The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  “I am the daughter of the Senior Magician. I can do many things others cannot.”

  (But at great cost to your body’s ability to control your magic, your heart, your breath, your mind. You are a thing of magic with only a morsel of humanity.)

  “That doesn’t make sense. Can I go home now?”

  Someone heaved a great sigh. The softly warm air became a breeze, circling the nest, but not penetrating lower than the loose bits at the top. Deep within the well she was protected. Warm. Comfortable.

  Did she truly want to leave here?

  In the back of her mind she felt her mother and her twin seeking her. Anxiety, worry. Fear.

  “Please, I need to go home now.”

  (Alas, you are not ready to call this home. You are not yet ready to call us family.) A great deal of disappointment followed that statement, from both of the voices.

  (Indigo shall take you. You will remember nothing. This will all be as a dragon-dream.)

  She awoke, finding herself in Mama’s bed. Down-filled comforters and quilts piled thick around her. Mama sat up in bed, singing a soft lullaby.

  Valeria snuggled closer to her mother, grateful for the warmth and comfort that for once had not been a dream.

  Unless it was a dragon-dream. A realer than real experience to teach her something important.

  CHAPTER 21

  “WILL YOU STAY?” Darville asked. He squeezed Jaylor’s shoulder, his oldest friend. Perhaps his only true friend. They met as young teens before either of them understood concepts of politics, rank, privilege, and power.

  “Your Grace, we both know that is dangerous. For both of us.” Jaylor kept his wary glance moving throughout the king’s private study. In the next room they heard the rustle of clothing and Old Maisy admonishing young Glenndon to stand straight and tall or his tunic wouldn’t fit right.

  “The Council offered to allow magician advisers back into Chambers if I would betroth Linda to someone, preferably one of their sons. As if I could make the very young ones grown up with the snap of my fingers, or one of the older ones young and handsome.”

  Jaylor chuckled and rolled his eyes. Darville wondered if his friend had concocted a spell to do just that. “Perhaps I could cast a glamour to make Lord Andrall’s nephew appear less than forty?”

  Darville glared at him, not finding the joke funny at all. “At the moment only my young cousin Mikkette and Jemmarc’s legitimized son are of an age and nobility close to Linda,” Darville said. His warring emotions roiled in his stomach: delight that the animosity toward magic and those who threw spells was fading, and rage that his fourteen-year-old daughter had become a pawn in a dangerous game.

  “But since you refused the compromise, they have not renewed the offer,” Jaylor reminded him. “I’m tired, Your Grace. I serve you better at the University.”

  “You used to call me by name.”

  “Long ago, when we could go adventuring without guilt. We had no one to miss us, or care about us. No one for us to miss and worry over. What happened to us?”

  “We matured into responsible men with wives and children,” Darville said on a huge sigh. “I love my wife and children and do not regret my life.”

  “I know. But I’m tired. I need to go home,” Jaylor said, pinching the bridge of his nose as if trying to banish a headache.

  “I miss you. Remote and convoluted communication is not enough when I require your wise counsel. Or just a memory or joke shared between friends.”

  “You’ve managed quite well for a number of years . . .”

  “I sense a new crisis looming over the question of my heir,” Darville admitted.

  “Who speaks loudest and longest for a betrothal?” Jaylor asked, most of his attention returning to Darville.

  “Lord Jemmarc. His son is of an age with Linda and Glenndon. An old family, distantly related to Lord Krej. Wealthy from fishing and mining. ’Twould be a good match if both were older.”

  “Hmmm.”

  “What is that supposed to mean?”

  “Lord Jemmarc’s wife, Lady Lucinda, has taken refuge at the University. Some months ago.”

  “He did denounce her for a witch and offered her exile instead of burning if she left his son.”

  “Did she go peacefully?”

  “I presume so, though Jemmarc kept her dowry since he allowed her to live. The boy is not hers. She proved infertile and Jemmarc acknowledged Lucjemm when he was but an infant. The rite to legitimize the boy and name him heir took place just a few weeks before the scandal over Lady Lucinda erupted.”

