When he had left her last night, Quinnault had ordered two of them to sleep in the room despite Katie’s protestations. They should have been there before the Rover tried to strangle her. But Katie had sent them away. Had she wanted merely to guard her privacy or to have a moment to argue with her father? And how had Piedro known she would prefer to sleep alone? Most noblewomen always kept a maid in their beds if their husbands were not there to warm them.
“Servants, courtiers, and pests are a way of life for nobility on this world, I’m afraid.” Quinnault spoke quietly into her ear so that none of the hovering servants, courtiers, and pests could overhear. He didn’t trust his telepathy to penetrate her barriers. A few more kisses and no barriers would stand between them. Not even their clothes. “There will be moments we can steal away from them, but not often. All these people are a sign of respect for my authority as well as part of our security.”
Assassination and betrayal had been a way of life for three generations in Coronnan during the Great Wars of Disruption. He liked to think he’d eliminated those factors. True power lay in maintaining peace not imposing war. But, he knew, many people—including some of his Council—hadn’t accepted that premise yet.
Piedro had made it clear that he intended to end Quinnault’s reign by making it look as if he had murdered his own betrothed.
But Piedro hadn’t acted alone. Who had hired the Rover?
Quinnault checked the shadows for signs of unwanted intruders. There were a lot of shadows. ’Twas barely dawn outside. The interior of the keep was still dark and damp with night chill. Quinnault shivered inside his heavy tunic and cloak. Katie must be freezing in the simple shift that symbolized purity and her maiden status.
His thoughts jerked to a halt. He hadn’t thought for a moment to inquire about previous lovers. Somehow, it hadn’t seemed important until now. Customs might be different in her land. Some societies didn’t value virginity. Coronnan seemed strangely ambivalent on the subject. Festival in the more remote regions initiated youngsters into the joy of sex by the age of twelve or fourteen. A population depleted by war made the begetting of children more important than virginity at marriage. Noble lords sheltered their offspring, enforcing sexual innocence, to artificially inflate their value in the marriage market—insuring there were no bastard children to claim titles and lands.
Quinnault had refrained from joining with a woman throughout his teenage years while he studied for the celibate priesthood. Once he assumed the leadership of his family and responsibility for his lands he indulged in the random partnering of Festival, but so far had not found a woman he was willing to repeat the experience with.
Somehow, he knew that life with Katie would be different. With her in his bed, he wouldn’t need to think about any other woman.
“Uh . . .” he heard himself make noises, but he’d forgotten what she said in his speculation about the wedding night to come.
If the dragons found her worthy.
If the Council accepted the decision of the dragons.
“I know how to block illusions if I have to, but I suppose that would be impolitic,” she repeated.
“The dragons are not delusions cast by the magicians, Katie. They are real. They are wise. And they won’t hurt you, no matter how frightening they are the first time you encounter one. I remember the day they arrived at the School for Magicians. I thought my heart would stop beating before they ate me.” He almost smiled in memory of that fateful day when magic in Coronnan changed for all time. “Now I know better. Dragons are meat eaters, but they don’t like the taste of humans. And they like their meals cooked. Why else were they blessed with fiery breath?” He grinned, trying to relieve her fears.
“Your magicians must be very good indeed, to fool the entire populace.” She smiled and tucked her little hand into the crook of his elbow. “Come. Your ‘dragons’ await us. Or should I say, the Council and the magicians await us.”
“Katie,” Quinnault said as he halted in mid-step. “You have to understand the dragons are real, now, before you see them and run away screaming in fear.”
“Princesses from Terra—Terrania—are made of sterner stuff than you think. I have faced worse terrors than an illusory dragon.” Impatience crossed her face, erasing the humor that normally danced across her features.
Suddenly, Quinnault feared for her life as well as their future—more so than when he wrestled Piedro into submission. Dragons had made a pact never to willfully harm a human so long as humans did no harm to the dragons and offered the tithe of Tambootie and livestock to the creatures. Shayla had announced the end of the Compact more than three weeks ago when Myrilandel had disappeared.
