She barely paused for breath before she started up again. Linda was still trying to catch up with everything she’d said.
Then she knew that the babble-mouth was the woman’s weapon to keep people off balance, to control the situation and always come out atop her own agenda, whatever that was.
“Well, I decided he’d done enough harm. Time for him to give up and let our little girl manage on her own.” Old Maisy clamped her mouth shut and seemed determined never to open it again.
Not likely. Soon she’d find something else to control with an overlong spate of words.
“Linda, help me, I’m no healer,” Glenndon croaked out. “You are. You’ve already worked one miracle on me, now I need you to do the same for my sister.”
“What?” Jaylor demanded kneeling beside them. He placed his palms atop Glenndon’s hands.
“Dislocated back hip from an unplanned landing. See, I told you Lyman was doing the child more harm than good,” Maisy said. She should have said something before she tried to kill the flywacket.
“Can you pop it back in, son?” Jaylor asked, half a smile on his face.
“There is nothing funny about this. Can’t you see she’s in dire pain?” Anger burned through Linda’s veins.
“Glenndon.” Jaylor ignored her outburst. “Do you remember when you were five and tried to fly from the top of a Tambootie tree just like your dragon friend Indigo?”
“Barely,” he ground out. His hands trembled with the effort of drawing pain out of Valeria and dispersing it through his own stronger body.
Linda’s arms and back ached in sympathy. She wanted to lend her own strength to him by adding her hands atop Jaylor’s. The effort of holding Valeria still, comforting her, and keeping her mind from closing down was too much. She sensed Lyman gleefully trying to take control. Linda couldn’t let him.
Gathering vague memories and skills from Glenndon, she sent a mental probe to Valeria and helped her build a wall against invasion by the ancient dragon mind, and against the pain. Stone by stone, fitting this jagged edge into a gap, lining up smoother lines, making a barrier solid against the pain, against the wispy wiggles of Lyman, never letting him penetrate.
“Well, pop the joint back into place,” Maisy said imperiously, as if they were all stupid and blind and selfishly ignorant.
“Hold her still, Linda?” Glenndon said, more a question than an order.
“Doing my best.” She warded off another stabbing attack from Lyman to break through her wall.
(I’m only trying to help,) he insisted.
“No, the friggin’ Tambootie you aren’t,” Maisy snarled. “Sit back and be quiet, like you’re supposed to. When I get my hands on your rotten old mind, I’ll give you enough pain to think about to keep you quiet for the rest of your unnatural life.”
The attacks stopped. Linda reared back her head from the sudden release of pressure. But the sharp stabs of Valeria’s damaged muscle, tendon, and bone increased. She reinforced the wall, numbing points here and there that burned unnaturally.
“Glenndon, place your hands firmly on the top of the leg bone,” Jaylor instructed.
Glenndon looked at him in dismay.
“Feel the knob, right there.” Jaylor guided their hands to the odd bump jutting out of Valeria’s flank.
Glenndon nodded in apprehension. “I remember how much it hurt when Mama did this to me.”
“Think harder about how much better it felt immediately afterward,” Jaylor said. His eyes started to glaze over as he looked deeper into the flywacket, probing beneath fur and skin to muscle and bone.
Glenndon looked deep into Linda’s eyes. “We can do this, sister. It’s not a healing spell, just simple bone manipulation.”
His reassurance flooded her with warmth and well-being. She did her best to pass it on to Valeria.
The flywacket squirmed in apprehension.
“Hold her still,” Jaylor demanded.
Linda firmed her hold on body and mind.
Glenndon pushed. Jaylor pulled the hind leg.
Valeria screamed, something that sounded halfway between a cat and a dragon. The sound erupted from Linda’s throat.
Pop! Grind!
Slither!
Slither?
The bone snapped back into place. Instant relief made Linda sag over Valeria’s body. Her charge whimpered as a sharp ache took over and the stabbing pain evaporated.
“She’ll be sore for a couple of days. She needs a real healer to get in there and warm the muscles into healing faster. Your Highness, Princess Linda, you can do it, little bits at a time, cain’t have you wearing yourself out too quick. You ain’t trained to do it. We cain’t put poor Valeria’s back half in a sling like you can with a dislocated shoulder. Though I believe rest and a hot posset will help her more’n anything,” Maisy said. Her voice was suddenly deeper, the uneducated mangle of pronunciation dissipating. “I remember the time Nimbulan fought off an entire army with nothing but magic. He was chief Battlemage for a noble then. Don’t remember his name. The fight near wore the man to a pulp, but he persevered. Needed six yampion pies and near a barrel of ale afore he could sleep, then sleep he did for three days . . .”
“Maisy?” Jaylor asked the old woman. He kept one hand on Valeria’s hip, preventing her from moving it too soon. The other he raised, palm out, fingers curved, as if gathering information through his hand.
“Yes, my lord?” She looked to Jaylor, but her eyes didn’t focus. Her voice sounded deeper, echoey with portent, as if coming from a vast distance of time and space, two voices entwined.
Empty, Valeria said weakly. I feel so empty. And cold. I need Lillian. My twin will keep me warm. My twin will fill the empty half of me.
