Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  “Our people are hungry, Lan. These people deny us sustenance.”

  “We haven’t asked them for hospitality yet. Why do you believe they will deny it to us?”

  The Rover chieftain irritated Nimbulan with his broad assumptions. Not just on the issue of prejudice against all Rovers, his clan in particular. Every topic of conversation brought a statement of half-truth that Televarn demanded be accepted as words of profound wisdom. The magical control Televarn maintained over the minds of each of his clan ensured they all agreed with him.

  Only Nimbulan remained aloof and untouched by that control. Often, though, he sensed the Rover eavesdropping on his thoughts.

  Nimbulan knew that not all women were faithless. Not all children were incapable of behaving, not all steeds were stupid, and not every man lost potency with age. He bristled with indignation every time he heard the last accusation. Just because Maia hadn’t conceived yet. . . .

  “The lords and magicians teach the stupid villagers to distrust us.”

  “They have good reason if you plan to steal from them without even asking for food or offering to buy it first.”

  “Rovers do not buy what the Stargods should provide them. Food, sledges, steeds . . . these are ours by right. The Stargods decreed we must rove. Therefore, they must provide for us.”

  “Then we should remind these folk of their obligation to offer us hospitality.”

  “The teachings of the Stargods have been corrupted.” Televarn spat on the sloping ground. “I know from experience they will give us nothing.”

  “We could offer to work for the food, trade for it, even sing and dance for it.”

  “Tonight is Festival. They make their own entertainment. At Festival, all villages refuse outsiders so that no foreign seed spreads to their women.” The Rover grinned lasciviously. He had remarked often of late that he fancied finding a woman with fair hair and eyes. One woman in particular who had run away from him.

  Myrilandel had pale hair and nearly colorless eyes that reflected whatever color was near.

  Strange, he hadn’t thought of the mysterious witchwoman in many moons. Maia was the only woman who occupied his thoughts. Myrilandel pricked his curiosity with her wild talent and curious visions. Maia satisfied only his lust. He couldn’t converse with her beyond where they would make their bed each night now that spring had arrived and the Rover clan was wandering again.

  “Tonight, when the moon is full and the drink flows freely, we can sneak into the village and make off with as much food as we need. Our people won’t go to bed with empty bellies for many weeks.”

  “I still think we should offer to buy the food.”

  “Coward! No Rover would think such a thing. You can never truly be one of us until you put such craven thoughts aside. You are not worthy of Maia. No wonder her womb has rejected your seed,” Televarn backed away. A disgusted sneer spread across his handsome face. His hand reached instinctively for the long dagger he wore on his hip.

  “Don’t be a prejudiced fool, Televarn.” Nimbulan held his hands away from his side to indicate his reluctance to engage in violence. “The safety of the clan should be your first priority. Breaking into that storehouse should be a last resort, after we’ve tried fishing, or hunting, or asking. What if your men are discovered, and the village turns on them? They have tools and knives that are just as deadly as the pikes and lances of any army.” At the end of winter, not much was left in field and forest to glean or gather, or Nimbulan would have suggested that as well. If the winter storms that had ravaged all of Coronnan had driven away the fish, this village could be as hungry as the Rovers.

  “If they see us in the vicinity, they will guard the storehouse. Any attempt to liberate the food will end in violence, perhaps death.” Televarn’s eyes narrowed as if he expected Nimbulan to lead the raid and be the first to die.

  Nimbulan had no intention of taking part in the theft from innocent, possibly hungry, people.

  “Do what you must, Televarn. I will go hunting. I will feed our people honestly.” Nimbulan turned his back on the village and Televarn.

  He took three steps into the depths of the forested hillside and stopped abruptly. He directed his feet to move, but they remained firmly in place.

  “Do not walk away from me, magician. I am king of this clan. My word is law.”

  “Then perhaps I should no longer be a part of your clan.” That thought had a strangely liberating feel to it. He hadn’t realized how uncomfortable he had become with the lack of privacy, the constant wandering, the uncertainty of each day. Avid curiosity for a different way of life had turned to boredom. No, disgust. He didn’t like any of the people in the clan, especially Televarn.

