Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  Ackerly made a mental note to remind the lord how much the presence of the School for Magicians added to his prestige and held together his mutual defense pact. The two lords who had recently signed Quinnault’s treaty did so only because Ackerly had agreed to add his magicians to any defensive action needed. He was still looking for a way to make the lords pay him for those services, but Quinnault had reminded him that the school was housed on one of his islands rent free.

  Quinnault de Tanos looked up from the parchments he studied with his own steward. The lines around his pale eyes creased with concern. His long, thin face seemed longer yet as he massaged his chin with his left hand. No trace of his pale, blond beard shadowed his face.

  “One of my students ran away from my steward, Lord Quinnault, more than two weeks ago,” Ackerly explained to his landlord. He wouldn’t call her Stuuvart’s daughter. “She was willful and unruly and hated her lessons. Only now does Stuuvart seriously look for her, now when he wants more money from me. Money I do not have to give him. What is of greater concern to us all is Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos. He has declared himself king and marches his army north to confront any who challenge him. Rumor places Moncriith, the Bloodmage, within his ranks.” Ackerly bowed his head in a gesture of humility. Anything to keep Quinnault de Tanos from worrying about that blasted child.

  If he’d been able to train Kalen properly, she’d be worth at least a gold piece for each battle. Combined with Rollett and Maalin, he could up the price to about six pieces of gold per battle. Without the girl’s ingenuity and creativity with fire, the two journeymen were only the equal of a mediocre Battlemage.

  “I know of Lord Kammeryl’s pretensions,” Quinnault said.

  Of course he knew. Ackerly had told him after one of his brief communications with Moncriith.

  “D’Astrismos claims the right of kingship from his genealogy,” Quinnault continued. “I have always suspected the insertion of the Stargods at the top of his family tree to be false, but that is not important now. The presence of a Bloodmage has yet to be verified. No one has reported lost livestock, prisoners, or pets that could be sacrificed for such an evil magician. How could a man draw power from the pain of another?” Quinnault shuddered a moment. Silence reigned in the room as he looked to each man present for an explanation.

  After a moment he returned his gaze to the plans on his desk. “Have you looked for the child before this? Did she have reason to run away?” Quinnault studied Stuuvart in that direct way of his. Practiced scoundrels were known to babble everything they knew under that gaze. If they could remember who they were or what the question was after the lord’s rapid leap from subject to subject. Ackerly avoided that gaze whenever possible.

  “The child was well behaved, a loving and devoted daughter until we enrolled her in this man’s supposed School for Magicians.” Stuuvart pointed accusingly at Ackerly. “Almost immediately, she rebelled and fought the use of her talent. She hated Ackerly, but she remained devoted to her mother and younger siblings. She would not have run away unless provoked. I wonder that perhaps Ackerly found a way to hold her for ransom. He has not mounted a serious search for her.”

  Ackerly glared at the steward. He hadn’t cared about Kalen until the question of money came up. Now he was using her absence to demand coin in redress, coin he should have offered for her return.

  “My lord,” Ackerly said with his hands open before him in a gesture he meant to show his honesty. “Kalen was a very intelligent child with a great deal of talent. I tried to teach her the necessity of control of that talent. She was frightened badly by the impostor Moncriith before she came to my school. She had been mistreated by Stuuvart, who claims to be her father but isn’t. She had no true reason to run away after she came into my care. Granted she was quiet and didn’t make friends easily, but she was more afraid of her talent and Stuuvart than truly rebellious. If Moncriith does indeed march with d’Astrismos, it’s possible he kidnapped Kalen. We both know his attitude toward traditional magicians—especially females.”

  The only difference between a female magician and a witchwoman was the formal training all magicians underwent to gain control of their talents. Moncriith wouldn’t see that control as a difference. He wanted to burn them all.

  “You have a point, Ackerly. I shall send a message of inquiry to Lord Kammeryl. One of your journeymen can do the honors. Do you know if Moncriith uses a traditional method of summons—a flame through a glass?”

