The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  “Anyone can gather magic from a purple-tipped dragon. Even women and mundanes, provided the dragon in question is willing.” Old Lyman, the mysterious magician who seemed to know more about dragons than Myri did, chuckled as he reached pale hands to help add pressure to the wound. “In another existence, I was called Iianthe—the last purple-tipped dragon before Amaranth and Amethyst made a premature entrance into this world. After that I drifted for many years as the guardian spirit of the beginning place until Nimbulan called me forth in the name of peace. Amaranth is willing to give magic to this spell. I must guide you both.”

  A swoop of wings fanned the air before Myri could question the old man whose fingernails appeared slightly lavender where the blood pulsed beneath them. The crowd pressing close to Myri and her patient gasped and fled backward. A gentle thud behind Myri announced the landing of her familiar, now in full dragon form.

  “I am not a healer, but I will direct the flow of magic through you so that it does no harm to your baby,” Lyman whispered.

  (Give me your hand, Myrilandel.) Amaranth’s mental voice came to her, deeper and more mature than she had ever heard him. It sounded very like Lyman’s voice did to her ears.

  She had no time to reflect on the oddity. Beneath her hands, Quinnault’s life hung in the balance.

  “Amaranth, you’re too big to cuddle in my lap like you used to when I worked a healing.” She stretched her free hand to grasp his extended forepaw. “I think I need both hands for this.” She studied the red-soaked skirt she still pressed into Quinnault’s wound. She sensed his life slipping away. They didn’t have much time.

  Amaranth waddled closer, not nearly as graceful on the ground as in the air. Gently, he extended one wing to cover her like an iridescent veil while his muzzle rested lightly on her shoulders. The other wing extended to Lyman.

  Energy tingled along Myri’s spine and into her arms. Stronger than the ley lines, this magic begged to be used for good. Her talent wrapped around it.

  Both hands free to hold the wound in place, she let the magic flow freely into her brother. A healing Song honed and directed the magic. Her vision followed the healing into the gaping folds of skin, down into the muscles, repairing tears here, rejoining severed blood vessels there. Her mind lost track of what she Sang, only aware that a lilting tune hovered near her ears.

  She sensed other people joining, adding more and more magic to the power she felt. The gathered soldiers and commoners must be touching Amaranth, compounding the magic. The spell remained at the same level, not amplifying like Nimbulan’s dragon magic. Her husband used rhymes to bring his magicians into a spell. She had no poems ready that described the intent of the spell.

  What? What could she use to join these people to the spell?

  An old ballad fairly leaped to her lips. She molded it into a Song of healing.

  A dozen other voices grabbed the melody and joined with her. A deep well of harmony amplified the energy running from the dragon through her into her brother. Other hands grasped her shoulders, hair and back, linking her to the common people of Coronnan as well as the purple-tipped dragon.

  Suddenly she was a part of each person who touched the dragon. Their hearts beat as one. Their minds mingled, sharing hopes and plans for the future, all of them centered on the man who lay bleeding to death beneath her hands.

  She repeated the melody, uncaring of the words, only knowing that the notes needed to blend and flow in a way that all could sing it with love and hope and unity. As the melody rose and swelled on the breeze, all of them became a part of Quinnault de Tanos and his rapidly healing body, giving him their love as well as the little bit of magic allowed them.

  Myri’s love for all of them grew with the Song and the healing magic.

  Soaring on a high note, she directed them all to the core of the wound. Together they patched his internal organs, rebuilt the nicked rib, joined the major artery, then slowly backed out, blending muscle tissue together on their way.

  The music turned joyous.

  Lord Quinnault opened his eyes.

  “Our king lives. Long live King Quinnault!” The shout rippled through the crowd who had given this man back his life.

  “I was afraid they’d make me king if I lived. Maybe you should let me die,” Quinnault quipped.

  “Never, brother. You must live for these people. You belong to all of them now,” Myri replied. Tears of joy streamed down her cheeks.

