The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  “But you never came for me in the clearing. You didn’t communicate by magic or by message,” she sobbed.

  “I can never make up for that lapse. The bad habits of a bachelor interfered with my judgment. I need you, Myrilandel. I need you more than you can ever know.” He sagged against her again.

  Lacking the silver cord to tell her the state of his heart and pulse, Myri resorted to conventional checks. Nothing blocked his air passages. His heart fluttered and beat irregularly, but not so far off rhythm to endanger him. His skin looked gray but not waxy. Lumbird bumps rose up on his skin and he trembled as if very cold beneath his heavy formal robe and everyday tunic, shirt, and trews.

  “I think he needs sleep more than anything,” she said, sinking back on her heels. He’ll be in shock for a time.”

  “As are you, sister.” Quinnault rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t lean into his warmth, or accept the contact.

  “You have called me ‘sister?’ Are you ready to accept me as family, or must I be exiled again for being a female with magic? Exiled and denied the right to nurse my lawful husband through this terrible trauma?”

  “No, we will not deny you the right to nurse your husband, Myrilandel,” Katie announced. Her little chin came up in a proud gesture her husband was coming to dread.

  “She has to be exiled,” Konnaught shouted across the courtyard. A guard stood behind him, carrying a small satchel. “If you are throwing me out of Coronnan, then you must do the same to her!”

  Quinnault had forgotten that the boy would sail into exile as soon as the tide changed.

  A nasty smile split Konnaught’s pudgy face. “She’s a witch, and we don’t allow witches in Coronnan. The Council will depose you and that foreign hussy you married, if you let your sister stay. Then they’ll bring me back as their king.”

  “Be careful how you address your queen, boy. You no longer have a title or lands. Within the hour you will be a penniless peasant on your way to the Monastic School in Sollthrie. I signed the order last night,” Quinnault said slowly and evenly so there could be no mistake in his threat.

  Konnaught didn’t slink off. He stood straight and defiant, Lord Hanic and two other lords directly behind him. Quinnault met their eyes, girding himself to show no emotion.

  Quinnault sighed. Too many of the lords preferred Konnaught’s philosophy that titles and land granted privileges and the right of exploitation. Responsibility for the land and people who lived upon the land was a sometime thing with them rather than a way of life. If Quinnault was going to hold sway over those lords, he had to obey his own laws. His entire reign, the benign government he’d fought so hard for, all depended upon law.

  He turned back to his wife and sister, hoping to find a compromise. “Katie, Myrilandel, the people of Coronnan have made a law against solitary magicians. For the good of all we have to control magic. Only the Commune can do that. Myri can’t gather dragon magic and join the Commune.”

  “What good is a law without compassion!” Katie stamped her foot and shouted at him. “There is no justice in exiling her after she saved the kingdom from invasion.” Her eyes blazed and bright color tinged her cheeks. Her absurdly short curls bounced about her ears. She had never looked more beautiful.

  Quinnault was tempted to kiss her. That would solve nothing but his own need to hold her close and ease his instant passion. He still had a Council of Lords who could override any decision he made with a two-thirds majority vote. That was a law he had requested. The kings of Coronnan couldn’t be dictators.

  “Compassion and justice are concepts that have been missing from Coronnan for three generations. The people will have a hard time understanding why their king breaks the law for such vague ideas,” he said, sighing.

  “Then isn’t it about time they were exposed to such ‘vague’ ideas?” A smile tugged at the corners of Katie’s mouth. The humor that was never very far from the surface threatened to break through. “All of you recognize the ‘vague’ idea of diplomatic immunity.”

  The lords and magicians nodded.

  “If SeLenicca sent a magician as ambassador, his diplomatic immunity would exempt him from the law. You’d have to let him stay or risk war.”

  “Granted, Katie. But Myrilandel isn’t the ambassador from one of our neighbors,” Quinnault replied. He tried to keep his voice firm. He nearly lost that battle facing the humor that glowed from Katie’s face.

  “She is the ambassador from the dragons! She is the one they selected to develop the Covenant. Without her, you have no Covenant, no dragons, no communal magic. She is the cornerstone of that treaty. That makes her an ambassador and exempt from your laws.” She smiled triumphantly.