  “Interesting.” Jaylor caressed his staff. His hand followed the twisted wood grain with easy familiarity, as if he stored memories and bits of wisdom in the knots.

  “What are you thinking, my friend?”

  “That the lord should be about ready to present to you a new candidate to become his lady, someone younger and more fertile than his first wife. Either that or offer his own hand in marriage to the Princess Royale.”

  “No!”

  “Think about it.”

  Darville decidedly did not want to think about marrying his daughter to a man older than himself.

  “Watch him closely. You said he was present when the army tried to shoot Shayla. He is the loudest voice insisting on a marriage. He is wealthy, has become used to power these past fifteen years, is probably hungry for more. If he marries Princess Rosselinda, he becomes de facto king. If he marries Lucjemm to her, he is bound tightly to the crown, does not have to allow the boy to remain his heir, and finds a new wife to provide him with a legitimate heir to his lands.”

  Glenndon came running through the door to the inner chamber, eyes wide, hair tousled, one boot on, the other in his hand, sword belt empty. His nose twitched as if it itched. Maisy trailed him, carrying a red cap with a rumpled white feather.

  “You’re sure?” Jaylor asked him as Glenndon skidded to a halt in front of them.

  “What?” Darville asked, suddenly alarmed. He reached for the Coraurlia sitting squarely on its head-shaped mount beside his desk. The glass tingled in warning beneath his fingertips.

  “Witchsniffers,” Jaylor growled. “I haven’t seen or heard of one living. Only reports in old texts from the time of Nimbulan, the first magician to make covenant with the dragons.”

  “Who would dare bring . . .”

  Jaylor raised an eyebrow, reminding him of their interrupted conversation.

  Darville kept his hand on the crown as he turned to face the outer door, the only publicly known access to his study and private dressing room. He jerked his head toward the back room, indicating that Jaylor and Glenndon should retreat, through the tunnels if necessary.

  Before they could move, the door burst open from a tremendous blow, splintering stout wood around the lock and twisting brass hinges.

  Darville’s left hand reached for his dress sword, scant protection from a massive assault, while his right clutched tighter on the points of the Coraurlia, a shield only against magic.

  Jaylor stepped back two strides to stand beside Darville and slightly to the front. Glenndon was already slightly ahead of him on the right. They were his best defense at the moment.

  Two soldiers wielding a small battering ram tipped with steel stood at the front of a pack of men. They wore the uniforms of the royal guard, but with an added black sash—they looked to the Council instead of General Marcelle or Darville for their orders. Strangely, their eyes did not focus; they looked into the far distance, unthinking, as if entranced. The rest stood with their jaws agape at the peaceful scene before them, or perhaps their audacity at invading the king’s privacy.

  “Explain yourselves!” Darville ordered in his loudest, most commanding voice, the one reserved for military drills and field maneuvers.

 
Fred appeared in the doorway to the back room, out of breath. His right hand half drew his sword. A streak of cobweb looked like a scar down his left cheek, adding to his aura of menace. His eyes took in the entire room, then settled on the offending soldiers who carried the ram.

  Both of them shook themselves as if casting off a cloaking veil. Only then did they drop their gazes to the carpet while heat flushed their cheeks.

  “Your Grace.” Lord Bennallt and Lord Jemmarc bowed from their positions side by side, just behind the two soldiers at the point.

  “We have reliable information that you were under assault by foreign magic,” Laislac said from behind Jemmarc and Bennallt. He blushed and edged backward.

  Jemmarc did not. Bennallt looked at his feet.

  “Uncle,” Darville called to Lord Andrall at the back of the pack. “Where comes this information?”

  “Need you ask?” He bowed slightly to Jaylor. Then his gaze slid toward Glenndon and paused. He looked away, then back again, letting his eyes drink in the sight of the boy, tall and strong, healthy, and as blond as his sire, but sporting magician blue eyes instead of Darville’s golden brown.

