But the face was the same, superimposed upon the scrawny neck of this evil creature. Beautiful in bone structure, made ugly by her malicious sneer and the bleeding scratches Rosie had inflicted just before the drugged dart had taken effect.
Mikka’s mind shuddered; her body had no sensations left within it to respond.
“Your willful ways have destroyed years of carefully laid plans. No more. You will come with me.” Janataea’s voice came from nowhere and everywhere. She reached out with long, hooked talons. “And you will pay for scratching me, Rosie. You will be punished, again and again and again!”
“Never!” Mikka fought the paralysis. Her body jerked and spasmed.
A new compulsion took over her muscles. Mikka’s body sat upright. Her legs swung over the side of the bed. One resisting hand reached for her nightshift. Desperately, she tried to hold back. Inch by inch she willed her hand away.
Somehow she knew that her own safety rested in breaking this hold Janataea had over her.
“Release me, Janataea. Release me and I will request exile instead of death as your punishment.” The words just barely squeaked through her numb lips.
“Janataea the governess no longer. I am Rhomerra, messenger of Simurgh,” she cackled and flapped her wings.
Self-will dissolved within Mikka. Without knowing how or why, the shift flew over her head and settled over her body. She stood and waited.
Icily burning claws stabbed into her back. She jerked upward and back. Pain registered somewhere in her mind, then died.
“Take her away, brother,” Janataea ordered. “I will join you in flight with our other prisoner.”
“Don’t take too long. I don’t know how long I can hold this shape-change.” A second harpy joined Janataea. Thick of body, with dangling human genitals, ugly in the black skin of the creature.
Lord Krej.
“What is happening?” Jaylor was already breathing deeply, preparing a spell.
“I don’t know. Mikka is in danger!”
The room swirled around them in a blinding rainbow. Cold. Deathly cold, not of this world, blasted his body.
Black nothingness.
Sensation returned with blinding speed. Darville collapsed to the carpeted floor. The Council Chamber wasn’t carpeted. But his apartment was.
He looked up, fighting the dizziness. Double images wavered and blurred, then righted within his brain. Jaylor paced, seeking and sniffing, seemingly unaffected by the rapid transport.
Darville searched the bed, where he had reluctantly left Mikka sound asleep. The sheets should have been rumpled and stained from their night of loving. The soft fabric had been slashed by a bloody knife. Rich tapestries hung in tatters around the bed. His note was shredded. And so were the pillows. Feathers littered the room. The fresh rose he had so lovingly placed beside his bride was wilted on the floor, crushed, as if ground beneath a vindictive foot.
“Mikka? Stargods! Where is she?” Darville scooped up the remnants of the flower. Its scent cloyed at his senses.
“Violent magic swept through this room, moments ago.” Jaylor continued to pace the room. Each step moved him faster. Each sniff pinched his nostrils whiter.
“Mikka?” An emptiness yawned in Darville’s middle, blacker and more desolate than the void.
“I can find no trace of her.”
Brevelan sang a transparent bubble of gentle armor around herself and Glendon. “Such a hungry baby.” She fondled his tiny head.
For a few moments, while he nursed, he was quiet and content. Their rocking chair seemed to find the rhythm of her tune and her heartbeat by itself.
“You are so special, my son. So wonderful,” she cooed within her song.
The empty peace of her clearing in the southern mountains beckoned to her. She longed for Jaylor to finish his business in the capital so they could return to the quiet isolation of her home.
Jaylor had changed her entire perception of herself and her magic. With his love to support and nurture her, she could face the swirl of confusing emotions that beat at her armor in the city, without allowing them to swallow her whole. But it was hard work. She didn’t know how long she could maintain control, and nurture her baby, too. Oh! How she longed for her clearing.
“Tall trees, Glendon. Lots of tall trees and soft ferns. A stream for fresh water and a bathing pool warmed by hot springs. The garden gets bigger with every season. There’s more than enough there to satisfy us. You and me and your father. Just the three of us.”
Glendon kicked and cooed as he nursed. She focused on her infant son and the emotions he broadcast so loudly.
Hunger. Sleep. Hunger. Too hot. Hunger. Too cold. Hunger. Hold me. Hunger.