  Quinnault nearly danced her around the courtyard in glee. “Ambassador Myrilandel of Shayla’s Nimbus, prepare to present your credentials.”

  “What credentials?” She cocked her head puzzled.

  “Oh, we’ll think of something later.” He bent down and hugged her tight. “Welcome, sister. Welcome home.”

  “Someone take this poor man to a comfortable bed and get the healers to look at him,” Katie ordered, pointing to Nimbulan who shuddered and trembled on the ground. “And find a good hot meal for both of them. I can’t believe no one thought of this before,” she finished, shaking her head.

  “Thank you, Your Grace.” Myri dipped a slight curtsy toward Katie. She reached for her baby. Katie relinquished the precious burden reluctantly, gazing fondly at Amaranth’s innocently sleeping face.

  “She is beautiful. I wish you joy of her,” Katie whispered. She ran a gentle finger along the baby’s cheek. “I look forward to watching her grow.”

  “Messages are coming in from the border, Your Grace,” Lyman said, standing at Quinnault’s elbow.

  “Did we succeed?” he asked the magician. He studied the man closely, looking for signs of the dragon within him.

  “We succeeded admirably. Three of King Lorriin’s seven generals and their troops are trapped on this side of the border. They have offered their swords in your service rather than return to SeLenicca as failures. King Lorriin isn’t known for his forgiveness.”

  A happy grin burst from Quinnault. The wars were over. He’d made a peace that could last. He and Nimbulan. And Katie and Myri and dozens of others.

  “There is more news from the few magicians on the other side of the border,” Lyman continued. “Moncriith and Yaassima killed each other.”

  “You are free of them, sister. They’ll not stalk you again.” Quinnault touched Myrilandel’s arm reassuringly.

  “I must go back to Hanassa,” Yaala said. “I have to see what damage Moncriith did before he left. He said the dragongate had collapsed.”

  “There is no word from Hanassa, child. There never is. It is a city state that remains outside the life of the Three Kingdoms,” Lyman said kindly.

  “Hanassa is a boil on the backside of the Three Kingdoms,” Nimbulan said weakly from the ground at their feet. He didn’t rouse enough to sit up or even support himself on an elbow. “Hanassa causes trouble and is a constant pain. The Kaalipha wanted us to think they are separate and aloof, but her assassins and raiders dart in and out, striking where they will. Even without the dragongate they will plague the rest of the world. None of us will be safe until that boil is cauterized.”

  Quinnault didn’t like the magician’s color as he closed his eyes once more, too exhausted to say more. Myri knelt beside him, quickly checking his pulse. She placed her long-fingered hand on his brow, brushing her husband’s graying hair away from his eyes.

  “Take him inside, quickly. He needs more healing than I can give him.” She beckoned several young men to fetch a litter. Powwell came forward with a wineskin. He moistened his master’s lips with a few drops.

  A sense of loss washed over Quinnault. Through this whole adventure of establishing the Commune and the School for Magicians, finding a solution to the civil wars and building a permanent government, Nimbulan had been
at his side. Nimbulan, adviser, helper, friend. He had no other friends. Kings didn’t have friends, they had courtiers.

  “I’ll go to Hanassa, Master Nimbulan,” Powwell whispered. “I’ll go back and make sure the dragongate is closed forever. I’ll find Rollett and Kalen, too, and bring them back to you safely.”

  “That will be your quest, boy. But not until you have more training,” Scarface said. “Don’t you lords and nobles have a government to run or something? Leave the healing to magicians. We’ll keep you informed of any new messages.” He dismissed the assembly with a stern look. His ugly scar creased more deeply with his scowl. The implied violence of his wounds sent mundanes scampering for other chores in other places.

  Then Scarface turned to the magicians, assuming a leadership role naturally. “We have a conspirator with Rover blood to find. We’ll start with the woman under guard and then devise a test for the latent potential. There are communications to monitor. Lambing season and spring planting will be upon us very soon, we need to know which fields will produce the most food and which need to go fallow. Come on, we have work to do.” The masters gathered in a knot and spoke in arcane phrases with many wild gestures.

