The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  The same, Glenndon said. Whether it was mind speech or a whisper she couldn’t tell. But he smiled, banishing his perpetual anger, and turning his face and entire demeanor into that of a handsome and charming young man.

  Behind them, Miri and Chastet sighed deeply, the first sign of them both falling in love.

  The challenge of staying one step ahead of either or both of those two made Linda laugh. She took his arm and steered him toward Lord Bennallt, Miri’s father. An interesting game to find out if he’d smile upon or forbid his daughter chasing the Crown Prince.

  CHAPTER 24

  GLENNDON SUPPRESSED A YAWN and scrubbed the sleepies from his eyes. Midnight. The court had finally retired, leaving him exhausted yet unable to sleep. The events of the past few days, his mission, the tension among the courtiers jockeying for place and rank, spun through his mind in endless possibilities for disaster.

  And then there were the enticing flirtations with Lady Miri and Lady Chastet . . .

  He needed to do something positive while his brain sorted things out behind his surface thoughts.

  Ley lines and the Well of Life tugged at him. Hunting them out was something he could do. Something he had to do. Now was as good a time as any.

  He thought through a refreshment spell, willing new energy into his aching back and tired legs. Instantly the stones of the wall behind his room tapestries jumped into new vividness. The mortar in all its discolorations took on new meaning. This line of stones matched too evenly. The white binding material seemed missing. He traced the outline of a door with his fingertip, sensing the emptiness behind it.

  Further examination with his fingertips and enhanced eyesight showed him that one stone on the left, about waist-high, protruded barely a finger’s width out from the others. He pressed the flat of his palm on it hard, and winced at the grinding noise as it moved on long-unused pivots and became stuck less than halfway through its rotation.

  One, two, three, he counted silently, holding his breath, waiting for someone to come investigate the noise. Six more counts and all remained silent. He didn’t wait any longer and slipped through the narrow opening. The stone barely brushed the tapestry that hid it. At first glance, anyone looking into his room would not notice the opening.

  The moment Glenndon stepped onto the staircase landing he sensed ley lines waiting for him. A surge of energy through his feet seemed almost like a joyous greeting from a long-absent friend. He wiggled his bare toes against the stones in reply. No need for the torch that rested in its bracket beside the door, along with flint for lighting the oil-soaked rags. (Who did the king trust enough to keep the torches fresh and viable? Probably Fred and no one else.) The tendril of silvery blue at the bottom of the stairs enticed him forward, giving him more than enough light.

  He skipped downward, running his hand along the wall, memorizing the texture and degrees of dampness. On the last stair before the tunnel the line led him elsewhere as his fingers caressed an imperfection. He paused, tracing the indentation. Right, down, left, cross, spikes atop a swirl into a spiral. A rune. Part of an ancient alphabet found only in the oldest of writings about magic. A rune that meant someone royal. His room was among the family apartments. A signpost to help him find his way home.

  The silvery blue line wiggled impatiently. He stepped upon it and felt his magical talent blossom. His body wanted, no, needed, to throw a spell, any spell to bind him to this ley line once and forever.

  Did he dare? Were the witchsniffers still about to sense the presence of magic? Would they even be able to sense a little spell this deep beneath layers and layers of stonework?

  His duty as a magician was to test them, to learn how far their talent extended.

  Light. A glow ball appeared in his hand. The ley line dimmed in the contrasting light. Still it shone for him, leading him onward through the maze of tunnels.

  He strode forward watching for more runes. He found access to the queen’s suite, and a branch from it to the king’s quite readily. Of course they would have easy exits in time of trouble. Linda’s room branched from his own staircase. Manda and Josie had a room shared with a governess off the same primary steps. Farther on he found a circular rune that he did not recognize. He’d explore that one another time. For now he needed to see where the widening ley line led him.

  The path descended, first a gentle slope and then stairs descending deep into bedrock. The weight of the air changed as well. He thought he left Palace Isle and was now under the river.

