The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  No one else came to mind. He needed General Marcelle here. He needed Glenndon’s unique talents to explore the extent of the reduced rainfall.

  Dare he ask Jaylor to scout the region from dragonback while he and old Baamin sought the Krakatrice?

  “The raiders actually came from here.” He tapped the pass again. “They circled around in the dead of night to make it look as if they had come from the primary trade route.”

  “Why that pass? It connects one small military outpost on the SeLennica side of the mountains to a walled trading city on our side,” Marcelle said. “Even Lord Laislac doesn’t live there, or keep more than a token guard. It’s a long journey. Invaders would need provisions for an extra week of travel with no place to replenish across the entire mountain range. The main pass has outposts with stockpiles of journey foods, tackle, steeds, and weapons. They used the main pass this time and will again.” He pointed to Sambol near the headwaters of the river, a much larger and more important trading city.

  “Too obvious. We keep the end of the pass guarded and the guards alert because it is the primary pass that leads to the highest navigable waters of the River Coronnan. No, if Queen Miranda wishes to invade Coronnan, again, she’ll send her troops through here,” he tapped the small outpost on the lake impatiently, “because the pass is narrow and steep, often clogged with rockfall. We maintain only a token patrol there to keep out unwanted riffraff and spies. All of whom come through the pass on foot, without steeds or more supplies than they can carry on their backs.” He moved his finger to the mining symbol nearby without saying anything. These days he never knew who might listen to private conversations.

  “What makes you think Miranda will invade? She concentrated on rebuilding her country after the last war, consolidating her power base and unifying her people,” Marcelle continued to search the markings on the detailed map for notations of other points of interest. He nodded slightly as Darville tapped the mine again.

  “My last missive from Ambassador Jack indicated restlessness among the people,” Darville said quietly, hoping no one overheard. “They’ve shifted their economy from heavy exploitation of resources to agriculture. Fifteen years of decent food and a stabilizing economy and the old nobility is restless. They have the leisure to remember old grudges and prejudices. We are foreign; therefore we are to blame for their years of privation. They want war to prove they are right.”

  “Is that why the queen has sent three agents to my wife to seek a possible alliance between my grandson Mikkette and her daughter Princess Jaranda?” Lord Andrall asked, entering the room, unannounced, with an armful of more scrolls—smaller but more specific maps of sections of the border.

  This meeting was private. Darville had dismissed the guards and heralds hours ago.

  “An alliance by marriage would take some of the thunder away from restless nobles. On the other hand, that marriage would give more ambitious lords an excuse to depose you and unite the two kingdoms under the children. I’ve sent word to Lady Lynetta to keep the boy home and out of view of such plotters,” Andrall said on a shrug that nearly dislodged his load of scrolls.

  “You know, if we had a court scribe, we wouldn’t have to crawl around the archives ourselves. This is something our servants should be doing,” Lord Laislac grumbled, carrying yet another bundle of scrolls. Cobwebs matted in his hair and tangled with his graying queue. Dust smudged his cheek, looking like a three-day growth of beard. The maternal grandfather of Mikkette, his permission was required for any marriage or alliance. He’d granted Andrall and Lynetta the right to raise his daughter’s child and care for the mother, the totally insane and magically talented Ariiell.

  “We haven’t had a decent court scribe since we exiled all the magicians,” Andrall grumbled. “They used to keep track of all these details for us.”

  “And we trusted them to record our meetings accurately and keep our secrets,” Darville reminded them. He wanted the magicians back in the council chamber, but not at the cost of giving his daughter in marriage while still so young. Princess Jaranda of SeLennica was only three years older. The same age as Glenndon. If Queen Miranda sought a better alliance, the marriage of Jaranda and Glenndon could lead to uniting the two countries, ancient enemies.

  Stargods! He didn’t want to think of marriage for any of the young royals.

  “I was thinking,” Laislac said.

  “That’s unusual,” Andrall muttered into his beard.