  He ignored the man and woman standing to his side, right arms waving about, fingers clenched until their aim crossed the threshold. Then their fists opened and all fingers pointed straight into the room, but not at any one person.

  “Lord Andrall, you remember Lord Jaylor, do you not?” Darville asked casually. He didn’t remove his hand from the grip of his sword or his contact with the bespelled glass crown.

  “I do. And welcome.” Andrall bowed sketchily, as if afraid to relax too much.

  “My lords,” Darville called to the crowd in general. “I present to you Lord Jaylor, Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University of Magicians.”

  “Your Grace,” Jemmarc took a step forward. “You cannot mean to break our laws by bringing a magician to court!” His hand tightened on his own sword. The pack of soldiers behind the battering ram did likewise. Fred stepped forward, one side shuffle from standing between the king and the lords with their soldiers.

  Darville smiled inwardly. The lords had come prepared for a fight, but first they’d have to get through that doorway. One at a time. He, Jaylor, and Fred were more than a match for them. Glenndon? Glenndon just increased the odds on their side.

  “The law specifically allows each lord on the Council of Provinces the attendance of a magician adviser. The Senior Magician is always assigned to the crown, the first among equals,” he reminded them. His hand shifted the Coraurlia a bit, the sound of the glass sliding around the wooden mount emphasizing just who they addressed.

  “But magic is illegal,” Lord Laislac said. He sounded as if he parroted someone else’s words, trying to keep his loyalties divided.

  “It is illegal for members of the royal family to throw magic. It is not illegal for magicians to reside within Coronnan,” Jaylor growled. “We withdrew from court because of the ill will of the Council, not because of any laws.”

  “Lord Jaylor brought my son from his country retreat,” Darville added, giving excuse for their presence. “We had planned to introduce them tonight at court.”

  “But the magic . . .” Jemmarc protested.

  “I see you brought witchsniffers—an obsolete magical talent that was banished from Coronnan three hundred years ago. May I remind you that your witchsniffers employ a form of magic themselves. Where did you find them? Or did you import them from the Big Continent?” Jaylor mused, still not relaxing his defensive stance. “And the Coraurlia contains magic, for the protection of the king. Your tools are probably sniffing that, rather than me. I have thrown no magic for them to sense.”

  “But . . .”

  “We are finished here,” Darville ordered. “Send your witchsniffers to the kitchen for a good meal. They look like they could use it. Then put them on the next boat that sails east. The rest of you are dismissed to the Grand Hall, where We will join you when We are ready. You will be assessed for the repairs to Our door. Fines for assault upon the royal palace as well as the cost of repairs.” Darville fell back on the royal “We” to show some of his indignation and affront.

  The men backed away, bowing abjectly. Two of the soldiers tugged at their black sashes, as if suddenly finding them uncomfortable, or heavy.

  Lord Andrall lingered a bit. Finally, after all the others had removed themselves, he tipped his cap to Darville. “Our plans progress, Your Grace.” Then he too departed.

  Darville sagged wearily, not quite daring to release his death grip on the Coraurlia.

  The law! How dare that presumptuous, that illegal magician quote the law to me! I have read every legal text. I have read all of the decisions by the Council recorded over time. Of course, the recording of those decisions has been incomplete since we sent the magicians out of Coronnan, running for their lives without bothering to pack. They left behind their hidden archives. Few who sit at the black glass table are comfortable or competent with pen and ink. No one except the members of the Council are allowed inside the chamber once the meetings have convened. Not even the king’s trusted and loyal bodyguard, Fred. And how did he get from his post at the bottom of the stairs to the back room of the king’s office so quickly? I pushed him hard enough to crack his head against a stone wall. I would swear I knocked him out cold.

  So no one knows for certain if magic is truly illegal or merely suspect. That will change. Tonight. Tonight I will suggest to one and all that a permanent scribe be appointed. Only one. One I trust. One who knows where his loyalty lies and will record the proceedings as I dictate.

