The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  No one could save Linda but himself.

  “I should have known that this creature of magic cannot tell the truth. Just like the dragons. Just like the magicians. Lies. All lies!” he wailed.

  The blue rain broke free of the time thrall.

  Jemmarc moved toward him, shouting and slashing with his sword any who got in his way. “I will save my son!”

  Not fast enough. Jemmarc could not move through the crowd in time to save Linda. Only Lucjemm could penetrate the defensive bubble surrounding the snake. He was bound to the Krakatrice by magic and by blood. She could not keep him out.

  He turned his mind inward, seeking strength and the will to do something, anything, to stop the Krakatrice. Something . . . powerful slid away from his mind. He sought again from a different angle, grabbed hold with his concentration, acknowledged it. Defined it and pulled it upward, up, up, and up further into his heart and his soul.

  He raised his hands and pushed. The power faltered. He pulled up more. His body grew hot, his fingers burned and still he pushed, channeling the magical power beneath his feet and in the air toward the evil creature threatening his princess.

  The Krakatrice jerked her head away from Linda and locked his gaze. He concentrated more power through his eyes, spearing the snake with burning blue light.

  It shrieked in pain, splitting the air and his eardrums. He didn’t care. He had to keep her from killing Linda. His Linda.

  The smell of rancid burning flesh filled the courtyard. Raw pustules of red flesh and black blood split black skin and erupted along the length of the snake body. Her wings drooped and shriveled like parchment burning and curling in a candle flame. Her own poison consumed her from within.

  Her consorts turned to flee. Lucjemm pulled them back with his mind, herding them into the blue rain. Each one slid into the circle and died, slowly, painfully.

  Needfully.

  He felt no satisfaction as flesh burned and black blood flamed. He did not triumph as their red eyes glazed in death, turned gray, withering into ash.

  He had saved Linda.

  “What did you do?” Senior Magician Jaylor shouted, shaking off the frozen time.

  “How did you do that?” Glenndon added.

  “Magic,” Linda gasped. “You used magic. I saw the power rise in you through the Kardia. You are a magician born!”

  Magic?

  “I am as much a creature of magic as the Krakatrice and the dragons,” he said flatly. The bitter taste of self-loathing in the back of his throat, and a knot in his stomach replaced his need to save Linda.

  “I am what I hate. How can I hate myself and live. How can I . . . ?”

  He closed down all his senses and thoughts. Slowly, his body crumpled, succumbing to the darkness. Seeking death. The sweet death that would allow him to atone for being a loathsome magician.

  Linda was safe. That was all that mattered.

  CHAPTER 54

  “LUCJEMM!” LINDA BROKE FREE of Glenndon’s grip and severed the connection of their minds. She dashed forward and knelt just outside the blue bubble of Lucjemm’s prison. Jemmarc beat at the magic, uselessly, with both the flat and the edge of his great broadsword. Blue sparks traveled up the blade and died within the iron.

  The reek of burning flesh made her gag. The snake smelled of burning blood and poison, truly evil. She wondered if the miasma flowing from the carcass was as deadly as the venom.

  She held her breath as she reached through the bubble. It shredded beneath her fingers.

  “He betrayed you, Linda. He betrayed all of us,” Glenndon reminded her. He looked exhausted. His knees sagged and he clung to his twisted staff for support.

  “My son is not a traitor!” Jemmarc continued his angry assault on the magic. Eventually the iron in his blade would shred the bubble. Not yet though.

  “We have to cap the Well,” Jaylor said, stiffly. His jaw clenched tight while he concentrated so fiercely on controlling the magic pouring forth from the Well “Now. Before it does more damage,” he said, each word broken by a ragged breath.

  And her parents came alert from . . . from whatever the snake had done to keep them frozen. P’pa pointed toward the people clinging to the walls, or kneeling over dead bodies. All of them screamed. Despair, grief, anger.

  The twins, both human now, clung to each other, edging behind pillars, seeking safety in obscurity. The cloister roof sheltered them from the burning blue rain. The fountain slowed. The height of its explosion decreased to little more than waist high. But it pooled around the opening and spread.

  Only she was left to care for her fallen enemy, who had been a friend and possible lover.

  “Lucjemm?” she asked as she tentatively sought a pulse in his neck. “Luc!” she screamed when she couldn’t find one.

  “Don’t touch my son!” Jemmarc said through gritted teeth. A bevy of soldiers wearing his livery fought their way through the broken gate.

  The archers turned their attention outward, concentrating and shifting to mass over the gates, all of the gates at the front and far side of the quadrangle.

  Linda wanted to shout at the defenders to spread out again. Jemmarc’s sword penetrated the bubble, coming dangerously close to her head.

  She ducked back, scuttling toward the scant protection Glenndon and Jaylor could grant her.

  “Don’t you dare defile my son. You killed him! You killed my boy!”

  “I didn’t . . .”

  “Witch!”

  “Witch? Witch! Kill the witch!” The army behind him and the crowd of city dwellers took up the accusation. Needing to expel their anger and fear by following the loudest voice. “She brought the snakes. She killed!”