  He knew a few of the secret rituals now. He could take that information back to school.

  His feet refused to move forward. Instead, he found himself turning to face Televarn.

  “You cannot leave after you have shared in our rituals, slept with one of our women, broken bread with us.” Televarn seemed genuinely confused.

  “You said yourself, I was not born to your way of life. I tried to fit in, to learn your customs. But I do not belong. The time has come for us to part.” He wore all the clothing he owned, and his knife. He hadn’t become used to his new staff yet and could easily cut another. He had no possessions to retrieve. Best if he just walked away, here and now. He couldn’t move.

  “I cannot allow that. We taught you our secrets.” Televarn shifted his balance, eyes searching the surroundings. For observers, help, a place to run?

  “Release me from your control. I will not betray you.” But he would. He’d use the secrets to bring unity to magicians all over Coronnan.

  “No one outside the clan may share our knowledge. You must stay with us, be truly one with us, or die. You defied me every day when you wouldn’t let me into your mind. You deserve to die for that crime alone.” Televarn’s hand flicked and the long dagger flew out.

  Acid sharp pain exploded in Nimbulan’s gut. A beautifully decorated knife hilt seemed to be growing from his rib cage. Thick warm blood stained his hand. His blood.

  Chapter 24

  “Do we have to go down there?” Powwell eyed the trapdoor to the crypt with loathing and . . . and fear.

  “Yes.” Kalen placed her fists on her hips and glared at him.

  “I believe you that his body is gone. So you don’t have to prove it to me.” Powwell mimicked her pose to hide the shaking of his hands. The last time he’d gone into the crypt had been to place the master’s limp body into a niche. The darkness and the weight of the Kardia above him had pressed on his lungs until he couldn’t breathe. The apprentices and Master Ackerly had formed a semicircle in front of the burial place to say the funeral prayers. Powwell hadn’t closed his eyes. He’d been too afraid that the act of diverting his sight from the walls and ceiling would cause them to collapse. As he scanned the other niches, most occupied by decaying skeletons, he’d seen the ghosts of all the other occupants of the crypt rise up to greet Nimbulan and invite him to join them in haunting the ancient monastery.

  Powwell hadn’t slept well the entire winter, waiting for the ghosts to come for him, too.

  Kalen bent to lift the trapdoor hidden behind the altar in the chapel. “You need proof, or you won’t run away with me.” She grunted under the weight of the door.

  Ingrained manners made Powwell rush to help her. “What made you go crawling around down there in the first place?” he asked as she made ready to climb down the ladder carved into the stone wall. He admired her bravery, but he was coming to dread her stubbornness.

  She wasn’t aggressive and talkative with the others. For them she put on a mask of starry-eyed innocence and awe, lisping sweetly like a child much younger than her ten years. Maybe he was the only person in all of Coronnan she trusted. His chest swelled with pride and protectiveness. He had to follow her into the crypt to prove to himself he’d earned that trust.

  Maybe if he left the door
open, the Kardia wouldn’t weigh so heavily on him. Still he hesitated descending after her until she sent three balls of witchlight circling her head like a crown of glowing fire.

  The directionless light illuminated the small crypt better than a hundred torches. It revealed a small square room lined with shelves, much like a library—only the information stored in those shelves was beyond interpretation. Powwell wondered briefly if learning to read the memories of the dead was like learning a new language. He already knew three. His name meant bright in the oldest tongue known to Coronnan. Perhaps he had the intelligence and intuition to decipher the memories of the men who had lived in the monastery long ago.

  He shook his head to rid it of the fanciful thoughts. Snap out of it, he admonished himself. I’m just giddy from the closeness of the walls and the low ceiling.

  Kalen beckoned him to follow her into the far corner. The corner where he and the other apprentices had laid Nimbulan’s still-warm body so many moons ago.