  “I was thinking after the incident before court the other night that Lord Jaylor could have quoted any law and we would not know if he spoke the truth or not because we no longer have magician scribes to record our decisions and decrees.”

  “He spoke the truth,” Darville said, looking each of the lords in the eye. “I remember the laws.”

  “But no one else does, and if anything happens to you, Your Grace, we have no records,” Laislac continued.

  “No, we don’t. Shall we invite the master magicians to rejoin us in the Council of Provinces as neutral advisers and educated scribes?” Darville asked, trying to keep his voice calm. He dared not show his excitement lest they deny him the right to bring the magicians home, as the magicians had brought the dragons home.

  “No, no, no, nothing quite so drastic,” Laislac protested. “I was thinking of Lucjemm, Jemmarc’s son. He’s educated and needs to learn the ways of the Council for when he inherits. Someday. When he grows up and Jemmarc grows old.”

  “I too have an educated son who needs to learn the ways of the Council for when he grows up and I grow too old to act as your king,” Darville said. “Or one of you assassinates me.”

  An uncomfortable silence rippled around the room for the space of four heartbeats.

  “Or you die in battle because we aren’t prepared to fight SeLennica when they march across the mountains,” General Marcelle reminded them of the reason for this informal planning session.

  “I’ll inform Prince Glenndon that he will attend the meetings with quill and parchment at hand,” Darville said.

  “What of Lucjemm?” Laislac persisted. “If we have two scribes, we make certain nothing is missed or recorded with bias.”

  “Yes. Yes. I agree. That is why we each had a magician adviser sitting behind us. We shall have both Glenndon and Lucjemm attend us. The boys are becoming friends, they will work well together.”

  No one had mentioned that having Lucjemm learn the ways of the Council might put him in better position to marry Princess Rosselinda so she could become their queen. Of all the noble sons, he was closest to Linda in age . . . Laislac was too old, as was Andrall’s nephew. Bennallt’s son was too young. The two princes of Rossemeyer were too close in blood. And no one knew what kind of princes or noble sons might be found on the Big Continent. Another chore for Jaylor to send his spies on and find out.

  Darville didn’t want to think of that. He had a war to prevent.

  “Now, my lords, we need to search these maps for clues while the other lords look for ways to find out who is whispering words of war into Queen Miranda’s ears. I thought she’d grown wiser after her husband died and left the country in ruins from his wars.”

  His gaze strayed farther south on the map to the looming bulk of Hanassa. Ages ago a monstrous volcano had erupted, whose walls then collapsed down into a vast, sere caldera. A city of outlaws, desperados, rogue magicians, exiled malcontents, and dispossessed landowners clustered there, respecting no laws or any who lived by them.

  Miranda’s husband, the sorcerer known as The Simeon, had hailed from Hanassa. And so had Lord Krej’s mother. Darville’s cousin had murdered his own royal father and older brothers, debilitated then poisoned Darville’s father, and ensorcelled Darville into the body of a golden wolf and left him as bait for a dragon snack.

  Who would sneak out of Hanassa next to threaten the security of the continent in a
quest for absolute power?

  Or did the threat hail from closer to home?

  CHAPTER 27

  SO, PRISSY QUEEN MIRANDA seeks a marriage alliance with Coronnan. Most likely her disreputable Rover lover whispers into her ear during the night, words that counter the demands of her nobles. Words of peace and prosperity rather than expansion and war.

  Bah. Prosperity is good. But men need war to hone their strength and cunning, to bring out their courage so that natural leaders arise and pampered layabouts lose the privilege of rank. War is a part of life, and we are too long without it.

  I am ready. But are the other nobles and the army? Doubtful. Until the time is right I shall encourage this alliance. But Princess Jaranda—she is lovely by all accounts—shall be my bride. I hail from royalty, if only distantly. My distant cousin Lord Krej, through my father, was nephew to a king. My line is respected if not ancient. We have wealth and influence. And we possess no history of magic. Ever. I am the best candidate. I will have Princess Jaranda, though I’d rather have Princess Rosselinda. That is looking less likely as Darville pushes her aside in favor of the bastard Glenndon.