Such a demanding baby. Barely a full day old and already he had grown. His personality was beginning to assert itself long before most infants. This was one life Brevelan could not separate from herself. Not for a long time, anyway. By absorbing his needs into herself, she could almost overlook the crowds of emotions that pressed against her careful control.
She caressed the downy head of hair and sang a stronger wall of armor. This was a special time with her son. A private time for creating lasting bonds of love and interdependence.
Women had sung this kind of magic for aeons without understanding the power they held. A gentle tune while stirring the stew blessed the meal. A lively whistle while hanging the wash ensured the sunshine through the afternoon. And tunes hummed in rhythm with a rocking chair, while nursing or mending or knitting, wove protection about the hearth and home.
All women had magic in their songs. But men, especially the isolated and often celibate members of the Commune, would never recognize it as magic.
Glendon interrupted his greedy feeding to stare into Brevelan’s eyes. Unfocused, uncertain, he sought something/ someone that eluded him. He returned to his meal. If Brevelan didn’t know better, she would think he was less satisfied with her milk than he had been a moment ago.
Since the night of Baamin’s last summoning spell, when a strange and disturbing Presence had invaded the clearing, Brevelan had sensed her baby seeking, seeking, ever seeking something outside his limited perceptions.
Jealousy roared through her. Jealousy that another had reached to quiet the disturbed baby while she was out-of-body. She reinforced the armor yet again.
No one, absolutely no one, would be allowed to intrude on her bond with her son.
Beyond the perimeter of the magic armor, the bright sunshine dimmed. Brevelan looked up to see what had shadowed this bright autumnal morning. Clouds roiled across the sky, spewing lightning.
Darkness flowed between her and the window. A darkness with form and substance. A cloaked and hooded figure. Brevelan recognized the Presence immediately. So did Glendon.
Alarm replaced jealousy. She opened her mouth to scream. No sound exited her armor.
Chapter 28
Jaylor fought the disorientation of transport while extending his senses into every corner of the royal suite. Mikka might never have been in the room—ever, for all he could tell.
An oddity in the pattern of strewn pillow feathers drew his eyes back to the bed, again and again. Jaylor wanted to avoid the bed, so as not to embarrass Darville with the evidence of his previous night’s activities. But he couldn’t stay away from the whorls of feathers and soft linen, of blood and hair and . . . and. . . .
“A cat was in here,” he announced. “A cat I should recognize, but can’t quite place.” Jaylor sniffed with his magic, as well as his other senses. The sense of alieness pervaded and clouded his assessment.
“Rosse?” Darville asked as he staggered upright. He clutched a chairback in white-knuckled anxiety. “What the hell did you do to me anyway?” The new king shook his head to clear it. Morning sunshine glinted off the movement of the miniature silvery metal dragon earring Baamin had given him. Zolltarn had reluctantly returned the jewel, but not until the Rover realized that by removing it from Darville, he’d alerted Baamin to d
anger.
Pinpoints of the reflected light stabbed Jaylor’s magic-sensitized eyes. His ears were ringing, too. He refrained from shaking his own head. That action would stall the stabilization of his senses.
“Mikka’s cat? I thought they were joined.”
“They were. Could they have separated again?”
“Possible. I can’t sense Mikka at all. Could they have shape-changed into the cat body?” Shape-change, possibly, but they couldn’t separate. As far as Jaylor knew, the true cat body was still in the void with the dragons, waiting for a separation of the two souls who were trapped in one human body. Only then could the cat become properly animated. And if they shape-changed, which personality would dominate, cat or woman?
“Where? Who?” Darville was dazed and sinking into the lethargy of despair. “Mikka can’t shape-change.”
“Krej or Janataea is my guess.” Jaylor bent over the puzzling pattern of feathers again. Some were just pillow down, others were dark and oily, almost scales. An old horror crept over him, the stuff of childish nightmares. But the memory was too deeply buried for him to pinpoint.
He caught a whiff of Tambootie tainted with the odor of Krej’s magic, and something else, very like Krej, yet without the lord’s distinctive stamp.
Someone else. “Or both!”