What if Katie, with her strange Varn powers and technology took it into her head to harm the dragon? The pact would be shattered beyond mending and communal magic would dissolve forever with the loss of the dragons. Quinnault’s reign of peace would be more effectively ended than if Piedro had succeeded last night in implicating the king in murder.
“Your Grace,” a page greeted them as he hurried up the corridor to fetch them. “The Council awaits in the Grand Courtyard.” The boy bowed deeply, sneaking a peek at Katie as he bent his head.
“We haven’t time to argue about the reality of dragons, Katie. Just stand still and let the dragon judge you.”
“I don’t like the idea of being judged by an imaginary beast.” She set her jaw determinedly, an expression she had assumed when confronting her father. She’d won that argument.
“You are as stubborn as my sister,” he muttered. “I hope you aren’t as foolish and earn the condemnation of my lords.”
“I didn’t know you had a sister. When will I meet her?”
“Most likely you won’t.” He clenched his teeth together, firmly closing the issue of Myrilandel and why she couldn’t be a part of his life.
Thoughts of his brief reunion with the sister he thought had died at the age of two, brought him to Myrilandel’s husband, Nimbulan. Why had the Senior Magician of the Commune defied orders and gone in search of Myrilandel himself, without so much as a note of explanation? A younger man would have a better chance of succeeding. Nimbulan should be here now to guide Quinnault and Katie through the coming ordeal.
And prevent complex plots involving Rovers and traitors close to home. If anyone could ferret out the hidden motives and traps in the Varn’s offer, it was Nimbulan.
His Senior Magician had a lot of explaining to do when he returned.
He wouldn’t think about Nimbulan not returning from his dangerous quest.
A blast of cool air from the open doors of the palace onto the Grand Courtyard sent lumbird bumps up Quinnault’s arms. Katie shivered slightly beside him. He patted her hand in reassurance, but couldn’t look at her. Not now. One look at her skeptical face and he’d drag her back inside the palace, away from the ordeal by dragon.
Seven of the Twelve Lords awaited them, standing in a rough circle around the edges of the circular paving. None of their ladies had joined them. By their own choice or a decision of the Council? Quinnault didn’t like the implication that the women needed to be protected from this ceremony.
Master magicians from the Commune filled in the spaces between the lords. Every man in the court looked grim and unforgiving. The walls and risers intended for this outdoor arena hadn’t been constructed yet. The dais, left over from Quinnault’s coronation last spring, stood in the exact center of the circle. Only Old Lyman stood at the foot of the dais.
Quinnault looked up into the lightening sky for signs of a dragon. He wished he knew which one would answer the summons put out by the magicians last night. He’d prefer docile old Ruussen, the red-tipped male who viewed all humans as beloved children to be coddled and indulged with humor.
“There is still time to change your mind, Your Grace,” Lyman said as Quinnault and Katie approached the dais. “The ambassador from SeLenicca is prepared to send messages of reconciliation to his king if you renounce this woma
n in favor of the princess of SeLenicca.”
“I suppose he sent messages by magician last night, authorizing an invasion?” Quinnault stared at the top of the western wall, wondering how long a reprieve from invasion such a reconciliation would buy him.
“Every magician was busy last night, sending messages through the glass to all interested parties. I intercepted a particularly interesting one aimed at a Bloodmage in Hanassa,” Lyman replied. The last statement was almost whispered.
“Moncriith,” Quinnault said through clenched teeth. “I wonder who really rules in SeLenicca, King Lorriin or the Bloodmage? Is their drought so terrible they will engage a Bloodmage to win a few acres of grain from Coronnan?”
“I fear it is so, Your Grace,” Lyman replied sadly. “Food is short all over Kardia Hodos. Our rain and the acres left fallow during the Great Wars of Disruption incite jealously and greed among those whose bellies are slack and whose children are dying of hunger.”
