(You must forget your dreams of flight, my child. Your destiny no longer lies with the dragons,) Shayla replied. (You are happy with your consort. You must remain with him, not fly with your nimbus of dragons.)
“I love Lan very much. I don’t know what I’ll do if he dies in this battle.”
(You will survive. We promised you a home and family. You must weave no more magic, to save even the ones you love,) Shayla said.
“The spell I wove to distract the crowd from Rollett was only a delusion. A simple spell,” she defended herself.
(’Tis not the strength of the spell that will harm your baby. Any spell will change its destiny before it has a chance to make its own. You were victim of one spell too many. Don’t do that to your own child.)
“Baby?” Myri sat up straight, her spine rigid, not touching the dragon in any way. Shayla’s presumption that she carried a child was much more important than the fleeting glimpse of her past. “Witchwomen cannot conceive, and magicians cannot sire.”
(Granted, this blessing is rarely given to those of your kind. Magicians have poisoned their bodies with Tambootie for many generations. This prevents them from fathering children. But you are not like most witchwomen and Nimbulan has rid his body of the Tambootie. Together you have made a new life. Do not deny what your heart and your body tell you are true.)
“You and your consorts eat of the Tambootie tree, heavily, and produce many babies.”
(The Tambootie is a part of dragonkind—both native to Kardia Hodos. Humans came from elsewhere a long time ago. We cannot live without the Tambootie. But what mutates within us to produce the magical energy men may gather is a slow poison when consumed by men and women.)
“I have never taken the Tambootie, and yet I have not conceived before this. Why now?” Gently she touched her belly with sensitive fingertips. Too soon to detect any swelling. She didn’t dare probe the life with her magic, not when Shayla had specifically warned her not to weave any spells at all.
(Witchwomen have too much control over their own bodies and do not involuntarily conceive. They have strong instincts that tell them who will be a good father and who will not. Magic and solitude to study and perfect their talent is more important to them than husbands and family. You have that control, my child, and sensed that the time is right. The man is right. Your heart overrode your mind and let you conceive. A new era begins for humans in this realm. Your child will be among those who spread the benefits of dragon magic and prevent the carnage that has plagued both humans and dragons for too many years.)
“Men will always go to war.”
(But they will not fight with magic. One last battle will settle the place of magic in your realm. After the last battle, magicians and dragons will control all magic. Mundanes will control the battles and only look to magicians for wisdom.)
“One last battle,” Myri mused. She started to stand then sat back down again, leaning hard against the recumbent dragon. “I don’t know if I can deal with the aftermath of a battle. I can’t throw any healing spells for fear of damaging the baby. How can I not heal suffering men?”
Amaranth awakened with a squeak and moved to her lap. He butted her hand with his head, demanding a caress, offering comfort in the same gesture.
“I have to find the fennel before then. It is the only thing I know that will protect Lan if I can’t use my magic to save him.”
(Trust Lyman. He is one of us. Amaranth will show you what to do when the time comes.)
“I wish there were a way to avoid this.”
(We are too late to intervene. See that man to the southeast of where we sit?)
Myri shielded her eyes from the lowering sun. The silhouette of a man burdened by a heavy pack became visible on the ridge. “I see him.”
(That is the gold man.) Shayla gave him no name. That could only mean the dragons feared or distrusted him. (The man who loves gold more than he loves life.)
Myri recognized Ackerly’s distinctive gait and posture. (He flees Nimbulan’s wrath to the camp of the enemy of dragons. He will make certain there is a battle. Now you must survey this ground and plan ahead. Come, I will take you to the battlefield.)
A short dragon flight took them to a different hillside overlooking a vast plain spreading more than a league toward the river.
“Here?” Myri looked more closely at the flat ground surrounded on three sides by low hills. The rises on the east and west ends of the meadow rose more gently than where she stood. She turned a slow circle, pausing as she looked south where a chain of hills undulated upward in a familiar pattern.
