Someone in the kitchen knew how to fuel a magician’s body against the stresses of long sessions with Commune and Council.
Interesting that the platter contained no meat. Jaylor hadn’t eaten meat since his first encounter with Brevelan. Dragon magic, like the dragons themselves, required massive amounts of animal protein for fuel. Solitary magic, on the other hand, drew power from Kardia Hodos herself. Mixed plant proteins gave him energy now, flesh just weighed him down.
Who in the University understood this already?
Jaylor made a mental note to grant that servant a raise.
Mikka arched her back and stretched her arms over her head. A languid yawn escaped as she felt the smooth sheets of her marriage bed caress every inch of her naked body. A faint ripple of enjoyment, deep in her center, reminded her that Rosie still lurked behind her consciousness. Mikka was learning to live with that. As long as the cat’s persona didn’t erupt without warning, she was in no danger.
She stretched her left foot across the wide bed to caress Darville’s naked leg. Instead of hard muscle and springy hair, she met only more and more of the sheets. One eye popped open and scanned the expanse of empty bed. On the pillow opposite her lay a rose and a note.
Smiling, Mikka lifted the fragrant flower to her nose. Blood red and smelling of desert winds and roaring rivers. How like Darville to choose a rose from her own country as his first gift to his bride. Rossemeyer had reclaimed the desert in the deep river valleys. And on the high plateaus they cherished the freedom of the wind.
The note was scrawled hastily, almost unreadable. Something about the Council. Oh, well. She’d been raised to understand the demands placed on a ruler. Her training for her position as queen and chatelaine had been extensive—until Janataea had intervened. Mikka knew what was expected of her.
Palace Reveta Tristile had not had a chatelaine for many years—not since Queen Rebakka, Darville’s mother, died nineteen years ago. Mikka wondered who had been in charge. The servants were obedient and food arrived hot and on time, so someone must give orders. There was no time like the present to find out who ran her new home, and how.
Rosie nudged her consciousness. First a bath, then breakfast. The bellpull to summon a maid was within reach of the bed.
Mikka rolled to the side so she could reach the bellpull. As her back raised up from the sheets, a sharp stinging pierced between her shoulder blades. She jerked around to look toward the window. The pain in her back sharpened and deepened. Her eyes lost focus.
A shrouded figure appeared from the balcony, outside the window.
Numbness flowed from her back, across her arms and down to her legs. Then the black tide of unfeeling raced to her eyes and mind. Just before she lost all control, the image of Janataea swam before her vision.
Rosie reached up and snarled through the drugs, claws unsheathed, and lashed at her nemesis. Long cuts appeared beneath Mikka’s fingernails. Blackness overtook her.
Janataea laughed.
“Never will there be Rovers in the Commune!” screamed an elderly magician in a master’s cloak, so old and faded it looked almost as gray as the man’s hair and skin.
Jaylor ducked the candlestick the old man “threw” at his head with more magic power than his frail body should have been able to wield.
“You said the same about using rogue powers, Lyman.” Jaylor settled back in the wide chair in Baamin’s office. “Now we all are rogues. You seem to have adapted to solitary magic better than most.” He smiled. He couldn’t allow his temper to overtake his good sense the first time he presided over the Commune.
“But a Rover, Jaylor?” Scrawny asked. By age and seniority, Maarklin, known as Scrawny among his peers, should have been Baamin’s heir. “Zolltarn and his tribe aren’t even in Coronnan legally. How can we seat him in the Commune?”
“Would you rather have him running around the country, unchecked, unmonitored?”
“We’d rather he went back to Hanassa, or wherever it is he comes from,” Lyman grumbled. “Rovers are great tricksters. We aren’t even sure he can throw true magic.”
“His magic is based on a different theory, but it is very powerful, gentlemen. Very powerful, indeed. Last night he worked a spell worthy of any master.”
“And what spell is that? We detected no massive energy surges anywhere near the capital.” Scrawny got up to pace beside the window. His gauntness must come from his ceaseless movement. Jaylor had never seen Scrawny sit still. Not for a moment. And lately, he was always by a window.