  I will own the law. Not that sneaky, manipulative, cunning, EVIL magician.

  CHAPTER 22

  “WITCHSNIFFERS? WHAT ARE THEY?” Linda asked incredulously as she fussed with the way the masculine clothes fit across her shoulders. The polished metal mirror made her look so different dressed as a boy. With her hair braided tightly into a proper court queue and the tunic unbelted, she doubted many could tell her true gender.

  “Aye, witchsniffers. Nasty critters, them,” Maisy confirmed. “Ain’t heard of one living, but heard about them from the cradle on. Stories to scare a child into staying in bed when she was wont to explore.” She stood back appraising Linda’s outfit and the way it fit. “You needs a belt,” she concluded.

  Linda took the long length of leather Chastet handed her. Tied tightly around her waist, it showed off her modest curves, but still left her gender in doubt. Now if she were only bigger up top, no one would question it. She frowned, suddenly unsure of her decision to challenge the court and her parents.

  “Explain,” she ordered Maisy.

  “Nasty people so hateful of magic and magicians they ignore their own magical talent, but use it to seek out the presence of magic in others and around them.” Maisy suddenly sounded educated and knowledgeable beyond the gossip that slid from her tongue like a gutter shedding rain. Her face shed its mask of late middle age, then aged to an ancient crone. Which face was real? And how did she do that? Then the old woman shook from crown to toes as if ridding herself of an unwanted skin, and her face and speech returned to normal. “Holds their arms out straight in front and wave ’em in circles. When the faintest whiff o’ power touches ’em, their hands open and fingers point accusingly when and where they will. Exiled they was ’cause a power-mad politician were using them to finger innocents he didn’t like, or feared.”

  Linda nodded, understanding how a tool could turn into a fearsome weapon. “What were the witchsniffers looking for?” Linda asked.

  She had to force herself to listen to Maisy’s blathering rather than dwelling on her own doubts about tonight’s adventure. Her father had always told her that a decision once made needed to be followed through. To waver cast doubt on her leadership. She needed to prove her leadership to secure her place as
her father’s heir.

  “Your brother,” Maisy answered. “Someone’s afraid the boy will be named heir. Harder to manipulate an educated man than an untried girl. You’re the pawn they wants—thinking you know less about governance than any man. Not Glenndon. Don’t know Glenndon or what he knows. Don’t stop to think he’s been trained to be diplomat and scribe, judge and warrior—just like his Da. Only they look to govern the University and advise rulers instead o’ being one.”

  Linda frowned again, still uncomfortable thinking of Glenndon as her brother. She didn’t want a brother and didn’t think she needed one either.

  “I were in the back room, I was, helping the young master prepare for tonight. Heard every word. Seems the Council is dead set on making magic illegal for everyone. No magic or magicians anywhere in Coronnan. If you ask me, I think they even want to break the Coraurlia. Now that would be a crime, seeing as how the dragons forged that piece of glass and embedded magic into it so the wearer is protected against any magic thrown to harm him—or her.”

  “But the Coraurlia also burns anyone who tries to wear it that the dragons do not approve,” Linda added.

  “Good reason for the Council to break it if they try to take the crown and the throne away from your papa,” Miri said from the doorway, where she peeked to watch the traffic in and out of this part of the palace. She and Chastet had also donned tunics and trews with sheathed daggers in their belts and feathered caps in support of Linda’s new fashion.

  Only Linda planned on wearing a short sword (neither of her ladies could walk with anything longer than a small dagger without tripping). She didn’t think the others knew the grip from the forte or which side of the blade was sharpest.

  Maisy gestured for Linda to turn around. Linda obeyed, almost grateful to lose sight of herself in the mirror, to forget for half a heartbeat how exposed she felt without skirts. Parading herself before the men and women of the court felt very different from venturing anonymously into the practice arena filled with only men who were more interested in how the masked “boy” wielded a blade than who he was—or what he was.