Linda tightened her grip on the cat body, suddenly very afraid for all of them.
“Lyman’s in Maisy’s body,” she whispered. “What do we do now?”
CHAPTER 47
“BREVELAN, I AM SO SORRY I didn’t tell you this earlier,” Jaylor said quietly into his scrying bowl. He scrubbed his face with weariness, anxious to find a bed, too worried about his daughters to sleep, concerned about Glenndon’s solitary quest tonight.
“What’s done is done. Bring her home. Now,” Brevelan replied. “I need . . .”
“I know, dear heart. But I can’t. Not tonight. If I tried a transport spell now, we’d lose both of us in the void. Forever.”
“Glenndon can do it . . .”
“Glenndon is on his journeyman quest tonight. He’ll need a staff come morning. I will be needed to lead the defense of our king and the city. Of our country.” He sighed, hating to put his responsibilities before his family.
“Lillian?”
Jaylor nearly choked. “Um . . .”
“Don’t ‘Um’ me, Jaylor.” Brevelan looked near to tears.
“We have a slight problem with Lillian . . .”
“What aren’t you telling me? How did you manage to damage both girls? I’m never letting you or any of my children outside the clearing . . .”
“Lillian is fine. She’s only upset about Valeria’s injuries. But . . . um . . .” No way to make this sound pretty. “Brevelan, please listen without panicking.”
She glared at him through the glass, water, and candle flame. He reached a finger to trace the curve of her cheek in the flickering image.
“Dear heart, Lillian has very little magical talent.”
“But . . .”
“But Valeria has been bouncing spells off of Lillian so they look like Lillian threw them.”
“So that’s why Val is always so tired.” Brevelan let a single tear slide down her cheek before dashing it away.
Jaylor ached with her.
“Did we push them too hard? Expecting them to be bett
er and stronger than we are?” he asked her, as well as himself.
“Perhaps. When can you bring them home? I need to be with my girls.”
“In a few days. We have a crisis brewing here. I’ll need all the help I can get. I’ve already sent for Robb and three journeymen who already have their staffs.”
“I’m coming with them.”
“No, Brevelan. You have to stay there. Help Marcus. He’s a strong leader, but he may need more if the malcontents see my absence as an opportunity to take over the University. Lukan is too young to do more than tangle things up. The little ones need you, dear heart,” he pleaded with her anxiously.
“Keep my girls safe,” Brevelan said on a whisper. Another tear escaped. “They are so young, and frail.”
“I know. I know.” He sent her a kiss and closed the summoning.
“And if we survive this I’ll have to separate the girls and send them on their journey. It’s time. But I hate forcing them apart,” he told himself as he pushed his chair away from the table that held his bowl and candle.
Then he took a chair to sit beside the twins’ cot in an alcove off of the younger princesses’ bedchamber. If he couldn’t sleep, he could rest and watch. Keep vigil over ailing Valeria and grieving Lillian.
Glenndon put his back into the oars. “Get your staff, son. You’ll need your staff when we face the Krakatrice,” Da had said. “The Krakatrice that holds Lucjemm enthralled.”
He wanted to stay in the palace and prowl the towers up and down to make sure nothing went wrong. Make sure that Lucjemm stayed with his army and kept his pet snakes away from the royal family.
The current ran swift in the River Coronnan tonight. Low tide and a trickle of spring snowmelt made for an increased current running toward the Bay. He needed to go upriver to Sacred Isle. He had the muscle and the will to propel his little boat in the relentless but sluggish water.
The river felt thick, as if it carried too much silt.
The islands and temporary aits grew smaller, more isolated, as he progressed slowly toward his goal: a middle-sized island with multiple groves of tall trees and circular clearings. Legend claimed the Stargods had first come to Coronnan upon this island. The opening at the center marked the resting place of their cloud of fire.
It remained sacred many centuries later, isolated from the city without bridges of any kind, reserved for priests, those in need of private prayer and meditation, and magicians on quest.
Anything about the Stargods intrigued Glenndon now that he’d read that strange letter from Kimmer, Scribe of the South.
The river caught the nose of his boat and swung it off course. He cursed as he dragged his right-hand oar until his boat pointed in the right direction. No one ever said this most special ritual of any apprentice magician was supposed to be easy. He knew all that wood chopping at home and sword bashing in the training arena had to have some purpose.
He used his left-hand oar to steady his craft against a protruding snag, just barely visible in the growing twilight.
Silent and secret, Da says. Glenndon wanted to shout curses at the river, his oars, and the blisters growing on his palms. He’d have trouble wielding a sword for a week or more.
But if he earned a staff tonight, he might not need a sword.
Another half hour of hard rowing, and he finally beached the boat just as the last of the lingering light faded below the horizon. Glenndon paused and waited for his eyes to adjust. Brilliant stars against a black velvet sky and a low crescent moon gave him just enough light to pull the boat higher onto the thin grass above the tide line.
Now what? he asked the air.
A night bird chirruped at him from the top of a tree, one of many tall, taller, tallest trees that brushed the sky with waving tops. Which tree? He couldn’t make out anything different, color, shape, or texture, among feathery branches.
