“We can’t leave Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos! He depends upon you for protection. We depend upon him for employment.” Ackerly’s supper formed a lump in his belly. What would he do for food and shelter away from the lord’s stronghold? The thought of weathering the winter storms outside the snug warmth of his room near the kitchen filled him with dread. No more tasty tidbits pressed upon him by the scullery maid. No more stolen kisses and frantic fumblings with the wenches in the armory. No more gold paid out every moon.
“I’m taking a leave of absence from Lord Kammeryl to study and experiment, Ackerly. Lord Quinnault showed me an abandoned monastery today. The most amazing place. Intact. Good roof. No signs of wear or decay. Not even any cobwebs.” Nimbulan started throwing books and pieces of arcane equipment into a pack without regard to efficiency or breakability. “Rollett, have you seen my oak wand with the river agate?” he called into the interior of the great pavilion.
“Your attention is needed here. Nimbulan. Three men reported seeing a flywacket. Three confirmed sightings. Do you realize the significance of that?”
“Yes, yes. I saw it, too. A wonderful omen that I belong in that monastery. It’s perfect for my experiments. We’ll need to recruit some new apprentices, and send an open invitation to trained magicians who genuinely desire peace. We’re going to find a way to end these wars, Ackerly. I can feel it in my bones.” He scratched his left palm, the one he held up to weave his spells, then moved to another collection of paraphernalia, stuffing it into a large sack.
“The men swear the flywacket was also the witchwoman’s familiar.” Ackerly dropped his voice, curious to see how his comrade reacted to that bit of news.
Nimbulan looked up from his frantic sorting of mirrors and powders and mathematical charts of the stars. “Impossible. Myrilandel keeps a black cat. I saw the beast—she called it Amaranth. It bore no signs of wings or beak or talons. Unlike the creature we saw today. What we saw was truly an omen from the Stargods.”
“What if they saw a true flywacket? What if the shadows the men reported yesterday came from a dragon?” Ackerly asked.
“Illusions. The men were exhausted from the battle. Now where did I put that Khamsin eagle quill? It’s my favorite pen.”
Ackerly dropped his head in disappointment. Usually Nimbulan listened to him. Tonight he was too full of his own plans to heed anything but the direst shocks. Ackerly vowed to use a heavier dose than usual of the Tambootie on Nimbulan’s supper. Maybe then the Battlemage would listen.
“Maalin,” Ackerly called to the dark-haired young man loitering near a small two-man tent beside the large pavilion. “Maalin, inform my lord Kammeryl that Nimbulan and I will attend him shortly.” The apprentice nodded as he hastened to the other side of the camp.
“We haven’t time to waste discussing Kammeryl’s latest female companion. And you know he won’t hear anything else we say until he gives us a blow-by-blow description of his latest bedding.” Nimbulan shuddered slightly with distaste.
Ackerly refused to flinch. They both knew the lord’s tastes. Distastes was a more accurate word. But feeding the man’s addiction to pretty virgins gave Kammeryl d’Astrismos a feeling of godlike power and thus blinded him to manipulation by the magicians. Ackerly needed Kammeryl in a fog of sexual satiation to keep his treasury open.
“Just send a message to Lord Kammeryl. Compose it for me, will you? Are all of the books on history and moon phases in the trunk?” Nimbulan turned back to his sorting without waiting for an answer.
“What am I supposed to tell our lord?” Ackerly gritted his teeth. Nimbulan wasn’t listening to him at all—wasn’t paying attention to anything but his own thoughts spinning in a mad whirl.
“Tell him anything. You’re better at diplomatic notes than I am. Oh, and tell Myrilandel to be ready to travel with us. I’m looking forward to training her. She has the most amazing talent.”
“The witchwoman escaped.”
“What do you mean, escaped? She couldn’t escape. She wasn’t a prisoner.”
“She left, then. Secretly. Without notice. And she tried to steal supplies. That’s when the guards saw her flywacket. That’s when she ran westward in the same direction as Moncriith.” He smiled to himself at the misdirection. Nimbulan wouldn’t find either Moncriith or Myrilandel if he sought them. Moncriith would be free to act upon any information Ackerly chose to feed him, and Nimbulan wouldn’t lose himself in his infatuation with the girl.