  Hands broke their connection with Myri and Amaranth. The magic dwindled, drained out of her. Movement flickered around the edges of her vision. The people danced and celebrated. One and all they acknowledged Quinnault their king. The wars were over. Peace had won.

  Somewhere in the background she heard/sensed Lord Hanic joining the celebration with his men.

  “Sorry we were late. Delays crossing the ford. I lost some men who ran from a cloud shadow they swore was a dragon.”

  She crumpled into the blood-soaked ground, exhausted. Her stomach felt funny, half cramped, partially upset. She clutched her belly desperately, praying she hadn’t lost the baby in saving her brother’s life.

  Chapter 39

  Nimbulan gently laid Myri on their bed in the old monastery. He pulled a rough blanket over her. Gradually her shivers subsided as he stroked her hair and held her hand. He checked the silver cord of magic connecting his heart to hers. The gentle bonds pulsed with life and vigor stronger than before.

  A breath of relief swept over him. For a few moments, he’d feared that her talent would sever the tie to him in favor of her new patient, Quinnault.

  At this very moment, the Lord of the Islands, no, he was now King of Coronnan, was being tended by retainers and healers of all levels of society. Hasty messages of the day’s events, especially the proclamation of kingship by the common people, had been sent to all the lords. He sincerely hoped that news of Ackerly’s death and the Bloodmage’s failure to penetrate the defenses of the Commune would do more for the cause than the death of Kammeryl d’Astrismos. Within a day or two, the leaders of Coronnan—noble and magician—would all descend upon the small keep in the heart of the delta islands to verify that the wars had ended. The lords would probably confirm Quinnault’s kingship since he now commanded the loyalty of Kammeryl’s army as well as his own islanders. Most of Hanic’s men had also sworn their loyalty to Quinnault as king.

  Hanic was still wavering, waiting for a consensus from the lords.

  While a great fuss was being made over Quinnault the Peacemaker, only Nimbulan remembered Myrilandel, the witchwoman who had saved the new king from certain death. Granted, a great many people had participated in that final spell. But Myrilandel, and only Myrilandel, had known what to do.

  “Make sure that Quinnault drinks plenty of water and small beer. We healed the wounds, but magic cannot replace lost blood. He needs fluid to rebuild it,” Myri whispered.

  “Hush, now. He’s in the hands of the best healers in the country. They will see to him. You must take care of yourself, Myri. Kalen will bring you some broth in a few moments. You must promise to drink it all. You must get strong again, soon, for I don’t know how I will live without you, love. We will be married by a priest as soon as I can arrange it. A forever marriage, blessed by the Stargods.” He traced her cheek with a gentle fingertip, memorizing each plane and angle.

  She kissed his palm and closed her eyes with a satisfied sigh.

  “Tell me what happened to the others, Ackerly and . . . and Moncriith.” She grasped his hand with greater strength than he thought she had left.

  “Ackerly is dead, suffocated by the Tambootie smoke and his own strangling hands,” he said sadly.

  “Commit his body to the pyre with honor and respect. Please, Nimbulan.” She held him tightly when he would have turned away.

  “Ackerly betrayed me and his students. He tried to kill me, twice. He sabotaged the spell to rescue Rollett from Moncriith’s witchsniffers. He . . .” He couldn’t go on. Memories of all their y
ears together kept intruding on his sense of outrage.

  “For the man you want to remember him as, please, give his death the respect you yourself would want.” Her big eyes, almost colorless with fatigue, pleaded with him.

  “I promise. He shall go to the funeral pyre wearing his formal robes and carrying his staff—the symbol of his status as a magician.” Nimbulan bowed his head, allowing himself to grieve honestly for his old friend.

  “And Moncriith?” Myri tucked both her hands beneath the blanket, giving way to a great shudder.

  “We don’t know. No one has seen him or his body.”

  “I fear that he lives and will return to plague us all.”

  “If he does, the entire might of the Commune of Magicians will protect you and all innocents that men such as he seek to persecute.”

  She looked at him then with mingled trust and skepticism. “Men like Moncriith will always find a way around institutions of authority.”