  “I heard that Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos has denounced magicians and intends to win the crown without a Battlemage,” Stuuvart said. “You’ll have to send your message by fleet steed and rider. It will take weeks to get a reply. I’ll go myself. With your permission, sir.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. No one can win a battle without a Mage to protect the troops from other magicians,” Ackerly protested.

  “If only Nimbulan hadn’t died. He always seemed to be able to keep track of what was happening in all corners of Coronnan.” Lord Quinnault shook his head sadly. “He’d know who marched with d’Astrismos. He’d also know why the little girl disappeared.”

  “But Nimbulan is dead,” Ackerly replied. “He’d never have been able to build up the school as you and I did—to make it big enough to provide defense for your united lords. He’d not have attracted the large numbers of tenants who have settled and will defend your islands. He’d be so lost in a Tambootie trance, he’d forget to eat or teach his classes, or look in his glass for the information we seek. The addiction to the drug of magic ruled him, my lord. Perhaps it’s best the weed took him.” Ackerly paused a moment in a pose of grief before continuing. “I’ll send the message myself. I don’t need to know a specific magician’s address.” He already knew when and where to contact Moncriith, and that Moncriith had found and lost Kalen and Powwell. But he wouldn’t let that bit of information slip to Stuuvart.

  “That won’t be necessary, Ackerly.” A strange voice interrupted. A voice from the past that shouldn’t have ever spoken again.

  “With my head and my heart and the strength of my shoulders, I renounce the presence of this ghost!” Ackerly crossed himself hastily as he mumbled the prayer. Then he looked to the source of the voice and crossed himself again. “Nimbulan!”

  The dead had come back to haunt him. Shabbily dressed in peasant clothes, a day’s growth of beard, and slightly grubby, Nimbulan alive would never have allowed himself to fall into such dishevelment, unless deep in the throes of his addiction. He must be dead. He had to be dead! The overdose of Tambootie mixed with Timboor had killed him.

  Maybe this was an impostor, cloaked in magical delusion?

  “Nimbulan!” Quinnault stood so fast his chair crashed backward and skidded across the floor.

  “You can’t be here, you’re dead! I buried you myself.” Ackerly found himself backing toward a doorway that led to the interior of the keep. The door to the courtyard was filled with magicians and apprentices trailing in Nimbulan’s wake. And right beside him, close enough to be a family unit, walked Myrilandel and the two missing children.

  “Apparently, Ackerly, you buried me too hastily and not deep enough,” Nimbulan replied. A wry smile creased his otherwise grim face.

  “Where have you been, my friend? Why were you gone so long? What brings you back? How? But . . . ?” Quinnault rushed forward and clasped the Master Magician’s hand with both of his own.

  He’d never greeted Ackerly with such enthusiasm. Never called him friend. Never acknowledged Ackerly’s help and guidance.

  “One question at a time, Lord Quinnault.” Nimbulan returned the lord’s affectionate greeting. “My adventures were long and numerous. Suffice it to say, I have perfected a way for two or more magicians to join their magic, compounding the effect of a spell. Without the Tambootie. I have no more need of drugs to enhance my magic. I have a better way. Henceforth, no solitary magician will be able to stand against those who join me. We will remove magicians from battles and politics. We h
ave a chance for peace.” Nimbulan raised his left hand, palm outward, fingers slightly curled, little finger bent almost to the palm, as if ready to capture the threads of the Kardia and weave them into a spell. The habitual gesture confirmed that this was indeed Nimbulan and no impostor. The perfectly proportioned hand with more than ordinary grace couldn’t be imitated.

  “Stuuvart, Kalen stands before you and you do not welcome her. A moment ago you demanded justice for her disappearance.” Ackerly reminded his steward of why they had come to Lord Quinnault’s hall. He needed to get back to an ordinary topic, one he could deal with while the rest of his mind worked furiously. Why wasn’t Nimbulan dead? The Timboor mixed with the ink on the letter should have killed him if the additional drugs in his cup hadn’t.

  “My daughter clings to another woman as if she were her mother. She hides from me, her beloved father.” Stuuvart glared at Ackerly, daring him to contradict his legal claim on Kalen. “What happens here? Who are these people?” He beat his clenched fist against his forehead, effectively hiding his facial expressions.