“The Rovers performed a ritual to bind me and my magic back together properly.” Jaylor transported a cup of wine to his hand from the cellars with a blink of an eye. “Oh, excuse me, did anyone else wish for a cup?” He glanced around the crowded room with pretended innocence. “Two days ago, I couldn’t do this.” The cup vanished as quickly as it had arrived. “I’d have had two cups, one vinegar, one fresh fruit juice.”
“I hadn’t realized how powerful a spell you had thrown last spring, Jaylor,” Fraandlor looked intently at Jaylor. In the old days, magicians never used their birth names. Instead they adopted, or were given a name that reflected their personality when they entered the University. Fraandlor was called Slippy, for his resemblance to the bay eels, slippery and poisonous if handled improperly. His temper was recorded as being vicious when roused. On all other occasions he was noted for his gentle healing touch and soft polite voice.
Baamin was known as “Toad Knees.” He had ended the practice of adopted names for new apprentices.
It was on the tip of Jaylor’s tongue to blurt out that his transformation of Shayla, from glass sculpture to living dragon, hadn’t warped his magic—Krej had. But he’d made a solemn vow not to tell anyone, especially these magicians, that Krej had found an antidote to the witchbane.
“Zolltarn is a magician, of master strength. He has knowledge he is willing to share—as any master in the University is oath-bound to do. A seat on the Commune is his reward for healing me and increasing our understanding of new magic. Are we agreed?”
“No.” The old man turned his face away from his fellow magicians.
Jaylor watched Slippy closely. He’d been assigned to traitorous Lord Krej since that lord had assumed governorship of Faciar. Not once in all those years had Slippy reported any of Krej’s mysterious activities that were really a cover for his rogue magic. Had the magician absorbed the philosophy of his host?
“What other choice do we have?” Scrawny stopped pacing just long enough to utter his words. He next step began a new path all the way around the room, instead of back and forth at the window.
Jaylor watched his movements a moment before replying. Was Scrawny pacing an armoring circle?
“We have no other choice. Baamin and I gave our word.”
“Look where it got Old Baamin. Who’s to say his heart didn’t give out as a result of Zolltarn’s poisons? He could have attacked our Senior Magician covertly because he knew you, Jaylor, are Baamin’s designated successor and Zolltarn knows he can manipulate you.” Lyman pointed a bony finger at Jaylor.
“That is possible. But if we deny him the seat, he and his tribe could attack each and every one of us until he is the only magician left.”
“There’s always the witchbane,” Scrawny said.
Again, Jaylor wanted to inform them of the drug’s uselessness. Zolltarn had worked with Krej before. The antidote could be given to him quite readily. “I hesitate to put too much reliance on witchbane. We have to find other alternatives for dealing with magicians outside the Commune. If we don’t, we’ll just be prescribing it every time we meet someone with powers we don’t understand. Isn’t it better to bring him into our circle and learn about the man and his magic?”
“A wise recommendation, Jaylor,” Slippy commented. “I vote for his admittance.”
“So do I,” Scrawny added.
The remaining magicians nodded their agreement. At the very last, Lyman jerked his chin down once in rel
uctant agreement.
“Scrawny, would you admit our newest member and administer the oath? I’m due in Council.”
“You’re already late, boy,” Slippy chuckled. “Are you going to transport yourself across the bridge, like you do your cups of wine?”
“Yes I am.”
“What!” they all screeched in unison.
But Jaylor was halfway to his destination.
Chapter 27
Darville led his lords in to the opulent Council Chamber, back straight, eyes forward, and the Coraurlia, in its protective satchel, slung over his shoulder. The glass crown, forged from magical dragon fire, would not leave his person until the coronation at the next full moon. By that time, the crown would be imprinted with his aura and no other could wear it until after his death.
Full of pride and well-being, the new king strode to the head of the table. Today he would sit on the dragon throne and none could dispute his right to do so. Halfway to the throne, he stopped dead in his tracks.