“I feel for them. But I cannot feed the world. If they invade, I won’t be able to spare the men to plow the extra land to provide food for those in my own country let alone theirs.”
Katie squeezed Quinnault’s arm, reminding him of the instant rapport they had shared. “I can give you a few new seeds that will multiply your yield per acre. But it will take time for those seeds to grow and produce enough more seeds to sow all your fields. The rest of my dowry must be enough to defend Coronnan for now,” she whispered.
Quinnault looked out over the Bay, a sight that would be obscured when the palace and this courtyard were finished.
“Use your FarSight, Lyman, and tell me what you see on those distant islands.” Quinnault pointed to the small dark specks that were just barely visible on the horizon.
Lyman’s eyes crossed slightly as he took the regulation three breaths to trigger the spell. “I see a great many men on four small islands. They are very active, but I cannot tell what they do.”
“Kinnsell and his crews,” Katie said. “They uphold their part of our bargain, Quinnault.”
“And I must uphold mine. Summon the dragon, Lyman. Katie, my love. You must stand in the center of the dais, alone, and wait for your destiny.” His heart in his throat, Quinnault disengaged her small hand from his arm and stepped back into the circle of nobles and magicians who waited on the judgment of a dragon to determine their future queen.
“Wait a moment. The gate will open soon. I can’t control it,” Powwell said. In a few sparse sentences he explained his observations to the others.
Nimbulan nodded slowly with each sentence. His hand came up, palm outward. Scarface peered at the opening through squinted eyes as if testing the truth of Powwell’s statements.
Powwell hoped, desperately, that the portal chose that circular opening in the forest of Coronnan as its next destination. Too many of the scenes he’d viewed wouldn’t support life for long.
“Yaassima!” Myri choked. She grabbed her ears, scrunching up her face in agony. The crystal dragon pendant glowed eerily in the dim cavern. Powwell thought he heard a high-pitched whistle in the back of his head, but couldn’t be sure.
She stumbled closer to the tunnel entrance, relaxing a little as she put some distance between herself and the pit—or did she move closer to the palace and Yaassima’s controls?
Nimbulan grabbed for the pendant. He jerked his hand away from it as if burned.
“Televarn threatened me with a necklace like that if I didn’t spy for him in the palace.” Maia slunk away from Myri in fear. “I didn’t want to be chained to him. It’s bad enough that he’s in my mind all of the time.”
“Yaassima is the only one with the key to that necklace,” Kalen said matter-of-factly. “Myri can’t take it off while the Kaalipha lives. Nor can she set foot outside the palace perimeter and live.” A small secret smile crept over her face.
Powwell looked at her, alarmed at her attitude, almost as if she wanted Myri dead, or to remain Yaassima’s captive. He didn’t like the way that smile lit her eyes with mischief, nor the fact that she kept shifting her expression from eyes wide open and innocent looking to hunched over and closed. She only did that when she was plotting something more drastic than her usual deviousness.
“What do you know?” he whispered to his foster sister, the one anchor in his rootless life.
She turned that false smile of hers on him, as bright as the sparks that had shot from Old Bertha.
A blast of hot wind rose up from the churning lava.
“It’s happening,” Scarface announced. “Amazing. The gate is opening!”
They all looked at the arched opening as the boiling red-and-yellow lava turned to a vortex of red and green and black and white. A lot of white—like the wraith that haunted the caverns. Powwell shuddered in cold fear.
A vast arctic plain, covered with drifting snow and frozen grasses stretched before them. The shadow of a massive ice flow at the edge of the plain formed an arch. Beyond it stretched miles and miles of frozen wasteland without a hill, shelter, or sign of people.
“We can’t go there,” Nimbulan said.
Myri moaned as she pressed her fingertips against her temples. Her pale skin blotched with purple flushes high on her cheekbones and deep on her throat, spreading downward onto her chest.
“What kind of spell is this?” Nimbulan wrenched at the necklace. All color drained from his face.