  Six young men ran up with a hospital litter. With Myri’s guidance they rolled Nimbulan onto it and carried him back inside the school. Myri walked beside her husband, keeping one hand on him at all times.

  Nimbulan lifted his own hand and placed it atop hers. “I love you,” he whispered.

  Quinnault’s heart wrenched for the couple, and for his own loss of a trusted adviser and friend.

  “I hope I can be your friend as well as your wife, Scarecrow,” Katie whispered to him.

  “You read my mind again.”

  “I read your grief. Our grief. He is a great man. We will miss him greatly.”

  “He left a great legacy for us all. Never again will magicians waste their talents as Battlemages. He ended magic as a weapon of death and destruction and made it an instrument of peace and prosperity.” Quinnault returned to the business of continuing the legacy of the last Battlemage.

  Epilogue

  “Come to Papa, Amaranth,” Nimbulan coaxed his giggling daughter.

  The little girl, barely a year old, stood on unsteady legs, clutching her mother’s skirt. She eyed the distance between her parents skeptically. Then, boldly she let go of the cloth that kept her upright. She swayed, lifted one foot off the ground and sat abruptly on her diapered bottom.

  Her lower lip stuck out, and a tear threatened to overflow her wide eyes. Hints of fire-green highlighted the iris—closer to the color of her father’s eyes than her mother’s. But her light blond hair and pale skin came from Myrilandel’s heritage.

  “Up!” Amaranth demanded, holding her pudgy arms out to her father. She had learned early that Nimbulan was always willing to hold her in his arms. Her mother wasn’t as easy to persuade.

  “That’s all right, Amaranth. You’ll walk when you are ready.” Nimbulan plucked his daughter off the ground and hoisted her high in the air.

  “Maybe if she walked, she’d slow down for a day or two,” Myri chuckled. “She’s into everything as it is.” She bent to stir the stew that simmered over the central hearth of the hut in the clearing.

  Nimbulan and his family retreated to the peace and solitude of this little hut often. As often as their duties in the city allowed. One of Myri’s dragon brothers could usually be persuaded to fly them here at short notice.

  Directing the School for Magicians—University now—no longer dominated Nimbulan’s life. Others could do it better, others who still had magic at their fingertips.

  He still sat in Council with the king. But Quinnault had his new wife and a myriad of other advisers to guide him and Coronnan into a new era.

  Nimbulan enjoyed the slower pace of life in the clearing more every time they retreated here. Myri certainly flourished in the rural setting. The demands of life at court and her duties as ambassador for the dragons stressed her empathic talent to near exhaustion. She needed the sanctuary of the clearing more than Nimbulan did.

  “It’s starting to snow,” Yaala said, entering the hut with a fresh armload of wood. “Something smells good.” She bent her head to draw in the aroma before she dropped the bundle of sticks and logs.

  “Then you won’t be going back to the capital for several weeks yet,” Myri said. “Neither will we.” She grinned widely.

  “Why do you think I stalled so long.” Yaala grinned. Her teeth gleamed in the firelight. “I don’t like relying on your brother’s hospitality, Myri. Having servants wait on me hand and foot gets boring after about ten minutes. This ‘Princess in Exile’ nonsense has gone on too long. I need to be doing something, even if it’s just chopping firewood.”

  “There’s lots of that to do,” Myri replied.

  Nimbulan shifted Amaranth to the crook of his right arm, giving her a favorite toy to chew on—a wooden rattle he’d carved himself. He had the scars on his fingers from his first attempts to guide the knife without magic.

  Joy simmered in Nimbulan, like Myri’s stew. It warmed his heart and grew more savory with time. All of his little regrets about unfinished work and lost magic faded. Only the question of Rollett’s and Kalen’s fate continued to nag him.

  Myri cocked her head as if listening. “Someone is climbing the path from the village. Someone with determination.”

  “What does Shayla say?” Instinctively he looked toward the south-facing doorway. Shayla had retreated to her lair in the mountains, awaiting the birth of her next litter.