  His lungs labored to draw in air. Acres and acres of river water weighed down on him. If any of the stones and dirt gave way . . .

  He scurried back the way he’d come, despite the widening and deepening of the ley line. Another time, when he was less tired, less prone to his fears. Perhaps, less alone.

  “What are you up to, Jemmarc?” Darville asked the air.

  The lord in question paraded around the practice yard with his “niece” Graciella clinging to his arm as if she needed his strength to stand upright. She wore another heavily brocaded gown today, this one of simpler cut without all the extra trim weighing it down. This one fit her better, but was still a design left over from a century ago. At least.

  Linda’s bold trews and tunic last night would have been more appropriate for the mud and sawdust of the yard enclosed by a split-rail fence. Jemmarc should have left Graciella in one of the palace rooms overlooking the yard, even if all of those rooms were occupied by servants. Ladies did not generally like being too close to the cursing, sweat, and occasional blood that spilled in this arena.

  Except Linda, who seemed to thrive in the masculine atmosphere.

  “It looks to me like he is setting the girl up to become his next lady,” Linda muttered beside him. Today she wore normal girl clothes, a roughly woven but sturdy skirt and bodice with tight-fitting sleeves on her snowy white shirt. The loose cut of the skirt meant that, if necessary, she could loop up the length of it in one hand while she wielded a sword in the other.

  If she chose. But they also broadcast her intent to leave the rough swordplay to the men today.

  “You may be right, Linda. But the girl would be a more appropriate wife for his son Lucjemm,” Darville mused while testing the balance and flexibility of the sword he’d chosen from the rack for a teaching session. While going through the motions of preparation, he let his gaze wander, noting every man, soldier and courtier alike who had descended upon the yard.

  “Why don’t you go charm the frown off of Lucjemm’s face,” he suggested. The look they exchanged said there was a lot more to his request than simply lightening the young man’s mood.

  Linda nodded—too willingly for her contrary nature—and eased her way around the outside of the fence. She made her progress look casual, greeting this person, commending that squire, pointing out features of a new armor design. Darville trusted his daughter to worm any information from the junior lord there was to have. Her mother had trained her well.

  But why was she almost eager to speak with him? Darville suddenly felt as if he’d missed something vital. Something Mikka would have noticed and he should have.

  Before she reached Lucjemm, the double door to the armory burst open from the inside. Glenndon stood in the arched portal blinking in the sudden sunlight. He wore an ill-fitting breastplate, gorget, and greaves, with a sword belt and empty sheath fastened around his slim hips. He looked angrier than Lucjemm.

  Linda paused in her progress and furrowed her brow at the boy. Her shoulders started reaching for her ears even as her spine stiffened. She harbored a lot of resentment.

  Darville would have to work with both his children. Or throw them into a dungeon cell together and let them work it out on their own.

  “Good morning, Prince Glenndon,” Darville called to him. “Come and select a weapon.”

  The boy stomped a
cross the yard, pulling at the ill-fitting armor.

  “Tell me what’s wrong,” Darville asked quietly.

  Glenndon turned deep blue eyes up to meet his, a gaze so similar to his mother’s the king wanted to step back. He could have been looking in a mirror of himself at that age, except for those eyes—keen reminder of his first love and what they had meant to each other long ago. He knew well how age lines began to tug at the corners of his own features, how comfort and good food had begun to fill in the hollows and soften the angles on his own face. And yet . . .

  “Tell me what displeases you, Glenndon.”

  A grimace, a shrug to ease the straps of the breastplate, and a defiant chin were the only answers offered.

  “Can’t help you if you won’t say the words.” Darville turned his shoulder to his son while he ran his gaze across the line of blunted swords. Linda hadn’t been this difficult to deal with, and by all covenants and conventions she should have had no interest in weapon play.

  She had moved to stand beside Lucjemm.