I’m supposed to interpret signs sent by the Stargods. I guess that bird is calling to me. But where is he?
He could of course engage his FarSight to find the bird. Was he supposed to use magic on this quest?
He couldn’t remember. Only to come alone, in secret, stay all night and wait for the dawn, when, if he was worthy, the Stargods should bless him with a staff.
How did his distant ancestors determine if he was worthy? He reminded himself that he was here to earn his staff so he could better help in the coming battle. He’d have to have both magic and a steel blade at his fingertips.
So, should he blatantly use his magic at every turn to get this over with and go back to the palace? Or should he save his talent and energy by using magic sparingly, judiciously, and only when he really needed it?
He’d come without provisions. No fire kit, no food, no blanket. Just himself. As dictated by tradition.
His stomach rumbled, protesting the long trip to the island and all the hard work of rowing the boat.
“No magic for a while.” He knew better than to push his talents when his body was depleted. Da had made him do it once, two years ago, just to show him what it felt like. His knees had wobbled and he’d been sick with hunger. The first two bites of yampion pie had come back up again. Then he’d had to wait, lying with his head below his shoulders for quite a while until his stomach settled again, before he could keep a bit of broth down.
Call to me again, little bird. Help me find you, please, he said through a whistle that almost sounded like the bird.
The bird obliged with another, louder call.
The sound spread out and echoed, coming from everywhere and nowhere.
Inland, Glenndon thought. He pulled the oars from the locks and neatly stowed them in the bottom of the boat. Sand and dirt crunched beneath his feet. Maybe he’d better haul his only transportation a bit higher. Then he’d seek the elusive bird.
It called again, seeming to agree with him.
Chore finished, he walked slowly toward the line of small scrub trees. Thick as bramble bushes, he needed a staff or a stout machete to get through them. So he walked along them, deasil, brushing their leaves with his right hand. They seemed brittle. Too brittle for the wet spring months. He knew his home in the mountains got more rain than the valleys, but this was much too early in the year for the trees to feel like the last days of high summer.
More evidence of a disruption in weather patterns.
He stumbled along, cursing whenever he tripped over a protruding root or rock. At least it was dry enough to keep the moss clinging to those rocks from being slimy.
At last he felt a break in the shrub line. He patted leaves right and left to discover a distance about his body’s width between them. On the other side of the head-height saplings the distances between things opened up. A little moonlight shone through the branches above his head. He’d found a clearing ringed on three sides by tall trees.
Not the middle of Sacred Grove. That opening at the center of the isle was supposed to be a perfect circle with a pond filling in the depression where the Stargods’ cloud of fire had landed.
He kept to the outside perimeter of the open space until he judged he’d come halfway around. This should put him on a path leading inward.
The bird cheeped encouragement.
Using the same method of seeking space with hands and feet, he moved forward, nearly blind. He found another clearing shortly, then two more in rapid succession. Then just more trees for a long, long time. He felt as if he’d been walking all night. The bird had fallen silent, giving him no clues for direction.
Did he dare use a little talent to penetrate the murky darkness of the shadows beneath the dense tree canopy?
A faint glimmer akin to moonlight, but not, shone through the ground cover. He stopped and breathed.
The glimmer stayed where it was, not shifting as would moonlight.
Slowly he crouched
down and felt the ground with his fingers and a tiny trickle of talent. He brushed something hard and smooth, like polished wood. Could it be? Had the Stargods given him a staff early so that he could return to the palace and help prepare for tomorrow?
Cautiously he stretched his fingers to grasp the cold, glowing stick. It warmed to his touch. Heart in his throat, he lifted it to eye level. Only about as long as his arm and too slender to use as a staff, he almost cast it aside.
Something in the back of his mind reminded him to never throw away a tool, no matter how unlikely.
He thrust the stick forward and used it to hold aside the brush and branches.
The stick worked admirably to ease his path. Several more sticks glowed through the underbrush. He made mental note of their location. But until he had enough light to examine them more completely, he would wait to seek them out.
Six more steps brought him into yet another clearing. He smelled water, not the ever-present saltiness of the Bay, or even the muddy river. This water was still, rank with decaying plant life as it shrank within its banks from the lack of rain.
At last, he shouted in his mind, feeling a bit awestruck that he’d actually found the central clearing before dawn. The moon rose above the treetops and glimmered down on him, robbing his stick of light. A bird flew across the crescent of light in benevolent symbol.
The end of his path was rough and rocky. Not a comfortable place to wait out the rest of the night. He edged to his left, keeping with the deasil design of his trek, using the stick to feel ahead of him.
Three steps. Then five more. The ground felt soft, like a freshly plowed field.
He stopped with one foot in the air. Freshly dug? No one was supposed to alter the land on this island in any way. Even the staff, if he got one, had to fall from a tree. He could not cut one.
He almost threw his stick back toward its original resting place, then kept it. It had lain directly in his path, inviting him to use it.
As he opened his ears and his mind, the ground beneath him crumbled. He slipped down, down, down, landing in a pool of rank water up to his chin.
The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1 Page 32