The king’s chair was not in its customary place. An ordinary seat, with straight lines and plain wooden seat, had been placed where the throne should rest.
Darville searched the room hastily. The elaborate carving of the throne wasn’t in evidence.
“My lords.” He whirled to face the men behind him. “Is this some kind of sick joke?”
“What, Your Grace?” Lord Andrall asked from right behind him.
Darville pointed to the common chair. Anger slowly rose to replace the contentment that had flooded his being upon waking to find Mikka beside him. He didn’t want to lose the joy of his wedding night; didn’t want to fall back into the games of mistrust and devious tactics with his Council.
“Stargods! Who is responsible for this?” Andrall glared at his fellow lords.
Confused babble broke out among them. No one wanted to take responsibility for the practical joke.
“Where is Lord Krej?” Darville hastily counted the men within the room. His cousin wasn’t among those present. Nor was Krej’s shadow, Marnak the Younger. “Fred, summon Lord Krej to the Council Chamber. We have business to attend to,” he called to his guard.
Just then, a servant in the maroon and green livery of the Krej household pelted down the corridor, skidding to a halt in front of the assembled lords.
“Your Grace, my lords.” He bowed, never looking up to the men he addressed. “Lord Krej is missing.”
“What do you mean, Lord Krej is missing?” Darville leaned across the Council table and glared at the cowering messenger.
“When I brought him his usual breakfast tray, his chamber was empty, Your Grace.”
“I gave orders, days ago, that he was not to leave the palace unescorted.” Darville shifted his feet, resisting the urge to pace the perimeter of the chamber like a caged wolf.
“I questioned the guard on watch, sir. I knew his lordship would be angry if he didn’t get his breakfast on time. The guard said he . . . he was es . . . escorted out of the city, Your Grace. By his own men, sir,” the servant stammered. “At least, his wife and family were. No one remembers seeing his lordship with them.”
Darville couldn’t make the liveried man look him in the eye. “When? When did they leave the palace? And did they have the dragon throne with them?” Darville straightened his back but refused to sit.
At least his cousin hadn’t been able to take the Coraurlia as well as the throne.
“Before dawn, Your Grace. His suite is empty. Empty of everything, even the carpets and wardrobes.”
Angry heat swelled Darville’s face. The messenger backed away from his king’s wrath, but was stopped by a glowering Fred.
“He can’t have gone far with that kind of load, Your Grace,” Lord Andrall spoke soothingly. “Mounted troops will overtake him with ease.”
“Rogue magicians transport goods from place to place, Lord Andrall,” Darville reminded his oldest supporter. “My cousin has finally stepped outside his carefully constructed disguise and revealed himself for a magician. I’ve been telling you for moons of his power and you ignored me.”
“But the witchbane, sir!” Another lord protested.
“And the people in his entourage. Magicians can’t transport people.”
“Krej has found an antidote to witchbane,” Jaylor announced from the doorway. Clothed in his master’s cloak and new trews and tunic, Darville’s friend looked older, more mature and confident than the new king was used to seeing him.
Jaylor strode to Darville’s side, his massive body stirring the air in the closed room. Power radiated from him. He seemed to glow with the remnants of yesterday’s spirit journey with the dragons. The lords leaned away from his presence.
Darville stood eye-to-eye with his childhood companion. “How?” he asked simply.
“The references to witchbane that I found stated there was no antidote. The book was older than the Great War of Disruption. Magicians from Hanassa, Krej’s mother among them, have had three hundred years to work on the problem.” Jaylor shrugged. The breadth of his shoulders and the drape of the jewel-toned cloak only hinted at the energy glowing behind his eyes.
Darville wondered if Jaylor had been indulging in the Tambootie. After the events of the last two days, the man should be fainting with exhaustion.
“The magic border between Coronnan and Hanassa was the first to be breached when Krej destroyed traditional magic.” Jaylor paced behind the place where the dragon throne should rest. That was his place now in the Council Chamber. He was Senior Magician and adviser to the king.