  The body had remained warm though eight hours had passed between the time of Nimbulan’s death and his funeral. Why the haste? Eight hours. Not enough time for decent mourning before putting a beloved friend and teacher to rest. Were Rollett and the other apprentices so grief-stricken they didn’t question the premature funeral? Perhaps they were all so used to obeying the orders of a master without question they had obeyed blindly—too blindly.

  The wrongness of the situation sent his balance awry. He stumbled over a crack in the paving stones. Ackerly had directed the funeral. What did he have to hide?

  Suddenly, Powwell believed Kalen’s story from the depth of his heart. Though seeming not to breathe, or have a heartbeat, Nimbulan hadn’t been dead, but so deep in a trance ordinary means could not revive him.

  Given time, the master magician could have awakened into darkness, hungry, depleted of magic and strength. The winding cloths soaked in preservatives would have bound him so tightly he might not have been able to break free. What terrors had he known? What ghosts haunted him?

  Powwell searched the far corners of the crypt for evidence of the spirits of the dead. They had all fled from Kalen’s witchlight. Nimbulan might not have had the energy to summon light. Had he gone insane from the haunting?

  He looked where Kalen pointed, hoping he wouldn’t see what he knew must be. Nimbulan’s body, huddled in agonizing terror as he died a second time, alone and friendless in a crypt as a dark as the void.

  Powwell swallowed deeply and forced his eyes open.

  The second niche above the floor, last row on the southern side, was empty.

  “Which way?” Myri asked the voices as she cuddled Amaranth in her arms. He hadn’t flown since his injury and she had no idea if he had healed. His wings remained tightly folded and hidden.

  The wind pushed her south, around the pub and up a narrow trail toward the top of the cliff. Thick loam of half-decayed leaves and everblue needles muffled her footsteps. No one could hear her passage. If someone sought to betray her, they would have to seek with other senses than sound.

  She walked rapidly, not looking back at the gathered faces that watched her. Faces that could betray her as easily as welcome her. She might see Karry’s face in the crowd. Karry who had just lost a beloved grandmother.

  “Stargods, comfort her,” she prayed. “Give Granny an easy passage to the next existence.”

  No reply, only the shifting wind guiding her away from the village, uphill toward the mountains that formed a near impenetrable border between Coronnan and Rossemeyer. Somewhere in these mountains lay the hidden city of Hanassa, home of outlaws. Rovers, exiles, anyone who didn’t belong in the three civilized kingdoms.

  “Maybe that’s where we must go, Amaranth. I don’t belong anywhere within the borders of this kingdom.” The relentless wind increased and pushed her uphill. She set Amaranth down to walk beside her or fly if he chose. He walked.

  Their path circled around: west, then south again and finally back to the east until she heard the pounding surf in the cove below the village. She paused as soon as the wind let her, looking around. An opening in the trees beckoned to her. She looked out over the village from a perch well above the milling people.

  The bright colors on the Equinox Pylon drew her eye. (Careful,) Amaranth warned her. He half-spread his wings, ready to launch into flight if danger threatened.

  “So you’ve had enough time to heal?” She touched the place where he had been badly bruised.

  (Time enough and love enough.) He ruffled his wing feathers and stretched wide with an almost visible sigh of satisfaction.

  Myri stepped back into the shelter of the trees, but no one looked up from the daily activities to espy her or the flywacket.

  “Why here? What am I supposed to find?”

  “Oooooh. . . .” A moaning sound greeted her.

  Was that the wind sighing in the treetops or . . .

  Her talent leaped to awareness.

  Pain. Blood. Darkness.

  She started the long slide into full rapport with the injured one. Not yet. Don’t let me lose consciousness yet. Not until I find him.

  Amaranth nipped her ankle. The tiny pain kept a part of her awareness inside her own body. Part of her continued to blend with the one who lay wounded and bleeding. The encroaching darkness slowed. Certainty that the victim was male increased as she gained control of the rapport.