A new breeze pushed in from the open balcony window. The scents on the bed intensified within the dark wind. Jaylor strode across the wide room to the window in two huge steps. He sent a feeler of magic into the thickening clouds.
JAYLOR!
His mind swam with the telepathic call.
“Brevelan!” he screamed in fear. “Glendon!”
One breath, deeper than he knew how to take. Two breaths and he was halfway into the void. With a pass of his staff, he grabbed energy from the intensifying storm. A dragon wing dipped out of the void. He grabbed hold, hooked Darville with his staff, and took off. Three breaths and a thank you to the dragon sent him into his own suite within a heartbeat.
The void parted and dropped Jaylor and his hapless passenger. Jolted by the second transport, so close to the first, his balance and vision rebelled. Even as he staggered into a door, his magic was seeking contact.
“Guardians gather to the Coraurlia!” He broadcast the ancient rallying call on telepathic, as well as verbal levels.
Three hundred years ago that call had brought the Commune together in times of crises. It was a summons they had all been trained to respond to without question, without hesitation. Any University-trained magician, priest, or healer would follow the crown, and the king who wore it, into hell and back at that call. He hoped the glass artifact had had time to register enough of Darville’s imprint for the magicians to find them.
“Brevelan!” Jaylor called with mind and voice and emotions.
No answer.
Anxiety clawed at him. Uncertainty delayed the rebalancing of his senses. He fought for calm. His vision cleared before the dizziness truly passed. Just in time, he spotted and ducked a bolt of slimy green-black magic, as it ricocheted off the tapestried walls of his suite. It was the same color as the oily feathers on Darville’s and Mikka’s bed. His rapid dive away from the bolt set his head spinning again.
There was a spell he could recite to steady himself. If only he could remember it. If only he had enough strength left to call up any magic. Two quick transports of two bodies, even with dragon assistance, had drained his reserves.
He ducked the bolt of magic energy again. The noisome thing bounced against a chair, turned, and sought his life force.
Once more he borrowed energy from the storm outside, lightning filling him with tingling strength. His body centered and balanced without an additional spell.
A gesture and three words contained the bouncing bolt of magic. Dark green magic, almost black. That must be from Janataea. Krej’s magic was always a brighter green and deep red.
“Brevelan?”
His call bounced about the room, much as the magic bolt had. They had to be encountering armor somewhere. Otherwise, the magic and the word would be absorbed by carpets and wall hangings.
This time Jaylor sought armor, rather than a person.
There! In the corner, between the wardrobe and the wall. A bubble of “nothing” pushed his seeking away.
Jaylor fine-tuned his barb of magic into a gentle tendril of himself, with his enormous love for Brevelan emblazoned into the address.
The armor quivered, almost allowed the magic to penetrate. Then it firmed and rejected his touch absolutely.
“Jaylor, what the hell are you doing?” Darville had managed to rise as far as his hands and knees. He seemed steady enough, as long as he kept his eyes shut.
“I’m keeping you close to me, where I can protect you should you be the next target of our enemies.” Jaylor helped his friend to his feet.
Darville leaned too heavily on his shoulder and still didn’t open his eyes.
“S’murgh it. I forget you’re mundane. You can’t tolerate the void. I can just barely pass through it without losing so much strength I can’t get out. Sit and empty your mind. The magic infection won’t return, you’re immune now, but who knows what damage the void will do to you.” He pushed his friend into a large chair.
“Are we out of it? The void I mean.” Darville supported his head with his free hand. Reluctantly, he reached to remove the heavy glass dragon crown and its satchel from his shoulder. The weight must seem an incredible drag on his back.
“Don’t take it off!” Jaylor cried in alarm. “Protection was seared into the glass when it was forged. As long as you have the Coraurlia on your person, external spells can’t harm you. And no other can wear it, unless duly crowned and anointed by the Commune.”
Darville fingered his dragon earring. “Baamin gave me this trinket for the same purpose.”
“The piece was keyed to Baamin. He can’t help you in his condition.”
Darville finally opened his eyes and looked at Jaylor. “Stargods! You aren’t the same boy I grew up with. You’re half transparent with fatigue, and still the power of magic glows through you.” The new king shrank away from his lifelong friend.