“I’ve got to stop her. She needs my help.” Nimbulan dashed toward the door.
Ackerly stood firmly in his path. “No. We need to speak to Lord Kammeryl about his plans to follow Lord Hanic’s army. We need to help spread the rumor that the flywacket was a message from the Stargods that the House d’Astrismos is their favorite to rule all of Coronnan.”
“Get out of my way, Ackerly. I’ve much more important things to do than cater to Kammeryl’s delusions of god-hood.”
“What is more important than catering to the whims of the man who provides you with food and clothing and a place to work as well as a generous salary? What is more important than his plans for Coronnan?”
“Peace.” Nimbulan pushed past Ackerly.
“Peace will be the end of our kind,” Ackerly whispered to himself. “And the end of our money.” Nimbulan hadn’t heard a word he said. No one ever did. No one had listened to him since he was thirteen and had failed his journeyman trials for the second time. . . .
“Fumble fingers!” Boojlin taunted Ackerly as they emerged from Master Druulin’s private study. Boojlin had passed the first test set for them. He’d successfully lobbed a ball of witchfire out the window to ignite the scarecrow in a nearby field.
Druulin and Boojlin had laughed at the farmer’s frantic attempts to extinguish the fire before it burned the entire field of corn.
Ackerly had failed the test. He couldn’t “throw” anything with magic. He could retrieve personal items that he knew well, like his staff. But throwing eluded him.
“How can you expect to be a Battlemage if you can’t throw something as simple as witchfire?” Boojlin continued his teasing. “You’re a clumsy half-mundane and you’ll never be anything more.”
“You didn’t do much better, Boojlin. You failed the second half of the test,” Ackerly retorted. Boojlin hadn’t been able to extinguish the witchfire he’d set. The farmer had lost almost half an acre to witchfire before Druulin stepped in and doused the flames with a counterspell.
“I’ll be a better Battlemage than you will. When I master the spell, I’ll master the whole spell, not just the fun part,” Ackerly retorted, not knowing what else to say.
“Will not!” Boojlin launched a torch at Ackerly. He ducked that missile and the books that followed him as he ran away.
Boojlin continued to pelt him with whatever objects came handy to his magic. Ackerly didn’t stop running until he reached the kitchen in the ground level of the tall tower. His tormentor pelted down the spiral stairs, laughing at Ackerly’s cowardice.
Until he ran into a yampion pie hovering at face level just inside the door to the kitchen.
“I might not be able to throw, but I can think ahead, Boojie.” Ackerly wiped a pile of sweet pie filling from Boojlin’s face with his index finger. He smiled as he licked his hand clean of the sweet treat. “Looks like no dessert for you tonight, Boojie. You ruined it for all of us. I’ll have to tell Druulin precisely why he won’t get his favorite pie tonight.”
Caasser and Lan had laughed at the trick as Ackerly was forced by Druulin to clean the entire kitchen for wasting the pie. But Ackerly never forgot that he’d had to hold the pie in place with his hands until the last moment before Boojlin slammed into it because he didn’t have enough magic to levitate it for long. He never forgot how all the others had passed their tests eventually, leaving Ackerly to clean up the messes they made.
“You don’t appreciate me anymore than Druulin did, Nimbulan. I’m still cleaning up your messes.”
>
“Excuse me.” A short, wizened man of indeterminate years blocked Nimbulan’s exit from his pavilion. “I understand you are looking for colleagues to join you in a new venture.” The man bowed from the waist. A sign of respect for an equal.
He wore ordinary black trews and tunic and carried a black cloak or robe over his arm. His skin had yellowed with age, was seamed by a million wrinkles, some of them smile lines around his mouth and laugh lines near his eyes. Even now a mischievous twinkle glistened in his pale blue eyes, so pale they seemed almost colorless.
Like Myrilandel’s eyes and hair.
The witchwoman was gone, fled of her own will. Nimbulan needed to go after her. . . .