“It’s Yaassima’s magic. Myri can’t leave Hanassa as long as both she and the Kaalipha live,” Kalen repeated. “This is proof that Televarn failed . . .” She turned as if to flee the tunnel. Powwell grabbed her around the waist to stop her.
“Yaassima doesn’t have real magic,” Yaala said from where Scarface had sat her inert body against the wall of the narrow tunnel. “Every power she mimics begins and ends with the machines. When they explode, so will the necklace.”
“Then how does she control the necklace?” Nimbulan turned on her. Anger brought color back into his face. “We have to get if off Myri before it destroys itself and her with it.”
“If the necklace lives, then Yaassima does, too.” Yaala seemed to crumble in on herself. “She’ll kill me this time, just like she killed my father. Then she’ll dip her hands in my blood and taste it as if it was the sweetest ambrosia. My own mother . . .” She shuddered and shook herself as if ridding herself of the hideous memory. “I might have a key to the necklace.” Yaala levered herself up from the ground.
“The gate is closing!” Scarface said. The hot wind from the pit died with the gate.
“Wait a few moments. It will come around again to a different location,” Powwell reassured him. “The wind comes just before the swirling colors.”
Yaala peered closely at the clasp on the back of the chain and the crystal pendant on the front. “Can I have more light?” she asked.
“The guards are very close,” Powwell reminded her. “Light will alert them to where we are. Right now, they are stumbling around half blind. Torchlight doesn’t go very far in these caves.” He peered out into the larger cavern.
A man with a torch rounded Old Bertha. Strange shadows danced around the flames. Powwell ducked back into the cavern. “Hurry. They are close,” he whispered harshly. His throat nearly closed on the words. He hadn’t seen the wraith, but the hair on his arms and the back of his neck stood up as it did when it was near.
Yaassima would kill him this time. She’d kill them all without a trial or explanation or anything.
Yaala pulled a small black box out of her pocket. “ ’Motes work on the wands and the slapping rocks. Yaassima has several of them stashed in her pockets and hidden in her jewelry. That’s how she triggers her special effects. This one might work on the necklace, if it’s connected to the same frequency.” She pressed the box against the clasp.
A soft whirring buzzed around the tunnel followed by a loud rattle. The necklace fell into Nimbulan’s hands. Myri nearly collapsed against him. She rested her head on his shoulder.
“Gate’s opening again,” Scarface whispered.
“Hurry, the guard is coming.” Powwell risked a quick peek into the cavern. The guard investigating Old Bertha and the two staffs jammed into her innards looked up at the sounds from the ’mote.
“It’s a desert this time. Hotter than the wind portending it. Weird arching rocks,” Scarface said, disappointed.
“I’ve counted one hundred heartbeats between cycles,” Nimbulan said.
“They aren’t regular,” Powwell told him. Sometimes faster, sometimes slower. I’ve counted ten different locations and they don’t come in the same order every time. The snows-cape is new to me.”
“We’ve got to get out of here. There are twenty men with torches out there, coming this way!” Kalen wailed. “I think Televarn is dead.” Big tears rolled down her cheeks.
Kalen never cried. Powwell’s heart felt too heavy to stay in his chest. His beloved Kalen cried for a murdering Rover when she wouldn’t cry for anyone else.
“Stargods, I wish I had a dragon,” Nimbulan whispered. “I wish Rollett were here, or would answer my calls. Can anyone else reach him?”
Scarface and Myri both shook their heads.
“Wish all you want, we have to take the next gate out. No matter what the location,” Powwell whispered, moving away from the tunnel opening. Kalen remained, peering out. She dried her tears with her sleeve and stared grimly at Old Bertha.
“There they are! Get the Kaaliph,” a guard yelled. His words echoed around the cavern. His footsteps sounded like thunder as he ran toward Kalen at the tunnel entrance.
“Gate opening,” Scarface sighed at the first puff of the wind.
“Pray for green trees or a dragon,” Nimbulan tossed the necklace into the still visible pit. The portal seemed to explode in a shower of every color in the spectrum.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 66