The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  He whispered a spell in the most ancient language of all Coronnan. The words of the dead language fell clumsily from his tongue.

  The water clouded, dark mists boiled up from the bottom where the agate lay touching the base of the cup. He blinked away the ominous portent symbolized by the clouds, willing the mist to part and reveal the image of the one who had poured poison into the wine and sent it unbidden to the king.

  Lightning crackled across the surface of the water. The clouds roiled and grew as black as the void between the planes of existence. More lighting flashed before his eyes. He dared not blink away the brightness lest he lose whatever brief glimpse might be granted. Streamers of color coiled and tangled in a giant knot in the air above the water.

  The assembled men in the Great Hall gasped with awe.

  Another blinding flash of light, bearing all colors of the spectrum, cleared the surface of the water.

  Nimbulan peered eagerly for sight of the one he sought.

  A face rose up from the depths of the bowl. The beloved face of Myrilandel. Her white-blond hair streamed out behind her, unbound and uncovered. Her long face with its straight nose and high cheekbones reflected the generations of aristocratic breeding overlaid with a feminine softness. Her eyes searched right and left with an anxiety that filled Nimbulan’s gut with fear. Behind her, desert-colored buildings rose in a tall circle, trapping her within their midst.

  NO! Myri couldn’t be responsible for this assassination attempt. He wouldn’t believe it.

  Chapter 4

  Nimbulan placed his gold-framed glass between his eyes and the water, moving it back and forth for better focus. He had to see the truth. Myri could not poison Quinnault. She valued family too highly, and the king was her only blood kin.

  He had to believe that his lack of concentration had brought him the image he had sought in a previous spell rather than truth in this one.

  The image faded until only Myri’s pale eyes remained, pleading with him for . . . A scratch in the bottom of the bowl jumped into view, magnified many times its size by the glass.

  Nimbulan stood up from his crouched position. His knees didn’t want to unfold. They creaked and groaned for every one of his fifty years.

  Myri had made him feel like a teenager again. Her youth and beauty sparked his vitality as well as his intellect. Every day without her weighed heavily on his soul and his heart. And now he didn’t even have the magical silver cord that had bound them together.

  He’d allowed that bond to suffice for too long. And now he couldn’t find her at all.

  “I saw the face of a Rover woman,” Lyman, the eldest of all the Commune of Magicians, said. “Very pretty in a dark, exotic way. A man could get lost in those deep, dark eyes . . .” His voice trailed off, very much like the understeward’s had. Then, abruptly, he roused himself with a visible shake. “She had a mole to the right of her mouth—positioned perfectly to entice a man to kiss her. I watched as she poured a very cold liquid into the cup and whispered words over it. I could not hear the words, but I recognized the lilting pattern of them. She spoke in an old language. A language that is almost forgotten within the Three Kingdoms. As she said the words, the liquid in the cup foamed and nearly boiled over the rim, yet I knew it to be a cold boil. Unnaturally cold.”

  “I saw her, too!” Gilby and Rollett agreed. As senior journeymen magicians, they often worked in concert with Nimbulan and Lyman. Nimbulan trusted them. Rollett’s quick eye for detail was unfailing. Gilby was particularly adept at delving into symbolism for patterns that reflected truth.

  “The image faded very quickly. As quickly as the poison in the cup.” Lyman looked at the clear water in the bowl as if he could pull more images from it.

  “Maia. The woman is Maia,” Nimbulan said. But Maia had never had an original thought. None of her clan did. Every thought, every action was manipulated by Televarn. Nimbulan had experienced Televarn’s direct mind control during the season he lived with the clan.

  I heard a baby cry in the background of the vision, Nimbulan, Lyman said directly into Nimbulan’s mind. I knew instantly that the baby had pink skin and auburn hair. The same color hair as yours.

  “Maia has a baby? My baby?” Nimbulan whispered, praying that only Lyman heard his conjecture. The emotional blow almost sent Nimbulan staggering. A child of his own loins? Magicians rarely sired children. He’d given up hope of ever having a child of his own. He had to find Maia and claim his baby. He had to find Myri, his beloved wife.

  How? When? Which first?