He didn’t have time to waste worrying about her.
Or regretting her absence.
“How did you know about this venture?” Nimbulan asked the old man warily.
“News travels fast among magicians.” His smile quirked up enigmatically.
“Excuse me, Master Nimbulan, I have errands to run and chores to perform.” Ackerly shouldered his way past the intruder. “I’ll meet you in Lord Kammeryl’s pavilion in a few moments.”
“Yes, I’ll join you there, Ackerly.” Nimbulan didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “News must travel very fast among some magicians. I didn’t decide to pursue this venture until a few hours ago and only announced it to my assistant now.”
“Ah, but your delight in the project broadcast a psychic shout of glee across the heavens. I heard and sought you out.” The old man bowed again.
“You must have been very close.”
“Closer than you think.”
“Do you have a name?”
“Yes. I am called Lyman in this existence.”
“A strange way of giving your name. Do you, perchance, possess the unique ability to remember your previous existences or know the future ones?” Suspicion crawled over Nimbulan’s skin. His need to scratch and worry at the itch was like his need for the Tambootie.
“Anything can be found in the void if only you know where and how to look, Nimbulan. Would you take me there to see if I am what I seem?”
“And what do you seem to be?” Maybe he should have asked what the old man pretended to be.
“I am merely an old magician, tired of war, as you are. I would use my remaining years in this life to seek peace. I choose to join you in the same quest, for I believe you have the answers, though you do not know it yet.”
Nimbulan’s suspicions dissolved, as if he’d poured water laced with oatmeal over his itchy skin. “Why do I trust you, Lyman?”
“Because I tell the truth. Finish your errands. I will join you on your island tomorrow morning.” Lyman bowed again.
Nimbulan felt compelled to give the same gesture of respect.
Then Old Lyman backed up and dissolved into the mist.
“That’s my trick, old man! Where’d you learn it?”
A soft chuckle in the distance was his only answer.
Dust motes drifting on a soft beam of sunlight penetrated Myri’s awareness. She blinked rapidly several times, trying to remember.
“Where am I?” she asked the sunbeam. “Why did I come here?” She remembered running. Running from . . . something terrible but important. Why couldn’t she remember what had happened to her? She wasn’t home. That she knew. A vague image of Old Magretha crossed her mind. Home was a shack in the woods or the vague promise of the voices on the wind. This shelter . . . what was this shelter?
Behind the ray of light, she saw rock walls. Not the dressed stone of a man-made fortress, but the undulating flow of natural stone patterns. Yellow and gray layered upon each other in irregular widths. Light to the left. Dark to the right. A glow in the center.
She looked down to discover a neat fire ring and a fresh fish spitted over the coals. Her stomach growled, reminding her that she had caught the fish earlier. She had settled into this cave above a sheltered cove for the winter. The cave was nearly invisible from the sandy beach below, nestled into the shadow of the curving headland. She had run from something to this coastal refuge.
The sound of waves shushing against a sandy shore added itself to her growing picture of her campsite.
Campfires? Dozens of fires serving hundreds of men. An army. The face of a Battlemage who tried to be gentle with her. His green eyes promised protection.
She had run away from the camp. Run to . . . danger.
Danger that was past now.
“How long have I been here?” The sound of her voice echoing slightly within the cave reassured her that she still lived and wasn’t lost in some void-induced dream.
No memory responded to her question. Only a sense of fear and running. Quickly she checked the cave for others. She seemed to be alone.
Someone was missing. An emptiness yawned in her chest behind her heart.
“Who?”
She stretched her arms to her side, expecting to feel wings catch on the slight breeze coming in from the opening. The lift and surge of flight did not follow.
“Not me. I am Kardia-bound. Amaranth. Amaranth flies. Where is he?”
Shadows danced across the sunlight. Myri scrambled to her feet and looked out the mouth of the ancient sea cave. Gulls swooped and soared. A large bird dove into the waves and sprang free of the water with a fish in its beak.