  “I watched you kill him with magic, Princess. You shall die a witch’s death,” Jemmarc proclaimed. “No member of the royal family may have or throw magic. You killed my son with magic.” He raised his sword with both hands, poised to split her in two. His army surged forward, clogging in the narrow opening in the gate. Ruthlessly they tore at the iron-banded wooden gate. Arrows rained down on them, bouncing off helms and fine chain mail armor.

  “Witch, witch, witch,” the crowd chanted, pushing toward Linda and Jemmarc.

  More arrows flew, inside and out.

  The mob pressed backward once more. But the armed men marched forward.

  Linda stood and backed away from Jemmarc’s relentless stride toward her.

  “I didn’t. He killed himself!”

  “Liar.” Jemmarc’s bark drowned out all other protests.

  “Run, Linda. Run.” Glenndon ordered. He pointed his staff at Jemmarc’s chest. The white wand lost its glow and sank into dull, inert ivory, melding into the wooden staff. “Run. I can’t hold him and the Well.”

  “Where?” Linda asked looking around frantically. The army spread out. Dozens of men and more pressing at the gates, big and small, on two sides of the wall. The crowd that had taken refuge from that army flowed forward, keeping up their ugly chant.

  “Shoot him!” the king, called up to the archers. “Shoot them all! Save my daughter.”

  As one, the archers turned away from the army outside the gates and let their arrows fly before they’d finished the rotation.

  The soldiers held up their shields so that they overlapped. They had to move closer together, giving her an avenue of escape. Maybe. They continued inching forward. The crowd pushed from behind them.

  “Get high,” Glenndon said. He twisted his staff sideways and circled it over his head preparing a field of magic between Linda and the mob. He drew up the power of the Well, so close, so helpful, so deadly.

  Crackling flames shot out from both ends of his twirling staff. The white wand embedded in the wood glowed again, faintly. The army cringed backward. For a moment.

 
; The sparkling air barely slowed Jemmarc down.

  Linda knew that both Glenndon and his father had given everything to controlling the Well. A Well that was still uncapped and treacherous to both the land and the people.

  “Climb, Linda. Get high. Indigo, we need you!” Glenndon commanded.

  Jemmarc raised his sword and lunged for Linda.

  P’pa threw her a sword. She grabbed it out of the air, awkwardly. With a weak grip she parried Jemmarc and fled to the far corner where the cloister met the University. A staircase spiraled upward.

  She dashed, fumbling for a better grip.

  Jemmarc took an arrow in the arm but kept running, his longer legs eating up the distance between them.

  A loud boom announced the impact of a large boulder with the outside wall on the far side of the compound. Deep in her mind Linda knew the army had launched a catapult. Where? How?

  The archers abandoned the attack on Jemmarc for the greater menace outside the walls.

  She pulled in air and found the power of the land pounding against the stones beneath her feet. She pulled that in as well and fed it to her sword arm and her lungs.

  Desperately she turned and parried another blow. Jemmarc countered and lunged again. She danced out of his reach. Taller, longer arms and legs, more experience. She knew he’d take her in a fair fight. He wasn’t interested in fair right now.

  Screams and shouts, the clash of metal swords, the whir of arrows passing through the air, all echoed across the half-mile-wide quadrangle.

  She ignored them all. Upward. She had to climb high, and fast.

  Above her she heard a dragon scream.

  “Indigo!”

  (Indigo here.)

  “Princess Rosselinda,” she gasped out her own respect for dragon rules. “Help me please.”

  “Climb, Linda,” Glenndon reminded her, as much in her head as her ears.

  She climbed, legs aching, lungs burning.

  Another boulder struck the wall. Men screamed as the fortifications sagged.

  She’d get no help from the archers.

  Dimly she sensed her father struggling to his feet and his arms pointing and ordering people about. If he spoke, she didn’t hear him.

  Jemmarc continued his pursuit. “You killed my son!” He slashed his sword downward. Blinded by anger, he missed.

  Linda kept moving up. Up the stairs. “I didn’t. I . . . loved him.” She glanced back to gauge the distance between them.

  Blood dripped from Jemmarc’s arm. He held his broadsword awkwardly in his off hand. Still he followed her, stepping onto the first riser. Grief twisted his face into an ugly mask. “You-killed-my-son!”

  The walls around her shuddered all the way to the foundations. “Archers target the catapult!” her father called with all the power of a trained commander.

  One step, three, a dozen. She rounded the last turn and burst onto the wide parapet.

  No archers near. All at the front and far side shooting randomly at the army outside and the surging mob inside. If she ran to them, she’d only get in their way. Jemmarc would follow and interfere with the defense of the people. And the king.

  (Up.)

  She hoisted herself atop a crenellation. The overhang of the roof dipped to the end of her reach.

  Climb, Linda. Climb higher, Glenndon called to her. His voice cut through the cacophony.

  Climb, S’murghit. I will take care of the Well.

  She closed her eyes and jumped. Her fingers closed on a gutter.

  (A little higher,) Indigo coaxed.

  She swung legs out and up, gaining momentum until she nearly split herself in two as she thrust a knee over the lip of the gutter. Slick tiles offered her no traction.

  Her lungs burned. Tears streamed down her face.