  “You know the Rovers, Nimbulan.” Lyman cocked his head as if listening to something in the distance. But he didn’t take his eyes off of Nimbulan. “Did you see who you sought in the vision? Can you find these people again?” Mischief danced behind the old man’s eyes. His words had more than one meaning. Possibly many more than two.

  What was Lyman up to? Had he seen Maia or Myri in the vision? “Maia may have been the instrument of the delivery of the poison. But Televarn directed the assassination attempt, as he directs all within his sphere.” I will not have him in charge of my child’s welfare. I must find them. Now.

  Where was Maia? Was she truly involved in the assassination plot against the king?

  Where was the child? Why hadn’t Maia told him she carried his baby? She could have sought him out after he left the Rover clan, or sent him a message. She must know that he had survived Televarn’s knife.

  Think, s’murghit. He had to think clearly. Relying on information given him by others grated against his nerves. but all he could think about was Myri trapped within a bowl of red sandstone walls.

  “A search across the void would tell us for certain who tainted the cup, and where they hide,” Quinnault offered. He’d had some training as a magician and priest before becoming lord of his clan and then king. While he knew magic theory well, he had very little talent and knew nothing of dragon magic. Though the dragons had partially awakened the king’s telepathic powers, he shared them with none but the dragons.

  “No, Your Grace, we can no longer access the void. By law, we cannot use rogue methods even to serve our king,” Lyman replied. The old man clutched Nimbulan’s arm, offering him unspoken support and confidence; taking charge until Nimbulan sorted his thoughts and could speak without blurting out his true vision.

  Myri couldn’t be involved. Quinnault was her birth brother though they’d been separated when Myri was two. Somehow, Maia was involved. Maia, the mother of his child. Myri, the love of his life.

  His thoughts refused to settle on one idea.

  Later. We will discuss your vision later. Trust me to know that Televarn and his Rovers are your enemy in this and other matters, Lyman said into Nimbulan’s mind.

  Nimbulan forced his circling thoughts into some kind of order. Rovers had been banned from Coronnan, along with all magicians who could not or would not gather dragon magic. Myri had been among those forced to leave. Myri and her two adopted children, Kalen and Powwell. Why hadn’t he seen the children in the vision? Only Myri. Only the one he truly sought with his heart as well as his mind.

  Suddenly Nimbulan’s mind brightened. Myri was a healer; she would never harm anyone, especially not Quinnault. The king had been brother to the little girl Myrilandel. When the girl-child nearly died, Amethyst, the purple-tipped dragon had taken over the weakened body and healed it. The two personalities had fought for dominance and compromised on forgetfulness until Myri had grown into the knowledge of both her heritages. She would never harm her only living blood relative.

  I must go in search of Myrilandel. She is in terrible danger. I sensed it in the vision, now I know for sure, he whispered to Lyman telepathically—the only way he could be certain no one else overheard. Rollett was capable of eavesdropping, but he wouldn’t. The boy respected privacy too much. Gilby found telepathy difficult and relied on his other talents.

  I must add Maia to this quest, Nimbulan decided. He had to find her before Televarn tainted the baby�
��s upbringing.

  “The Rovers are a race not known for their forgiveness, or short memories,” Quinnault mused. “Guard Captain, send all available men to search for the assassin. Any Rover found within two days’ walk of the capital must be arrested and brought here for investigation,” he said to the officer who paced anxiously behind his chair.

  The guard practically ran out of the hall, gathering armed men as he went.

  Nimbulan nodded his approval then turned his thoughts back to the problem at hand. He had last lain with Maia the night before Televarn tried to kill him with a knife between his ribs. That had been in early spring, nearly three seasons ago. The babe would be newborn about now.

  “You can’t go in search of your destiny yet, Nimbulan,” Lyman whispered, drawing Nimbulan aside as if to consult on the assassination issue “Soon, though. Wait until we can make arrangements in private. King Quinnault has ordered you to remain in the capital rather than search for Myrilandel. He won’t take kindly to your leaving on this quest either. He needs you to counter whatever ploy the attack fleet from Rossemeyer plans.”

  They stared at each other in a moment of complete understanding. They barely heard the commotion at the entrance to the Great Hall.