  “Sleep, now, Myri and don’t worry about the future. Or the past. Sleep and regain your strength. There is much to celebrate. I want to share the joy with you, as my legal wife.” He kissed her brow and watched as her eyes closed and her breathing slowed to the easy rhythm of sleep.

  Silently, he prayed she wasn’t right this time. Coronnan had enough troubles without worrying about Moncriith. He’d have to make sure the new government had strong and just laws for all the people so malcontents like Moncriith had no injustice to use as a springboard to power.

  “If you demand I start a new dynasty with a new name, then I won’t make Castle Krej—named for one of Kammeryl’s supposed ancestors—my capital,” Quinnault said. The mildness of his tone belied the tension in his knuckles where he grasped the arms of his chair.

  Nimbulan scanned the new king of Coronnan with just a touch of Sight. His normally pale skin carried a tinge of blue rather than healthy pink and his fine hair hung limply where it had pulled free of its queue restraint. No other signs of illness or weakness showed.

  “Castle Krej is an easily defended fortress, Your Majesty,” Lord Hanic replied. “It is yours by right of conquest. For your own safety, you must retreat there with an army combined of all our forces. As general of the united army, I will guarantee that you are protected.”

  No one had declared Hanic leader of anything.

  “No.” Quinnault speared the tardy lord with a glance. “I will no longer be dependent upon an army, any army to protect me. Peace and justice will be my protection. We will build a city here amongst the islands at the head of the Bay.”

  “But it isn’t safe. The islands can’t be defended,” Lord Sauria said.

  “I intend to reign over a country at peace. Defense is no longer my primary concern. We need a new city. Here will be a center of commerce when we reopen the shipping lanes in the Great Bay. My home will be a palace, open to lords and merchants and petitioners. I have had enough of fortresses and wars.”

  “Perhaps we should call the new city Dragonville in honor of the dragons that give us the means to enforce peace without armies,” Nimbulan suggested.

  “I’d rather call it Coronnan City. The monarch and the capital city must belong to all, rather than the king owning all.” Quinnault stood and began to pace, hands behind his back, shoulders slightly hunched like wings tucked up, head thrust forward, sure signs of his returning vitality. No trace of the draconic shadows masked his face. These thoughts were his own. “Don’t any of you understand? We are trying to build a united country with laws and justice. No one of the lords will be more powerful than the others. No king will be a despot, but rather a first among the equal lords. And all people, noble, common and magician, shall be subject to law. Therefore, the king can’t own more than any other lord, preferably less, to maintain a balance.” He paused to look each of the assembled lords in the eye. There were only twelve of them left. A century ago there had been more than twenty.

  “I agree to take the surname of Draconis and pass it to future generations of kings. But I insist that the capital be Coronnan City. It is a city of people, the very people who shared in my healing. They are what makes Coronnan great, not me.”

  Silence hung heavily in the Great Hall of Quinnault’s keep. No noble had ever heard of such an outrageous idea. Nobility had always meant privilege and ownership. Nimbulan silently applauded this bold move.

  “Responsibility must be the primary tenet of kingship and nobility.” Quinnault pulled a small book from the pile of texts, maps, and parchments on the table. “That idea was first put forth by the Stargods, in this sermon, recorded by one Kimmer. He calls himself simply a scribe from the south.” The new king looked over the stunned faces of his assembled lords.

  “I won’t bore you with the entire text. Suffice it to say, I intend to govern alongside you lords with the idea that we are, one and all, responsible for every living creature within our boundaries.”

  “Does that include the dragons?” Nimbulan asked, ready to move on to the issues Myri had told him concerned the creatures who made this all possible.

  “Yes,” Quinnault replied. “If we are going to rely on communal magic to enforce our laws and control solitary magicians, then we must ensure the safety of the dragons and their continued presence within our boundaries. Demon hunters like Moncriith can’t be allowed to harm them in any way.”