  We shall see.

  My lovely whispers a new thought to me. There are ways of gaining power and privilege through one marriage, eliminating the bride soon after the first heir is born, then taking another bride of equal or greater rank.

  I shall keep a keen ear out for the most advantageous first marriage. My spies are in place. My father has raised an army for me.

  Success to the bold. Death to all magic.

  “Are you certain you are well enough to do this?” Darville asked Mikka as he cupped his hands to help her mount her placid steed.

  “I have to do this. ’Tis been far too long since I rode through the city. The people need to see their queen.” She placed her foot into his hands and hoisted herself upward.

  He had to help. More than he liked. She weighed practically nothing, and her bones looked far too frail.

  “If M’ma gets to ride, why can’t I?” demanded Josie, the youngest of his trio of daughters. She stamped her foot and pouted, two proven behaviors to get her way with servants.

  “Josie, how old are you?” Mikka asked sternly.

  “I’m six!” she proclaimed.

  “Six?” Darville raised his eyebrows in question. “I thought for sure you were only two.”

  “No, I’m six.”

  “Then act like it,” Mikka said. “Or should we return you to the nursery with your toys and baby dresses?”

  Josie bit her lower lip.

  Darville could almost see her mind churning beneath her fine blonde curls, seeking a way out of the dilemma posed by her parents. Walk to Temple like a respectable girl of her age or revert to babyhood?

  “Why do we have to walk?” she asked, stalling.

  “Because everyone walks to Temple services on rest day,” Linda replied, not quite quoting her catechism. “We are all equal and humble in the eyes of the Stargods. Only human politics ranks royalty, nobles, merchants, laborers, peasants, and magicians.”

  “We walk to remind ourselves and each other that no one is above the law set down by the Stargods,” Manda continued the lesson.

  Darville nodded approval to them both. They might not fully understand the concept, but they knew the words. A beginning to understanding.

  “But M’ma rides,” Josie continued her protest.

  “M’ma has been very ill. She hasn’t the strength to walk so far,” Darville said gently. “Come hold my hand, and if you get very, very tired, falling asleep on your feet tired, you may ride upon my shoulders.”

  Josie brightened at that.

  Linda looked at her little sister, jealousy turning her mouth down. He used to carry her to Temple when she was tiny. No more.

  “Shouldn’t M’ma attend services in the palace Temple?” Linda asked, her frown turning to concern.

  “We have always gone to Temple in the city,” M’ma replied. “We have never hidden ourselves away from the people. And we won’t now.” She clucked to the steed. It plodded forward, one slow step after another.

  Darville caught Josie’s hand in his left and Manda’s in his right. Then he leaned down to speak to Linda. He didn’t need to bend nearly as much as he thought he should. Linda was growing up, both physically and emotionally. Part of him was proud of her. Part of him regretted that he couldn’t keep her a baby or even a little girl anymore.

  “Watch your mother, Lindy.” No more Little Lindy. “If she starts to fall, let me know so I can catch her.”

  “Will you always catch us when we fall, P’pa.”

  “Yes.”

  “Promise?”

  “I promise by the Stargods who guide us that I will always catch you, precious daughter.”

  Memories of the greased step, the broken sword, and the arrows flying toward Shayla shadowed his confidence. What if he wasn’t around to protect his family? Who would watch over them?

  Jaylor, I think I need you here in the capital.

  Then Glenndon hurried out of the palace, still buckling his belt. Silent and yet disruptive of ingrained routines.

  Darville smiled at his son. He’d almost forgotten the boy in this family tradition. He had someone to rely on if times got tough.

  When times got tough. They always did.

  “Touch,” Glenndon said, proud of himself that the word came out whole without a single hesitation or stutter.