  “Your Grace, you can’t be considering this draft of the treaty. The conditions are preposterous!” Lord Hanic burst into the room, oblivious to the tension surrounding the bowl of water and the cup of wine still sitting on the floor.

  “Lord Hanic to see you, Your Grace,” a servant squeaked from the doorway somewhat belatedly. He straightened his stiff tunic in the new green-and-gold livery of the royal house. A stylized dragon was embroidered over his heart.

  “Calm down,” King Quinnault soothed, not at all flustered by the lack of protocol. He hadn’t been king long enough to expect the elaborate courtesy that plagued other kingdoms. “All of those ‘preposterous’ clauses are negotiable. However, we should at least pretend to consider them so that Ambassador Jhorge-Rosse can tell his king that he presented them. We might also lull him into the belief that we are incredibly stupid because we do consider them. His natural feeling of superiority might make him stumble into a mistake in our favor.” Quinnault ambled back to the demithrone at the table, ready to return to business as usual.

  “Your Grace,” Nimbulan interrupted. “You don’t need me further. Allow me and my assistants to clear away this mess and join the search for the assassin.” If he stayed, Quinnault would drag him into yet another endless discussion about the blasted treaty.

  “Stay, Nimbulan. The weather has been clear for two days. The Rossemeyerian fleet could attack at any moment. We need to plan our defenses. Now.” Quinnault glared at his magician with an expression that tolerated no defiance. A new expression for the king, learned within the last year.

  “His Lordship, General Jhorge-Rosse, Ambassador from the Serene Kingdom of Rossemeyer,” the harried servant at the door announced.

  Quinnault turned his attention from Nimbulan to the tall desert dweller who swept into the room in his all-concealing black robes. An elaborate black turban added more height to his imposing figure.

  Rossemeyer’s primary export consisted of mercenaries. Mercenaries, not assassins. No desert warrior would stoop to the dishonor of magical poison when a knife duel worked as well or better. Every member of the government in Rossemeyer had to have earned leadership on the field of battle before entering the battle of politics. The “Rosse” suffix added to the ambassador’s name was the highest honorific allowed his people. Only members of the royal family made the name a prefix.

  Nimbulan motioned to the two journeymen to dispose of the bowl and cup on their way back to the school. He dispatched Lyman to organize the search for Televarn.

  Was Rossemeyer’s desert sand as red and black as Nimbulan had seen in the vision?

  Rovers were known to seek refuge in the desert wastes of Rossemeyer.

  Concentrate! he ordered himself. Find out what you can and then leave quickly. Leave and follow your heart. Myrilandel.

  “Your Grace.” Jhorge-Rosse dipped his head and perhaps one knee in a brief gesture of respect to the king. He glanced sideways at Nimbulan and ignored Lord Hanic.

  Nimbulan wondered briefly if his mud-stained leather working clothes, dyed a common blue, earned him respect or dismissal in the ambassador’s eyes. He didn’t allow himself to dwell on it. He had to find Myri and Maia.

  “Your Grace, I have read your proposals and find them nothing less than insulting,” Jhorge-Rosse continued. “Are you aware that our fleet is assembled in the Great Bay ready to descend upon you if I do not report progress in these negotiations daily?” The ambassador’s calloused hand rested near his hip, where a sword or dagger might be concealed beneath his robe.

  “You remind me of that daily, General Jhorge-Rosse. What precisely do you find so insulting in our proposal for a resumption of trade? We are making concessions in buying large quantities of beta’arack, a noxious alcoholic brew that we don’t need and your only export, in exchange for food which you cannot grow.” Quinnault leaned back in his chair, chin lifted, eyes cold and calculating.

  “You and your magicians want my people to starve. Your tariffs are absurd.” Jhorge-Rosse’s upper lip lifted in a snarl.

  Nimbulan edged closer to his king, fully aware of how dangerous a man Jhorge-Rosse could be.

  “You have fertile valleys rotting from the neglect of three generations of civil war while my people starve, and yet you demand added export tariffs before selling us the food you would otherwise throw away!” Jhorge-Rosse’s hand remained on the hilt of the concealed weapon.