“Here.” She resigned herself to the inevitable. “They fought the last battle here. Last autumn, when I first met my husband.”
(They fought the same battle here twenty years ago. The battle that loosed uncontrolled magic into the skies and nearly killed me. But this will be the last battle fought on this land.)
“Strange that here I find a single stalk of fennel.” Myri plucked the elusive plant and cradled it in her hands like a living baby.
Nimbulan warily eyed a burly lieutenant wearing the colors of Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ personal guard as the man marched up to the dais where Quinnault presided over a celebratory meal. The day was nearly finished and they had accomplished so little other than Rollett’s rescue. Now the various forces seeking power and control over Coronnan were poised for an inevitable convergence. A very destructive clash.
Tonight the magicians and mudanes gathered in celebration of the successful rescue and one last attempt to make merry before they faced death in battle on the morrow.
“In the name of His Majesty, Kammeryl the First, descendant of the Stargods, King of Coronnan, Master of Hanassa, and Lord of The Great Bay, I demand the surrender of this keep, its surrounding islands, all tenants and lease-holders, boats and vessels, and all buildings,” the soldier bellowed for all within Quinnault de Tanos’ Great Hall to hear. He held a parchment at arm’s length as if he read the document. He allowed it to roll shut with a snap before finishing his statement. Proof to Nimbulan that this man, like all mundanes, had never been taught to read.
“But I do not recognize Lord Kammeryl’s authority as king. Nor do the seven lords who have signed my mutual defense treaty,” Quinnault said. He turned mild eyes up to the soldier for a brief moment, then returned to his meal as if that were much more important than the prattling of the soldier. Only the twitching of his fingers against his table knife betrayed his emotions.
Nimbulan silently applauded the lord for his cool exterior. The soldier had to know that all of the united lords were too far away to send aid in time. Quinnault’s only hope for victory in battle lay with Lord Hanic, if he arrived in time. If he decided to help Quinnault and not Kammeryl.
The soldier’s face colored briefly. He sucked in his cheeks and squared his shoulders. “Refusal of His Majesty’s demands will bring quick and terrible reprisal.”
“Tell Lord Kammeryl the united lords will discuss this matter with him directly and not through an underling.” Quinnault waved his hand in dismissal. His long fingers made the movement graceful and compelling.
Myri used the same gesture when she finished feeding her flusterhens in the clearing. Nimbulan clutched the little bag of fennel seeds Myri had given him on a thong to wear around his neck. Then he reached the same hand to squeeze her shoulder. Her love protected him more than any plant.
The soldier stood his ground. “No discussion or delay is permitted. Either you accept the orders of your rightful king or you do not.”
“Before we can acknowledge Kammeryl d’Astrismos as rightful anything,” Nimbulan said, “His Lordship must return the criminal Ackerly to Lord Quinnault for lawful judgment.” He stood from his chair on Quinnault’s right, pressing his fists against the table until his knuckles turned white. Anger at his assistant’s betrayal and his own lack of foresight closed his throat.
Myri covered his hand with her own. Calm spread through him.
The
soldier paused, ducking his head and touching his right ear lobe with his right middle finger.
“He’s being coached,” Nimbulan whispered to Quinnault. “Every word we say is heard by a magician in Kammeryl’s camp. They are instructing him now. Every time he touches his ear, he activates the communication spell.”
“We must get rid of this messenger.”’ A moment of fear crossed Quinnault’s eyes.
“How? If we capture and detain him, we have issued a challenge to Kammeryl’s authority, bringing immediate reprisal. If we break his contact with Kammeryl, we challenge him. If we stall and send him away we outright deny his right to rule. Your choice, Lord Quinnault de Tanos,” Nimbulan said quietly. “Every choice is designed to bring about a battle that will decide our future.”
Quinnault deliberately turned his back on the soldier. “I have never fought a battle before. I maintain no army. I have no weapons. But I’ll be damned if I acknowledge a warrior who sees war as the solution to all problems as my king.”