  Another crash of stone against stone. The far wall must be close to breaching.

  Desperately she kicked backward with her dangling leg and connected with . . . something. A squish of rupturing flesh, the crunch of a broken bone.

  The clasp of iron fingers on her ankle.

  She kicked out again.

  And suddenly she was free. Dragon claws snagged her leather jerkin and yanked her upward to safety.

  She chanced a look backward and saw Jemmarc, three arrows sprouting from his armored chest and an archer aiming a firepot at his head.

  The catapult ceased its thundering bash at the walls.

  The mob and the rebel soldiers backed away from the archers. In ones and twos they slipped out of the gates, losing themselves in the leaderless army that even now retreated from the city.

  But Jemmarc still stood; still slashed at where her feet had been.

  As the dragon glided toward an open meadow beyond the city walls, beyond the army camp on the banks of the drying river, she watched drooping trees shiver and stretch, reaching for the sky once more. Indigo snatched a mouthful of revived leaves.

  A dozen other dragons appeared in the sky. They too reached down for the essential nutrients in the leaves before flying off to toward the blockage in the river.

  By the time Indigo landed in the meadow so that she could shift from his grip to riding on his back, she heard a roar and gush of water as the river surged through the opening dug by dragon claws.

  (The land will thrive once more,) Indigo said with satisfaction.

  “But will Coronnan? Or has it split forever?”

  CHAPTER 55

  GLENNDON STOOD TO THE RIGHT of his father’s demi-throne in the Council Chamber. He held his Tambootie staff in his right hand, the base fully grounded on the stone floor. The white dragon bone had dulled but remained permanently embedded in the wood, as much a part of it as the spirals and knots of the grain. On the other side of the king, Da braced his own staff.

  Behind them, Fred lurked. He had a bandage about his brow and scanned the room through eyes that dropped and winced at every shift of light. But he was there, trying desperately to atone for his absence when his king needed him most.

  “Linda is safe?” King Darville asked quietly. Dark hollows ringed his eyes, and the flesh of his cheeks sagged. He wore the heavy Coraurlia, wincing at the headache it gave him. Still, he had recovered enough to command this meeting with the lords, less than a day after the battle, with only a short night of sleep.

  A full dozen healers from the University had arrived as Linda soared away with Indigo. The red-robed magicians had restored nearly one hundred wounded citizens and soldiers to health, including their king and Lord Jemmarc.

  No one knew where Master Robb and his journeymen had gone, only that they’d transported out of the New University an hour before the healers.

  The ones the Krakatrice had killed were truly dead and gone.

  Lucjemm survived, barely, not having awakened from his coma. No one knew if he would awaken, or if he’d have a sound mind should he open his eyes again. The healers took him back to the University for the constant care he’d need.

  “The dragons assure me that Linda is safe with Brevelan and the children in the clearing,” Da replied.

  “Maigret is preparing to teach her proper spells and potions,” Glenndon added, having more recent news directly from the exiled princess. His bond of blood and magic remained as strong as ever, even separated by a thousand miles.

  A herald opened the door to the circular chamber and cleared his throat. Then, in his specially trained voice, he announced the entrance of the lords, giving their full names and titles as they passed him in order of precedence and seniority.

  Andrall, first in line, was accompanied by his grandson, Master Mikkette, a curious boy of medium coloring and slim shoulders who looked around him with eyes wide and mouth closed.

  Glenndon studied the boy eagerly, wondering how his cousin
would fit in at the court as another potential heir.

  Jemmarc entered last, stripped of seniority because of his son’s leadership in the recent rebellion and his attack upon the Princess Royale. He wore iron restraints around his wrists, and two armed guards in the king’s green livery accompanied him. His fate would be decided during the meeting.

  A line of eleven anonymous magicians followed the lords. Glenndon knew them all, of course, but for now, they remained nameless. Each blue-robed man took a place, standing behind the chair of a lord. Some of the nobles glared at the additions to the Council. Others made warding gestures and hunched closer to the black glass table, putting as much distance between them and the magicians as they could.

  “Your Grace, I protest the presence of magicians in our private meeting,” Lord Laislac said, without preamble or permission.

  “You have no say in the matter,” Darville said firmly. “If this Council is to resume governing Coronnan, it will be done as it has always been done, with magician advisers beside each of us. I have recalled the Senior Magician to my side. He has appointed each of you a master magician based upon personality and seniority.”

  Glenndon noted that Samlan and his followers were noticeably absent. Their exile from the University was something that would have to be addressed, but not today.

  The question of why Master Robb and his three journeymen had failed to come to Jaylor’s aid was also under investigation by Master Marcus. He could find no trace of his longtime friend and the students.

  “The question of your heir still must be settled,” Jemmarc reminded them all.

  “I have a son and a young cousin present,” the king said curtly.

  “But your son is a magician. Your cousin the child of a rogue witch and an idiot,” Laislac snarled.

  “My cousin is your grandson, sir,” the king snarled. “You abandoned all governance of him when still an infant. To date he has shown no inclination to the . . . infirmities of either of his parents. In fact, I am told he has trained for the Temple and is better read than any of you.”