  Slashing pain, sharp, intense across her midsection. Difficulty breathing. She reached her right hand out, questing for the source of the agony that ripped her patient and herself in two.

  Not again. Not so soon after losing Granny Katia!

  There, stronger to her left, farther uphill. Not far.

  One slow step after another she pushed herself closer to the pain, knowing that running away from it was as impossible for her as for him.

  She nearly stumbled over a huddled form collapsed on knees and forehead. His threadbare cloak of mud brown with hints of dark green in the weave blended with the forest floor, making him nearly invisible.

  Her hand still reaching out, she scanned his body. Blue sparks of magic arced from her fingertips to him. A vague sense of familiarity touched her. Had she met this man somewhere before?

  “Oooooh . . .” he moaned again. His arms convulsed as they clutched his middle.

  A desperate need to keep his life’s blood from draining into the soft blanket of leaves filled her mind and emotions. She’d just drained herself of strength and stamina in a desperate and futile attempt to heal Granny Katia. What did she have left to give this new patient?

  (His destiny is not yet fulfilled. You must Heal him. We will give you what strength we can. Too much of you passed into the void with the old one.)

  She touched the man’s shoulder. A vision of two men bound together by a nearly tangible bond leaped into her mind. They argued. One threw a knife, then retrieved it and left. Myri tried desperately to see faces. The wound filled her vision. Blood. Too much blood.

  She’d treated knife injuries before, but never one inflicted purposely by a friend.

  Was this the betrayal the voices had warned her of? Or had the villagers planned some treachery toward her? She’d never know now. She had no future until she healed this man or they both died.

  She aimed the magic in her fingertips toward the wound, willing the blood to thicken and slow. She sensed his fading life stall in its progress toward the void. Half a heartbeat later, sensation-robbing blackness swept over her.

  (Stay!) Amaranth commanded. His mental voice was backed by the authority of the anonymous ones who guided her, but the love and familiarity of his mental touch broke through her desire to flee outward into the void.

  She stayed, half in her body, aware of the magic healing that tied her to the wounded man. The other part of her mind hovered over them both ready to flee into the void with his soul. Another entity lingered, watching, faceless and yet familiar in stature and poise. She examined it. Blackness shrouded its aura. The man’s so
ul, not ready to slide back into the body until she healed it or released it to death.

  Memories of Moncriith’s preaching filled her with dread. What if she failed at both and condemned this man to a soulless life?

  “I can’t let that happen. You won’t escape my healing so easily,” Myri said through gritted teeth, tears streaming down her face. Numbness weakened her limbs. “I won’t lose you without a fight.” She rolled him gently onto his back and settled comfortably beside him to conserve as much of her strength as possible. Concentrating on the wound, she placed her hands on top of his at the center of the ugly gash. She didn’t bother to look at his face. Time enough later to explore the familiarity—if he lived.

  In her mind she saw muscles pulling together, blood vessels closing. She plugged a nick to the left lung and stopped the leaking air.

  She ignored the bones. If any were broken, they could wait. She had to stop the bleeding.

  Strength drained from her life into his. The opening to the void grew wider. The tie between them grew stronger, pulling the last vestiges of her life into his wound.

  Desperate to save herself, she wrenched her hands away from contact with him. The force of her release sent her rolling downhill. The healing magic snapped and recoiled into her hands. Her palms burned. She looked for physical evidence of the pain snaking up her arms to her shoulders. Red and swollen, her hands sparked inside and out. Her magic sought to reestablish contact against her will.

  “Forgive me. I have nothing left to give you but my own life!” she cried, burying her hands in the thick loam of rotting leaves and everblue needles. Contact with the Kardia soothed the burning but not her churning talent. The magic demanded she stay with her patient until he recovered. Her sense of self-preservation kept her anchored out of reach.

  “I can’t give anymore.” Tears poured down her cheeks. Relentlessly, she kept her raging talent within her, refusing to check the man and see if he lived or not. Even the hovering shade of his soul was no longer visible to her.