“Then we must fight a battle. But on our own terms. Kammeryl has made a mistake in not attacking us covertly.”
“The islands are easily defended. He wouldn’t get very far.”
“Then he must draw you into open battle. We must choose the time and place. Dismiss the messenger,” Nimbulan replied sadly. Myri’s hand on his tightened convulsively. Her healing talent would be needed many times over if the Commune of Magicians failed. He worried already that she would kill herself trying to save Quinnault’s followers.
Quinnault turned back to face the now-grinning messenger. The soldier’s middle finger caressed his earlobe again.
“I believe you already know our answer. Return to Lord Kammeryl at once.” Quinnault raised his hand, palm outward in a gesture of goodwill.
Startled by the lord’s gracious attitude, the soldier backed out of the Great Hall, half-bowing in respect. Kammeryl d’Astrismos would have executed the messenger bearing distasteful news.
“Now, how do we fight this battle, Nimbulan?” Quinnault stared at his half-eaten meal. “I have no army. Hanic is not here and not a certain ally if he arrives in time. My other allies are spread across all of Coronnan and can’t arrive in time. How will I face Kammeryl d’Astrismos and the Bloodmage?”
Chapter 36
The sun had not yet broken the horizon when Myri felt the rush of dragon wings as the great beasts rose into the sky. They circled the battlefield where two armies prepared to face each other with weapons and magicians. Myri and the three apprentice girls waited on a hilltop behind the chosen field of battle.
Where was the third army? Lord Hanic could have been here, if he chose.
She turned her face into the wind, cherishing the power of the moving air. Her shoulders rotated as her arms lifted to grasp the freedom of flight. If she flew with the dragons, she could observe every movement on the field and warn Nimbulan through the silver cord that still connected her heart to his.
(We watch for you. Do not fly. Remember your unborn child,) Shayla warned her.
She picked up Amaranth, needing his purring warmth to replace her need to fly. “Why, Amaranth? Why is the desire for flight so strong in me?” she whispered to the flywacket.
Nimbulan had ordered her to remain well back of the coming fray. At the first sign of trouble for the Commune and the forces of Quinnault, she was to flee with the girls, as far and as fast as she might. She would rather be at his side for every one of his last moments.
“I have to protect the baby from the battle as well as my own magic. The baby may be all I have left of him after today.” She hadn’t told Nimbulan about her pregnancy. It was still too early for her body to provide proof that she carried a new life within her. Who would believe that a witchwoman and magician had managed the impossible?
She held Amaranth tightly, burying her face in his fur. He squawked at her fierce hug and straggled in her arms, eager to join the dragons in flight. Uncharacteristically, he pushed at her with his back paws, talons unsheathed. Unable to restrain him, Myri released him to the soaring freedom they both craved.
Up and up the black flywacket spiraled in wider circles. He stretched his neck and wings, growing longer, wider, sleeker with each movement.
Myri blinked against the increasing daylight. Amaranth paled. She lost sight of him against the emerging sun. He screeched his joy. She followed the sound of his voice. A shaft of sunlight caught the last of the purple/black fur as it transformed into silvery crystals tipped with lavender.
Memories flooded her. Memories of flight, of diving into the Great Bay to hunt bemouths, the huge fish that terrorized sailors who washed overboard, but could feed an entire village for a week if captured. She remembered watching as her mother, Shayla, brought her and Amaranth, her twin, to the edge of a burial ground in the dark of night—at the site of a human tomb.
Shayla was her mother! A lifetime of seeking her heritage fell into place. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Mixed joy and fear at finally knowing sent her to her knees as she relived the last time she saw her mother in dragon form.
(One of you must choose to inhabit the body of this human child. There can only be one purple dragon alive at any one time. One of you can no longer live with the nimbus,) Shayla had instructed on that long ago night.
Myrilandel—then Amethyst—and Amaranth had quibbled and argued over the great honor to become human, to grow and learn, to guide other humans to live in harmony with dragonkind.