“Lady Janessa’s family hailed originally from Hanassa, before they married into the royal family of SeLenicca. Lady Janessa was Lord Dratorelle’s second wife, a political alliance. The brother of our king and the first cousin of theirs. Rumors have abounded for years of her bizarre religion and secret trips into the mountains. Who in Coronnan knows where she retired to upon the death of her husband? My guess is Hanassa, with the other rogue magicians.”
Jaylor drummed his fingers on the tabletop, betraying his level of anxiety.
“You knew he had the antidote!” Darville accused.
“He made me swear on Brevelan’s life not to reveal it,” Jaylor excused himself, never dropping his eyes from confrontation with Darville.
“What made you break such an oath?” Darville breathed harshly through his teeth. His stomach lurched, and his heart beat faster. There was trouble ahead. A lot of it.
“He swore never to use his powers against the kingdom. I believe he has broken faith with all of us. Therefore, I am free to reveal all I know of his activities.”
“How do you know for sure he has broken faith?” Lord Jonnias demanded.
“I just encountered another messenger in the hall. The witch Janataea has escaped. Krej is the only one who could have helped her.”
“He was there in the cell when she was punished with the witchbane,” Jonnias countered. “He helped administer the dosage.”
“He could as easily slip her the antidote at the same time. If so, then my cousin has committed treason.” Darville breathed heavily.
“Isn’t that a bit hasty, Your Grace?” Sir Holmes spoke from behind Darville.
“Hasty?” Darville whirled to face his aide, certain now where the man’s loyalty lay. “Hasty?” The list of Krej’s crimes played over and over through Darville’s head. Just his refusal to plant a tithe of land in Tambootie for the dragons was enough to remove him from the Council. Practicing solitary magic when such spells were illegal should have condemned him.
A twitch of an eyebrow sent Jaylor behind the retreating aide.
Darville pinned each of the lords to his chair with a look. The power of outraged betrayal surged through him, fueling his tirade. “I told you, time and again, that the beast-headed man who ensorcelled me into the form of a wolf could only have been Krej, or employed by him. With me trapped by his spells, he usurped the regency, and still the Council refused to call it treason. Now he has unleashe
d his rogue powers again and helped a foreign witch to escape. And you call an accusation of treason hasty?”
Freedom and power coursed through Darville’s veins, like the battle fever that took him when riding patrol against outlaws. He gestured his annoyance and produced his short sword without warning. His blood ran hot at the shock and fear in his opponent’s eyes as he waved the tip of the weapon beneath Holmes’ nose.
“Only another traitor would defend such a man as my cousin, Holmes. I watched you murder a spy from SeLenicca against my orders. Not only murder, but decapitate, so no magician could read his dying memories. I’ve watched you write reports of my actions—reports you said the Council requested, but which really went to Krej. You were the agent who corrupted the paymaster in order to divert the loyalty of my men. Now, you defend my enemy, the enemy of all Coronnan.” Only a glare from Jaylor kept Darville from plunging his well-balanced blade into Holmes’ heart.
“Guards! Arrest this man. Place him in a magically armored cell with a member of the Commune and an arms master in constant attendance. I’ll not have my cousin and his witch freeing another traitor.”
Pain stabbed into his back. Pain that lanced to his heart and numbed his limbs. Darville swung to face his Council. Accusations died on his lips.
All of the men in the circular room were in their places, all of their eyes were on Holmes.
The pain died as fast as it flared. Darville sought Jaylor’s eyes for explanation.
A shriek of despair cut through his concentration. “Mikka!” he gasped.
“You have defied me for the last time, Rosie,” Janataea hissed through oddly blackened teeth. Her body shimmered and shrank into the hideous form of an oily, green-black harpy. She raised extremely long, ragged-looking wings above a bloated bird body that retained her voluptuous human breasts. The nipples tightened with some bizarre excitement, that was echoed in her glowing red eyes. The same eyes that had pushed compulsion spells onto Rosie, yet oddly changed.
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