  “Doesn’t say much, does he,” the young lordling sneered loud enough to be heard across the entire arena.

  “He doesn’t need to. I understand him when he truly wants me to,” she replied diffidently. “Better to observe and learn than blurt out words just to fill an awkward silence.”

  Darville wanted to applaud her. His heart swelled with pride at her wisdom and her defense of the newfound brother she resented and disliked.

  “Come, Glenndon, here’s a sword that should suit your strength and reach.” He presented the grip of the sword he’d tested earlier to his son over his crooked arm. His heart swelled with pride that he finally had the chance to show off his son to the men he worked and trained with nearly every day.

  Glenndon hesitated, staring at the weapon as if it were one of the legendary six-winged vipers. His eyes grew big, pupils contracted, eyebrows reaching for his hairline.

  “I know this isn’t a blade you are familiar with. Take it. It won’t eat you, or flame you.” Why was the boy so hesitant? Hadn’t he ever worked with a sword before?

  Off to the side, Darville glimpsed Linda stiffening as the other men in the arena all paused to watch the interplay of father and son, teacher and pupil, king and heir.

  Glenndon shrugged. He did that a lot. His face relaxed into a half-grimace of resignation. Slowly he lifted his left hand and took the end knob in three stiff fingers. The weight of the thing seemed to surprise him as he dropped it into the scuffed dirt at his feet. Then he just stood there, shifting his distressed gaze from sword to king and back again.

  “S’murghit! Pick it up, Glenndon.” Darville wanted a stronger curse, would gladly have spewed one, except that Linda stood ten paces away, taking in every word and gesture.

  She’d heard worse when she trained here, disguised as a boy.

  Glenndon obediently bent to retrieve the sword, again holding it awkwardly with his fingers. When he stood upright, the weapon dangling dangerously over his foot, he looked at Darville with questions in his eyes.

  Now what do I do?

  Darville almost heard the words. Maybe he only interpreted the boy’s posture and expression.

  “Didn’t your Da . . . Senior Magician Jaylor teach you anything about weapons in that University?” Darville’s voice rose in frustration. “An opponent on the battlefield would have run you through by now.”

  Glenndon half-smiled and tilted his head.

  “S’murghit! At least show him how to hold a weapon before you expect him to fight with it. You gave me the courtesy of private lessons until I could match any squire in the arena,” Linda said in exasperation. She gathered her excess skirts in her left hand and tromped over to stand beside her brother. “May I show you a proper grip?” she asked Glenndon with suitable protocol.

  “Never take a weapon from someone unless you intend to use it on them. Always ask,” Darville quoted the rulebook of blade etiquette. “And where did you learn that word, Princess Rosselinda?” As if he didn’t know. He scrunched his face in displeasure, as much at her vocabulary as being reprimanded by his own daughter in the practice yard.

  She rolled her eyes at him, as only a girl just blossoming into womanhood could show disgust at an elder.

  He felt useless as a parent, as a man, beneath those oh so superior eyes. His pride had gotten in the way of good sense. Of course the boy had no need to learn swordplay. He had other weapons. Many other weapons. Some of them blades, but all small, balanced for throwing.

  “You taught me how to grip a weapon the first day. Why do you presume he already knows how?” she yelled back at him, head and chin thrust forward, a mirror image of his own posture of defiance.

  “He should know . . .” Darville tried to defend himself, knowing it was a hopeless gesture. The girl had learned command from her mother after all.

  “Why?” She kept her gaze on Glenndon’s hand, folding it correctly round the grip.

  “Perhaps I’d be an acceptable tutor, Your Grace,” Lucjemm offered with a crisp bow. “Though I am not nearly as experienced or talented as yourself, my memory of my first day in the armory is more recent. And I expect less from him.”

  “Good idea. Do it. Report progress to me often.” Darville stomped off, pride in his son deflated, expectations shattered, and patience unraveling. S’murghit, he knew the boy had no training. Darville had to teach Jaylor rudimentary swordplay. Why should Jaylor have taught his son? S’murghit! He’d have to answer to Mikka for this, and find a way to appease his son.