In the end, Amethyst had managed the shapechange faster than her brother. Amaranth was so lonely and bereft without his twin, his otherself, he had taken the form of the flywacket and become the human child’s familiar. Shayla had deposited them both near the home of Magretha, a witchwoman with a longing for a child and the magic potential to teach Amethyst all she needed to know.
But remnants of Myrilandel’s spirit had lingered in her not-quite-dead body. Dragon memories disappeared in the face of very strong human memories of name and personality. The two spirits in the same body compromised on forgetfulness.
“I remember how to fly now. Amaranth, wait for me.” She lifted her arms again, willing the change to overtake her.
(No, my child. Amaranth is the only purple-tip dragon now. You must stay human. You must remain Nimbulan’s consort and helpmate.) Shayla said.
“Why? Why must there only be one purple-tip when we were born twins?” Myri almost cried with regret that she could not fly. A small piece of satisfaction also dwelled within her. She couldn’t leave Nimbulan. She had to remain human for him, for their child.
(’Tis the way of dragons. For as long as dragons have claimed this planet, purple-tips have been born as twins. Their destinies are special and separate. One may remain with the nimbus, the other must seek to fill a vacancy in the world—a vacancy that if left empty will endanger all dragons.)
The need to fly temporarily overrode her emotional bonds with Nimbulan. She’d come back to this human body later. But she had to fly now! As a dragon, she’d be able to protect Nimbulan. She spread her arms once more, willing them to form wings. No, the wings must sprout from her back. The pronounced bone structure along her back must elongate into the showy march of purple-tipped spines.
(Do not forget your child, Myrilandel. Purple dragons are very rare and very special, but they are neither male nor female. If you revert now, your child will be lost forever. There will never be another. Will you kill Nimbulan’s child so that you may fly?) Shayla asked.
Myri lowered her arms and hung her head. Her hands curved protectively around her still-flat belly. “I can’t become a dragon again and aid my husband by giving him dragon magic. I can’t use my talent to heal those who will be wounded. What am I to do? I can’t just wait and watch and do nothing while men die!”
Kalen reached up and held her hand in mute sympathy.
(You will be needed. Amaranth will show you. Anyone, even a mundane, can gather magic from a purple dragon. But you must be touching him when the ti
me comes. And you must be very careful. Lyman will help you.) Shayla’s voice faded as the dragon turned her concentration to the spells Nimbulan and his enemies prepared.
Nimbulan stood on the knoll at the east end of the battlefield. He rested his foot on the magic-blasted stump, one elbow on his raised knee. The view before him was much the same as it had been last autumn—as it would have been to Druulin twenty years past.
Two armies faced each other, each grouped around the slight rise where their Battlemage prepared to direct the course of the battle. Behind the mages, assistants, apprentices and messengers waited to assist.
He didn’t need to be an empath to feel the tension roiling through the air. Men on both sides paced restlessly, checked and rechecked weapons, fussed with steed harnesses. They spoke in whispers, then snapped at each other in loud shouts over trivia.
Nimbulan had seen it all before—with and without the magical enhancement to his sight that allowed him to view details across the entire plain. With luck and the help of the dragons, he would never have to see it again.
This time Nimbulan opposed his oldest friend and former assistant, Ackerly, instead of a beloved apprentice. This time he had a nimbus of dragons hovering in the sky above. This time he had Myri to go back to at the end of a long day.
He straightened from his contemplative pose. Instantly his assistants, Master Magicians, journeymen, and apprentices, jumped to the ready. Anticipation fluttered in his belly while apprehension sharpened his already-heightened eyesight and sense of smell. The scent of fear wafted up from the ranks of farmers and laborers hiding behind a delusion of armor and weaponry. A few had fought in battle before. A very few compared to the numbers gathered in the attacking army.
A trick of the light quadrupled the men’s shadows in Quinnault’s army. Kammeryl d’Astrismos would have a hard time accurately estimating the number and strength of the troops. But would the trick fool Ackerly and the Bloodmage?
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 35