  “Acknowledged,” Lucjemm replied, raising his broadsword in salute. Then, almost before he’d finished his word, let alone his gesture of respect, he shifted his two-handed grip, twisting the blade, cutting down and around Glenndon’s blade for a slash to the side.

  Glenndon dodged right and back with a hair’s breadth of room. The tip grazed his cuirass, leaving a long but shallow scratch on the metal. He’d seen Lucjemm perform this same maneuver before. No need of magic to anticipate him, he signaled his intent well in advance to anyone observing with care. While Lucjemm recovered his balance and stance, bringing his weapon back to en garde, Glenndon cut under him in a long lunge.

  “Touch,” he chortled.

  “Match to His Highness,” General Marcelle shouted for all in the arena to hear. “You learn quickly, my boy. Soon you’ll be challenging your father, a truly fine swordsman!”

  Lucjemm frowned and then brightened to a normal countenance so quickly Glenndon almost missed it. Glenndon forced himself to smile at the gathered soldiers and nobles while he puzzled out the meaning of that frown.

  “You have taught him well, Lucjemm. Perhaps we can find a valuable place for you schooling some of the ham-handed recruits. Now if His Highness could just learn to ride as quickly as he learned swordplay . . .” General Marcelle said good-naturedly.

  Lucjemm bowed slightly to the older man, seemingly grateful for the acknowledgment.

  “Now off with you both. His Grace told me this morning not to keep you too long from your duties with the Council of Provinces.” The general shooed them back into the changing rooms.

  Glenndon saluted the general and Lucjemm by raising the flat of his blade before his face, kissing the blade lightly with a silent thanks to both the weapon and the Stargods for his hard-fought victory, than whipping it down and out so that it whistled in the wind of its passage. General Marcelle nodded his acceptance of the honor.

  Lucjemm performed the same ritual. Glenndon waited to sheathe his sword until he could do it at the same time as his opponent. That was not a ritual or courtesy he’d been taught. It just made sense. Never trust your enemy, Da had said many times when drilling apprentices to defend themselves with spells and weapons thrown.

  Lucjemm was not an enemy, he reminded himself. But Glenndon remembered his cunning, and his pushing the rules of practice matches to
the limit, and his serious frown upon defeat.

  “What do you suppose the Council will bore us with today?” Lucjemm asked, friendly and relaxed, as he dumped a bucket of water over his sweaty head. He shook his hair free of water, much like a dog, spluttering at the refreshing chill. “S’murghit it’s hot for so early in the season. We need a good soaking rain.”

  Glenndon tossed him a towel and masked his silence with a shrug while he cleansed himself in the same manner.

  Three out of the last five days, he and Lucjemm had sat beneath the stained-glass window to the king’s right and written every word spoken in the Council Chamber. He remembered every word, from thousands of wool bales from Fleece, to tons of fish caught in the Bay, to a relaxing of patrols at Sambol and strengthening them elsewhere along the western border. The king did not say that he moved troops around Lake Apor, lest Lord Laislac object, but Glenndon had seen the maps and knew the logic.

  Not one of the lords had spoken about magic or bringing magicians back to court.

  A typical meeting brought endless debate: Did Fleece owe more taxes for producing their wool and mutton on the land than the coastal provinces that captured fish from the sea that belonged to all? By the same token Fleece thought they should not pay taxes at all since they shouldered most of the burden of patrolling the border. And so the discussion continued day after day without answering any questions at all, or decisions being made.

  “I wish I had your talent for holding my tongue,” Lucjemm continued grumbling. “Sometimes I want to strangle each and every one of the argumentative . . .”

  Glenndon stuck out his tongue and grabbed hold of it.

  They both burst out laughing.

  A few moments later, dressed in more formal clothes, each threw an arm around the other’s shoulders, and they marched back into the palace ready to sit quietly and write the words spoken by the lords. Later they would compare notes and bite their cheeks to keep from laughing at the pompous older men who ruled the country. For good or for ill.