  CHAPTER 25

  GLENNDON ROTATED his shoulders painfully. Every muscle in his back, thighs, and arms protested the movement. Years of chopping wood to feed the family hearth had built up strength and breadth. It hadn’t prepared him for the more delicate and controlled movements of holding a sword with either hand before him and executing endless drills of circling, shifting, aiming, and lunging. Over and over and over for nearly three hours. Good thing he already had calluses on his hands. Even with gloves he felt the tight burn of blisters rising from the different grip.

  His stomach growled in hunger. He should seek out something to eat in the Great Hall, or even in the family apartments. Could he ask a servant to help him find something in the kitchen to tide him over until the evening meal?

  But first he needed quiet and privacy. A place to clear his thoughts and ease his body. So he walked slowly toward an inner courtyard he’d espied from his own room. Pretty flowers grew there, just coming into bloom in vibrant reds and pinks and yellows. Strong vines with wickedly long thorns climbed over trellises and looped around arches to offer shady bowers. The sweet and strong scent of showy flowers with no purpose but to ornament a garden felt lovely, but empty. There was something missing.

  He cast about, seeking the truant element. Too sweet, his senses told him. What mitigated the honey density of the blossoms? His mother would add something spicy or salty to a recipe that cloying.

  His nose found salt in the ever-present breeze off the Bay. Nothing sharper to counter the perfume.

  A sharp scent. Aromatic. Tambootie! The garden needed Tambootie. He hadn’t seen, smelled, or sensed any of the aromatic tree since leaving home. The capital remained denuded of the tree of life. No wonder the dragons shunned this part of Coronnan.

  He closed his eyes, letting the sweetness cloak him. A person could hide amongst the climbing vines and dense foliage for a long time before the inevitable squire sought him out.

  Since arriving at the palace he’d been alone only during the hours he tried to sleep in the too-big, too-soft bed, or wandered the maze of tunnels beneath the palace when he could not sleep. At least no one had been present to tell him he couldn’t curl up in a blanket before the wall hearth. There he slept soundly for a few hours only after exploring another series of tunnels.

&nbs
p; He caught a lilting tune on the soft spring breeze. His spirits lifted. “Mama. Home,” he whispered to himself, surprised when he actually heard the words with his ears and not just his mind.

  For a moment, with his eyes closed and the scent of fresh bread baking close by and the light music sung by a sweet soprano he could almost believe himself home, in the clearing, approaching the cabin, soon to be welcomed by his family. His real family of brothers and sisters, Mama and Da, cats and dogs, birds, flusterhens, and gray scurries chittering at him or twining with his legs.

  He breathed deeply, his muscles relaxed. A tightness in his neck that he hadn’t realized he’d been hunching around released.

  Not home. No aromatic Tambootie or dragons whispering on the wind. He didn’t belong here.

  Then he opened his eyes.

  Definitely not home. Stone walls rose around him like a canyon in the high mountains. A swath of green lay like a carpet at his feet. A glorious riot of bright flowers in artificial groupings, heavily pruned to contain their growth and train them into unnatural shapes, grew around him.

  He’d found the garden he sought.

  Not home. He almost turned around, certain that he belonged here no more than he did in the stifling atmosphere of formal court.

  The singer raised her voice a little.

  Not Mama.

  Disappointment almost brought that tightness back to his neck. But the music was so lovely, a special tune that crooned love.

  He needed to twine his voice with hers, mimic each sound, harmonize with it in his own deeper, masculine tones.

  Before he could think about what he did, he opened his mouth and let the words of the first lullaby his mother had sung to him spill forth. The blockage in his throat loosened. Part of it dissolved and flowed outward with the song.

  Sleep softly my little one,

  Sleep gently my baby,

  Papa keep watch,