  Shayla’s voice was something else Nimbulan missed. The dragon hadn’t talked to him much, but now that he had no magic, he couldn’t hear her even when she directed her mental voice to him.

  He wrapped his free arm around Myri’s shoulder, almost hoping physical contact with her would open his mind to Shayla’s words. “Anyone we know?” he asked.

  Nimbulan set Amaranth on the floor where she promptly crawled to the pile of firewood and began investigating the new logs with all of her senses.

  “Take that out of your mouth, Ammi,” Yaala plucked a piece of bark out of the baby’s hands.

  Nimbulan reached for his winter cloak. No one would be able to enter the clearing without Myri’s permission. He shouldn’t worry. But he’d spent too many years as a Battlemage not to worry about unannounced visitors.

  “It’s Powwell!” Myri cried, reaching for her cloak at the same time.

  Together they dashed out the door to meet the boy at the boundary of the clearing.

  Nimbulan didn’t see the magical boundary swirling bright pastel colors as it parted to admit his former apprentice. One second he saw only trees. The next, Powwell stood in the arching shadow made by two leaning trunks of the Tambootie.

  “You’ve grown! You have a beard. You’re taller than I.” Myri fussed over the young man.

  Fifteen now, Powwell stood broader of shoulder and longer of leg than Nimbulan remembered.

  “Are you hungry? Of course you are. Supper is nearly ready.” Myri hugged her foster son.

  “I’m fine, Myrilandel. Just a little weary.” Powwell hugged her back.

  Nimbulan watched the boy’s hands clench. An air of heavy sadness bent his posture.

  “What has happened, son?” he asked joining Myri’s embrace of him.

  “I figured out how to get into Hanassa, but I need help. I can fetch Rollett back for you, Nimbulan. But you’ll have to go with me.”

  Excitement leaped in Nimbulan’s heart. A chance to rescue the journeyman he’d had to leave in Hanassa so many moons ago.

  Myri stiffened within Powwell’s embrace. She said nothing. Nimbulan didn’t need magic to know she waited warily for her husband’s response.

  “I’m sorry. I can’t, Powwell. My place is here.” He held Myri tighter. “I promised I’d never leave you again, Myri, and I won’t.” Disappointment threatened to choke him. “I wouldn’t be much use to you anyway, Powwell, not witho
ut my magic.”

  “I’ll go,” Yaala said from the doorway of the hut.

  “The trip will be dangerous, Yaala,” Powwell warned.

  “That doesn’t matter. Hanassa should be mine! The time has come to reclaim my throne.”

  “We have to leave immediately. The gateway at the city will only be open for short periods this winter.” Powwell stood straighter, adjusting his pack.

  “It will wait until the snow has stopped and you have packed some provisions,” Nimbulan said, ushering them all toward the warmth of the hut.

  “Have you also thought of a way to find Kalen in the void?” Myri asked so quietly Nimbulan almost didn’t hear her.

  “Of course.” A big grin creased Powwell’s tired face. “That’s why I waited so long. I had to find a way to free both my—sister and my fellow journeyman. Finding the right opening into the void is going to be chancy. That’s the gateway that will only be open twice this winter and for very short times.”

  “Then you have accepted Kalen is your sister?” Nimbulan had to ask.

  “The dragons say she is. I have to believe them.”

  “Go with our blessing, Powwell. You, too, Yaala.” Nimbulan almost choked. His instincts screamed to keep these vulnerable people close. He’d lost so many good friends and students he couldn’t take a chance on letting Powwell and Yaala go into danger alone.

  (A journeyman must quest to become a master. A quest by nature must be taken without a mentor,) Shayla reminded him.

  “Shayla, I can hear you! Has my magic returned?”

  “No, love,” Myri said quietly. “The dragon spoke through my voice. You are still mundane. Are you terribly disappointed?”

  “Not really. Your love and the life of my daughter is magic enough.” Together they ducked into the hut.

  Amaranth squealed in delight at sight of them. She let go of the woodpile that supported her and toddled toward him. She giggled as she wavered and nearly sat down again, but she kept walking until she clutched her father’s cloak for balance.