  “Yes, Nimbulan, introduce us to your friends. Then tell us your adventures over food and drink. You must refresh yourselves.” Quinnault raised his hand to signal a servant. Then he clapped the magician firmly on the shoulder, a smile spreading across his face.

  “My lord, may I present to you my wife, Myrilandel. My apprentice, Powwell, I believe you have met—and Kalen, Ackerly’s apprentice, who discovered I was missing from the crypt and ran away to find me.” Nimbulan gathered the three into the circle of his arms as if they were his own children. “And this is Amaranth, my wife’s familiar.” At last the witchwoman raised her face from the cat she held quite tightly in her arms.

  “My sister’s name was Myrilandel,” Quinnault said as he kissed the woman’s hand. “Unfortunately, she died when only two. I thought the name unique to my family.”

  “I grieve for your loss, my lord. I was an orphan. I have no knowledge of my parents or why I was named Myrilandel, only that I came to my guardian with the name.”

  Her voice was the same melodic whisper Ackerly remembered from the hospital tent last autumn. He wanted to lean closer to capture every last nuance of her words. He needed to reach out a hand and touch her to make certain she was real, to smell her flowery scent, to follow her anywhere. . . .

  No wonder Moncriith thought her a demon. She could enchant the most hardened of hearts.

  “Before we settle in for a proper discussion of our mutual goals, I think you should know that the islands are soon to have some rather awesome visitors.” Nimbulan spoke with the commanding authority he used only on the battlefield. All within the room heard and turned their attention to him.

  “If we are to have guests, I would like to take my daughter home to her mother and give her a good meal and a bath. There is much to prepare at the school before we can offer lodging and meals. How many should we prepare for?” Stuuvart reached to clasp Kalen by the shoulders. The girl shrank away from him, trying to hide behind Myrilandel’s skirts.

  “Our visitors won’t require anything of you, Master Steward.” Nimbulan placed a reassuring hand on Kalen’s shoulder. The little girl relaxed a little, but didn’t move closer to her mother’s husband.

  “Will they be staying with me?” Lord Quinnault looked as if he were calculating the stores in his cellars.

  “No, my lord. Our visitors require nothing from us in the way of hospitality. I doubt they would fit inside either building.” That wry smile threatened to break through again. Myrilandel smiled, too.

  What was Nimbulan up to? In years gone by, Ackerly was privy to all of his master’s schemes. But now he’d been shut out, ignored. He deserved better than this. After all, he’d made the school a profitable and popular business. Nimbulan would never have been able to recruit nearly fifty apprentices and fifteen faculty. Nor would he have found the funds to make the school self-supporting.

  “Tomorrow morning, five dragons will grace us with their presence. For they are the secret to combined magic.”

  Everyone in the room grew unnaturally still.

  “Dragons?” Ackerly asked the question for all those present.

  “Dragons, Ackerly. I went in search of myths and found my future. The dragons are real and ready to form a covenant with us.”

  “If this isn’t some Tambootie-induced delusion, then the dragons are more likely ready to dine on all of us. Lord Quinnault, I suggest you lock Nimbulan and his wife in your deepest dungeon for their own protection. I ask only that you give me back the children. I am their master and have more legal right to their raising than their mothers.” Ackerly stalked out of the keep, heading for his school. He didn’t truly expect his children to follow.

  Chapter 33

  Nimbulan emerged from the central door of the old monastery at dawn the next morning, still yawning. Myri clung to his arm, barely able to contain her excitement. He looked across the sky for evidence of the dragons. Not that he expected to see the nearly invisible creatures themselves. If he caught a glimpse of a rainbow arcing down from where the sun struck their wings, he’d be lucky.

  “I guess we’ll have to wait a bit,” he said stifling another yawn.

  “I don’t think so.” Myri giggled, pointing upward.

  He followed her pointing finger to the top of the residential wing—right over the suite he had appropriated for himself and Myri. Shayla perched on the peak of the roof.