The flying shapes were all too small and white. Myri searched the fluffy clouds and pale autumnal sky for signs of a bulkier black form. Nothing. She stretched her listening senses for Amaranth’s mewling cry.
“Merwack.” In the far distance. Faint and excited. (We have tested him and found him worthy!)
“Who? Who did you test and find worthy of what?” Myri almost laughed at Amaranth’s excitement. His mental pictures of towering columns of mist and blue sparks didn’t make sense. “Where have you been, Amaranth?”
She dug her toes into the flaking sandstone, stretched her arms as if for flight, and sent her mind on a straight line to Amaranth. Her mind blended with his and she found the freedom of flight she dreamed of so often. Up through the clouds. Up toward the blessed sun. The wind buffeted her. It smelled of salt and cold dampness. A storm gathered beneath her, preparing to assault the Great Bay. She rose above it. Seeking. Always seeking.
She reached out for him with her mind and her love. We are together now. Come to me, Amaranth. I miss you. I need you, Amaranth. Awareness of her Kardia-bound body layered on top of her illusion of flight. Finally a black spot appeared to her physical eyes far to the north and west.
Come, my precious Amaranth. Come and tell me all about your adventures, the test, and who you found worthy.
Gradually the black spot grew and took on the distinctive shape of a falcon. The bird broadened. Its tail lengthened and fluffed. Instead of a wickedly curved beak, she sensed a flatter cat’s muzzle and whiskers.
“Amaranth.” Myri sighed with relief. The one constant in her life. No matter what she forgot, how many days she lost in the void, Amaranth always returned to her.
“Meereek!” The flywacket faltered and lost elevation. Through his eyes, Myri saw a fish glittering in the waves below. Extreme hunger overcame them both. Together they dove to catch the enticing meal.
The vision of the fish vanished, replaced by the symmetrical grid of a fisherman’s net. “Pull up, Amaranth.” Fear lanced through her. She sent him strength along the line of her mind. “Release your wings, Amaranth. Catch the wind and fly upward, quickly.” Her arms stiffened and rose in sympathy with the attitude he needed to assume.
Amaranth reached with his back claws to grasp the fish that wasn’t there. His wings stretched and he rose with his prize. The dark strands of netting tangled around his hind legs, trailing backward into the waves. The weight of the saturated strands dragged him back.
“Drop it, Amaranth! Drop it before it pulls you beneath the water and drowns you.”
As Myri watched, the net moved in the air currents to ensnare his front paws as well.
“Come ashore, quickly.” Myri caught her breath again, praying he had enough strength to fly the last little bit.
“Merwack,” he chirped in a more normal tone. He stretched his neck forward, toward the sandy beach, still fighting the net.
Myri scrambled down the cliff face below the cave entrance.
Amaranth extended his talons and backwinged for landing. The net flew upward catching a wingtip and dragging it down.
Myri caught her breath, praying that Amaranth could land safely under his own strength.
The flywacket’s left wing collapsed under the weight of the net. He plummeted to the beach below him.
Chapter 11
“A maranth!” Myri ran toward the tide line where saltwater lapped at the flywacket flailing about in the sand. The net tangled tighter with each flap of wing and thrash of foot.
He whimpered in growing frustration. The pain from the net tightening around his legs like a noose lashed her mind as well as his body.
“Stay still, Amaranth. I’m coming.” She skidded the last few feet, landing on her knees.
At last she reached out with a single finger to touch his wing.
“Hisscht!” He warned her how much he hurt. His claws extended into full talons.
“Why did you go after that fish, my precious? You could have waited and shared mine,” she said softly.
(I had to. The hunger would not wait.) The flywacket relaxed a little at the sound of her voice, retracting his claws. His eyes remained fearful and glazed with pain.
Memory of the hunger that had assaulted her at the moment of his dive puzzled her. She hadn’t sensed the need for food in him a moment before that, only his excitement.
“You know I won’t hurt you Amaranth.” She spread her palm over his injury. Blue light glowed beneath her palm. Her talent pulled her toward the source of pain and repelled her at the same time. Energy drained from her arm into the flywacket with no apparent healing.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 11