Jaylor felt himself grinning inanely. If he didn’t smile, he’d cry. “Nor are you the same boy who dared me to defy every rule set by my University and your tutors, Roy.” Jaylor used their boyhood nickname to reestablish their old camaraderie. Age and responsibility was threatening to put tremendous distance between them. “Yesterday, you were a troubled prince who sought play to hide your frustrations. Today you are a king.”
“And newly widowed, I fear. Krej couldn’t exact a greater revenge upon me than to kill Mikka.” Grief overtook the emotions racing across his face. His shoulders sagged inside the stiff tunic. The tall and grateful warrior seemed to shrink before Jaylor’s eyes.
“Not quite a widower. If our enemies had wanted to kill your bride, they would have done so and left her for you to find. They took her, and they erased all trace of her presence so we couldn’t follow. Krej needs her alive. I don’t know why yet, but I assure you, Mikka is alive.”
Darville only shook his head in denial. “I love her, Jaylor.”
“I know.” Jaylor turned away. Friends needed comfort in times of trouble. Kings needed privacy. Which was Darville at this moment?
The bubble of armor in the corner turned slightly opaque. A good sign. If that was Brevelan hiding in there, she was listening, possibly feeling Darville’s grief. The healer in Brevelan would need to reach out and comfort Darville.
Jaylor sighed inwardly. His wife was responding to Darville’s grief, but not to his loving need to protect her.
Footsteps pounding in the corridor diverted Jaylor’s attention.
“Jaylor! What is the meaning of this unprecedented summons?” Scrawny stood in the doorway. Blue-robed magicians stood behind him, along with gray-robed healers and red-clad priests. All University-trained, all responding to the rallying cry.
“Membe
r of the Commune, Guardians of Coronnan,” Jaylor announced in his most authoritative voice. “Queen Rossemikka has been kidnapped. My wife, the Lady Brevelan, has been threatened.”
“How in the hell did you manage to transport yourself and a mundane?” Scrawny seemed more interested in the magic than the current crisis.
Jaylor narrowed his eyes to really look at the man he had revered throughout his years as apprentice and journeyman. He was assigned to the court of Lord Andrall and had always, always supported king and Commune. The image of an exceedingly tall, gaunt man kept sliding out of his field of vision. His aura was nonexistent. A truth spell was inappropriate at the moment. Mistrust welled up in Jaylor.
“Krej!” Yaakke snorted in disgust, as he shouldered his way past the masters in the doorway, Zolltarn right behind him. “The room is thick with the smell of his magic. And someone else, too. Someone . . .” he sniffed again. “Someone related to him.”
“What about Lord Krej?” Scrawny focused his accusatory tone on the boy.
“Was it Lord Krej who kidnapped Mikka?” Darville asked the boy.
“Seems likely. He’s been in here throwing magic.”
“Then my cousin has committed the ultimate treason, he has kidnapped the queen,” Darville said. “I proclaim him outlaw.”
“Will his troops follow him or you?” Slippy’s question was more a sigh than a query. “I fear civil war will follow this action. We’ve tried everything to avoid it.”
“Will you honor your vows to the Commune, Fraandlor?” Jaylor stepped between Slippy and Darville. The magician had been assigned to Krej’s court for a decade or more. By using his formal name, Jaylor made his question a formal issue.
Slippy’s honest. Yaakke’s thoughts came into Jaylor’s head. Watch out for Scrawny.
An echo from the bubble of armor confirmed Yaakke’s opinion. Jaylor forced himself not to turn and face the space where he knew Brevelan must be hiding. If there were still traitors in their midst, he needed to protect her at all costs.
“Gentlemen,” he addressed the Commune. “Please escort His Grace back to the Council Chamber. Protect him with your lives. And take that slimy bolt of magic with you. Find its signature and see if any of you can trace it. That may be our best clue to finding the queen. We are solitary magicians now, rather than communal. But with teamwork, we can persevere.” Jaylor turned aside to his apprentice. “Go with them, Yaakke. Report anything amiss to me. And I mean anything out of the ordinary.”
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 58