  The dragon peered at him with one multifaceted crystal eye. She cocked her head in a listening posture very like the one Myri adopted.

  Nimbulan broke the mesmerizing eye contact. He needed his wits about him today, not another dragon dream.

  Four smaller dragons—the twenty-year-old adolescents—silvery as moonlight, swam in the river, guarded the causeway, and eyed the fields of fat cows near Quinnault’s keep. Five full-sized males sat, reclined, and hovered over other portions of the island. Curious. None of the males had been present during the training session in the meadow.

  “Your mates joined you, Shayla!” Myri called and waved.

  (The need to control magic brought them out of their solitude. We will see if the covenant we reach is enough to keep them with me. ’Tis not natural for dragons to be together. We will change our society only if you change yours.)

  Quinnault ran across the causeway, splashing through the puddles left by the receding tide. He tucked his shirt into his trews as he rushed to join Nimbulan and the dragons. A servant ran behind him, proffering bread and cheese to his lord.

  “I still don’t understand why your dragons are suddenly concerned with the affairs of men when they have remained hidden and elusive for centuries.” Lord Quinnault stopped abruptly behind Nimbulan. His eyes and mouth opened in awe as he stared at Shayla.

  “They aren’t my dragons. Myri is the one they listen to. They only tell me what they want me to know. With her they communicate freely.” Together they watched Myri caress a young red-tipped dragon’s cheek as if she petted a docile steed—a steed as large as a hut.

  “He says his name is Tssonnin,” Myri said over her shoulder to Nimbulan. “They always accord others the honor of using their names.”

  “Did I tell you that we rode dragonback from the Southern Mountains?” Nimbulan asked Quinnault, suppressing yet another yawn. “Shayla spoke to Myri the entire trip. They discussed all manner of issues, dragon and human, female and general. Myri rode directly in front of me, and I heard only her words. Nothing from the dragon. I think the young dragons spoke, too. Again, I was not privy to any of their comments.”

  Quinnault cringed as Tssonnin bent his head to scratch behind his steedlike ear with the barbed tip of his wing. The red-tipped spiral horn on his forehead came dangerously close to spearing Kalen who had crept up to be closer to them. “They will hurt her.” He moved to pull her away.

  “Doubtful.” Nimbulan held Quinnalt back. “They adore children. And Myri has claimed Kalen and Powwell as her own. Myri
is the one the dragons trust. She is the one they sought out and waited for.”

  “But why now? Why not when the wars first started?” The lord looked as if he barely restrained himself from dashing to rescue Myri and Kalen.

  Amaranth joined the women and clambered up Tssonin’s outstretched foreleg to perch on his shoulder. His long talonlike claws didn’t penetrate the tough dragon hide. A few crystalline hairs fell free in the flywacket’s wake. They glinted in the early sunlight. Three apprentices dashed forward to gather the hairs as souvenirs.

  “Look, my lord, the children have no fear of the beasts. They seem to know instinctively how much the dragons treasure young ones. Now we must get to work. Do you wish to join us in the exercises to gather dragon magic? You might have a talent for it.”

  “I have so little magic my efforts will add nothing to your schemes.”

  “Perhaps. Perhaps not. This is an entirely different technique. I find it more exhausting than drawing energy from the ley lines. But you can’t see ley lines, so maybe gathering dragon magic will be easy for you. Come. Try, at least. Sharing magic is an exhilarating experience. I just wish Myri were able to join us.”

  “Nimbulan?” Myri turned sharply. Her spine stiffened, and she looked as if she needed to flee. “Lan, Shayla says there is an army approaching from the south. A day’s march away. They move only at night and remain hidden during the day so that Quinnault will have no time to prepare. Moncriith is with them.”

  “Wisp of flame, burning bright

  Travel far beyond my sight

  Bring to view the other true

  Pass the word of magic might.”

  Nimbulan listened to the apprentices and masters chant the words of his simple communication spell.

  Why did they take so long learning a simple rhyme? He’d never perfect the technique of joining their magic if they took hours on the easiest of spells. Kammeryl d’ Astrismos and his army came closer with every tick of the water clock.