  “Tariffs and taxes are a natural means of earning income for the crown so that I may pay my troops to defend my borders, or hire your mercenaries from Rossemeyer if necessary.” Quinnault narrowed his eyes. He made a point of placing both of his hands flat on the table. Jhorge-Rosse would earn no honor in murdering an unarmed man.

  Nimbulan’s magical armor snapped into place around his own body. He consciously extended it to wrap around his king, praying it wouldn’t dissolve at his first stray thought. Quinnault was the one man who could hold together a government, demanding and getting the cooperation of all twelve lords of Coronnan. If Jhorge-Rosse killed or seriously wounded King Quinnault, the chaos and civil war that had plagued Coronnan for three generations would erupt once more. The bachelor king had no child to inherit the Coraurlia and the Covenant with the dragons.

  The Covenant was broken. Shayla had proclaimed it. Because Myri was missing. He had to go after his wife, now.

  He wrenched his attention back to his king and the volatile ambassador.

  Jhorge-Rosse sniffed in Nimbulan’s direction. He wrinkled his nose as if the magician, or his magic, smelled bad. “You are a coward who hides behind magicians. I refuse to deal with a man who cannot defend himself. Prepare for invasion! We will have unrestricted access to your rich farmlands.” The ambassador stalked out of the room, robes flapping indignantly.

  “Be prepared for your ships to run aground in the mud, General Ambassador Jhorge-Rosse!” Quinnault said. He exhaled sharply as if he’d been holding his breath.

  Lord Hanic collapsed into the chair beside Quinnault. “Am I mistaken, or did that man just create an excuse to invade?”

  Quinnault nodded in silent agreement. “I’m surprised he waited so long. We’ve been trading insults for weeks. He could have invaded two days ago, as soon as the last storm settled.”

  “Now what?” Hanic raised troubled eyes to Nimbulan.

  “The tide turns as we speak.” Nimbulan sensed the subtle shift in the position of the moon in relation to the poles. “By sunset we will have a flood tide pushed by a storm still two days off the coast. The full moon will also raise the tide. The Rossemeyer fleet might very well negotiate the mudflats without mishap. That is why he chose today for his ultimatum.”

  “That is not an option, Master Magician.” Quinnault leveled his gaze on Nimbulan. “We have si
x hours to block that armada. Three half-built warships and a scattering of fishing vessels won’t stop them.”

  Chapter 5

  Myri concentrated on Amaranth. Her mind blended with her flywacket familiar’s as he flew to freedom with her message to Nimbulan.

  She had only a few moments of privacy to send Amaranth on this desperate mission.

  Warn him of the danger. Stay and protect him! She urged the flywacket above the bowl of the volcanic crater that formed the city of Hanassa. Deep within the Southern Mountains, this haven for outlaws, rogue magicians, and mercenary soldiers was lost to casual searchers. Only Amaranth could fly over the protections and lead rescuers back to Myri and the children. After he warned Nimbulan of the plot against him. If only she wasn’t too late. She’d lost so much time and consciousness from the drugs Erda gave her—still gave her—and the concussion she had suffered during Televarn’s kidnap.

  (Who will guard you and the babe? I don’t want to leave,) Amaranth replied even as he flew higher.

  North. Fly north until you find my husband. Her shoulders hunched and her arms spread slightly as if she could catch the wind and fly with Amaranth.

  She could sprout wings and fly with him to freedom—ending forever Kaalipha Yaassima’s enslavement of her.

  What if she couldn’t transform back into her human body once she took dragon form? Her tiny baby, barely three weeks old, depended upon her for life and nurturing. Powwell and Kalen were also captive. She couldn’t leave them behind in this city of cutthroats and thieves. She didn’t dare escape—yet.

  For the moment she and her children lived. She could extend her thoughts and cares beyond the immediate circle of her daily routine.

  She had to warn Nimbulan of Televarn’s treachery before Yaassima returned to the suite and prevented Amaranth’s escape. Myri hated the decadent opulence of the rooms she shared with Yaassima. She might have rich food, lovely clothing, and comfortable furnishings, but it was a prison nonetheless. Nor did the two separate bedrooms with a large common room between offer the privacy and solitude Myri craved. Someone, a guard or a maid, always hovered nearby.