  “There are only six full-grown dragons in the current nimbus and five youngsters. That figure includes Amaranth the purple-tip.” Nimbulan recited the statistics Myri had relayed to him. “Dragons throughout the rest of Kardia Hodos are solitary creatures and may not agree to become a part of the nimbus. Our nimbus needs to increase their numbers to provide us with enough magic to be readily available at all times, no matter where the dragons currently fly. Shayla has requested a provision of livestock to feed them and plantations of the Tambootie tree, the source of their magic.” Nimbulan waited, holding his breath to see if the lords would willingly give up parts of their wealth to help the dragons thrive. Previously they considered the beasts to be dangerous predators or demons—if dragons existed at all.

  “Will a tithe from each lord be enough?” Quinnault cut through any objections before they could be voiced.

  “I think that will do. As long as the herds and plantations are spread out. The dragons must range widely to stretch their wings.” Nimbulan hid his embarrassment at the next request behind a cough. “And, ah, the dragons have another requirement to seal the covenant.”

  Quinnault looked up a little startled, as if he knew the next demand would be outrageous.

  Nimbulan signaled the servant at the door to admit the three magicians who waited there. They marched in at a stately pace. Lyman carried a precious artifact, resting upon a wide pillow covered in fine green silk. Cloth of gold velvet shielded the heavy object. They paused beside Nimbulan’s chair until he stood and joined them.

  “As newly elected Senior Magician of the Commune of Magicians, the nimbus of dragons, currently resident in Coronnan have directed me to offer to the people of Coronnan this crown.” Nimbulan whipped off the velvet covering to reveal a crown of precious clear glass, forged by dragon fire in the form of a dragon’s head, set with gems—ruby, emerald, sapphire, topaz, and amethyst—the colors of the dragon wingtips.

  “It is beautiful!” Quinnault gasped.

  “More than beautiful, it is unique and special. No other monarch in all of Kardia Hodos has a crown so valuable, nor so heavy with responsibility. The dragons will be present at your coronation, and the crowning of each of your successors. You and your line rule by the grace of dragons and you will be addressed as ‘Your Grace’ for that reason. If any man breaks the covenant with the dragons, they will withdraw their grace and the crown—The Coraurlia.”

  “That is a name I do not know.” Quinnault couldn’t take his eyes off the glittering crown. Sunlight from the high windows struck the glass, sending rainbows arcing throughout the room.

  “The Coraurlia has been imbued with sp
ecial magic,” Old Lyman said as he fiddled with the golden cover cloth, opening it to form a sack with a drawstring and carry-strap. He held the sack open while his two supporting magicians carefully deposited the crown inside.

  “You, King Quinnault de Draconis, must keep the Coraurlia on your person for the next three days until your official coronation. During that time, the crown will be imprinted by your aura. Until the day you die, or are deposed by the dragons and the Commune combined, no magic will touch you for good or ill. Mundane weapons can penetrate the spell, but with difficulty. This is the best protection we can give you.”

  “What about the rest of Coronnan? What will be our protection from magical attack? Your Commune can’t be everywhere. In the past decades we have supported numerous Battlemages and their assistants very well. Now that we don’t need them, will they retaliate against us, before the Commune has a chance to enforce the new laws?” Lord Hanic stood to make his point, fear written all over his face.

  “All magicians will be invited to join the Commune,” Nimbulan replied.

  “But what about those magicians who can’t or won’t gather dragon magic?” Lord Baathalzan stood, adding his insistence to the request.

  Nimbulan had no answer. He’d assumed all magicians would gladly join him and conform.

  “Any magician who practices outside the Commune has no place in the Coronnan we are building,” Quinnault said.

  “Your Grace.” The Lord of Sambol bowed in deference to the new king. “We twelve lords of your Council recommend a law exiling all magicians who will not or cannot join the Commune of Magicians. We recognize dragon magic as the only lawful magic. This law must include all former Battlemages as well as witches and other magicians of minor talent and informal training. And they must remove themselves from Coronnan by the time of your coronation.”

  A general cheer of acceptance resounded around the room. The sound built as it bounced against the stone walls, hammering into Nimbulan’s ears.