wood jerked and paused as if lopsided and topheavy.
Brevelan stooped to peer at the focus for Jaylor’s magic. The wood grain was twisted and braided once more, as if Jaylor had been using it frequently. There was an odd pattern to the coils now. Two braids marched down the length of the staff, one twisting right, away from the other left-handed plait. She couldn’t think what would cause such an odd twist and split in the staff’s reflection of the magic that passed through it. Couldn’t think of an answer and dreaded knowing.
“I seem to have bitten my tongue quite badly. Can you locate Baamin with your mind? He should be able to stop the bleeding.” Jaylor ignored the staff resting on his foot.
Brevelan handed the tool to him. She raised an eyebrow in question, not quite daring to ask what had caused the odd pattern in the wood. Jaylor turned his back to heft the packs to his shoulder. His lack of an answer told her more than she wanted to know.
“Master Baamin is not in the University.”
The Tambootie is wonderful! Why have I never seen its potential before? It allows me to see so much more clearly, both forward and backward in time.
With no effort at all, I can see bumbling old Baamin shielding his wayward princeling from my gaze. His magic is strong, but not stronger than mine. Darville is visiting a lady’s chamber as I would expect from a man with the discretion of a mongrel around a bitch in heat.
A wisp of a thought and my vision rolls to the princess. She sleeps quietly. But not alone. If anyone has allowed that evil cat to creep into her room, I shall kill them, most unpleasantly. I must hurry to her side. She cannot be compromised before the wedding.
“Did I hurt you when I swatted your muzzle?” Mikka ran a hand down Darville’s straight nose. Her fingernails were long and slightly curved. “You were quite selfish when you were a wolf.”
“I don’t remember that life at all.” Darville continued to stare at her, being very careful to keep his eyes above her neck.
Mikka was suddenly aware that her only covering was her hip-length hair. She’d spent nearly three years wearing nothing but cat fur. Her transformation back to womanhood hadn’t registered until now. A lifetime ago, she would have been embarrassed to be seen by a man. But this was no ordinary man. This was Darville. He understood her ordeal and why she had sought escape in a cat’s body. No other man would.
“When Jaylor was changing me back and forth from wolf to man, I retained more of my experiences,” Darville continued. “But the moons before that are a complete blank.” His hand traced the line of her head to rest just above her ear and scratch. Mikka leaned into the familiar, affectionate caress.
“Why did you do that?” she asked. The caress was too intimate for an unmarried woman and a man.
“I always scratch your ears when I must think . . . I mean . . . when you . . . when I. . . .”
They both looked to the cat sleeping on the bed pillow.
“Move, Rosse.” Darville lifted the contented cat to the foot of the bed.
“This is my place.” Mikka scooted against the headboard and leaned against the pillow. “And this is your place.” She patted the pillow beside her to indicate Darville should stay next to her.
“My valet complains every morning when he has to brush cat hair off the pillows.” He chuckled as he settled into position. His right arm draped naturally around Mikka. “How much do you remember of your ensorcelled life?”
“Almost everything. More than Janataea predicted. I don’t think she realized the magic in me was so strong.” Out of long habit she curled her body into his circling touch, rubbing the top of her head against his chin.
“Your magic was certainly very uncatlike six weeks ago when you broke the lock in the tunnels.” He pulled her closer yet, as if expecting his cat to crawl into his lap and purr. “If only we knew what Janataea really wants,” he mused while he stroked her hair the length of her back.
“I think she had planned the spell for a long time. Could it have something to do with the land of women warriors? Was she hoping I would find them for her?”
Darville glanced at the sleeping cat at the foot of the wide bed. “She is a very powerful witch. If she wanted to find that mythical place, she would have done it on her own. No. From what I have seen of your governess, I believe her motives have something to do with control. She has power over Rosie. I’ve seen her put destructive words into the poor girl’s mouth. She’d never be able to compel you to that extent, Mikka. My Mikka.” He brushed his lips across the top of her hair with quiet affection.
“I don’t want to go back to being a cat, my love.” She wrapped her arms around his chest and clung to him.
“I don’t want you to go back. I like you much better as a beautiful woman. But what can we do? Baamin said this transformation is only temporary. At dawn you will revert.”
“You must find a way to save me, Darville.”
“Now that I have found you, I will move heaven and Kardia to keep you. But I have no magic. Baamin is too old and
skittish to tamper with someone else’s spells. Jaylor has lost his magic. You will have to give me the answers, beloved.”
“I have no answers, only my love for you.” She looked up into his face and saw an answering emotion. He pulled her across his lap, holding her tightly against his chest. She caressed his face, lingering near his mouth. Their lips met, fiercely possessive, demanding.
“Where would Baamin be, if not in his chamber? There are only a few hours until dawn.” Jaylor wasn’t aware that he had spoken aloud until his words echoed slightly in the long corridor leading to the master’s wing.
The luxurious apartments had been mostly empty for several years. During the long decline of dragon magic, fewer and fewer men attended the University. Fewer graduated to master’s status. Now that the dragons were gone, the entire structure of the Commune was in upheaval. Jaylor sensed no one in any of the chambers now, nor could he smell any armor blocking his senses.
Many of the older magicians who were uncomfortable with the changing nature of their spells had retired to the monasteries. The remaining masters were posted to the twelve courts as advisers and sources of instant communication with each other and the capital.
“Could Baamin be in the palace? With Darville?” Brevelan asked.
Jaylor wanted desperately to gather her into the circle of his arm, to draw comfort and healing from her touch. But he didn’t dare. Two of the last three spells he had thrown had split dangerously. Two rabbits, one vicious, the other more timid than usual. Two wine cups, one pure vinegar, the other fresh fruit juice.
His third spell, transporting the greenbird, had worked. But he’d been incapacitated afterward with a seizure so strong he’d lost control of every muscle in his body.
He’d had a seizure with the two bad spells. Milder, shorter. Just before completing the spell, his knees had begun to shake and his vision blur. Control came back to him almost as soon as the spell was complete.
Maybe he could seek Baamin with his mind. That wasn’t really a spell, just a reaching beyond normal senses. He barely needed to establish the first level of trance for such a simple feat.
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 48