Beneath his hands, Katie stirred. Relieved that the dragon was correct, he raised his head enough to glare at Shayla. “The shock could have killed her.”
“It very nearly did,” Katie whispered. Then she raised her right hand and slapped him soundly across the face.
“What was that for?” He reared back, dropping her back to the dais with a thump. He fingered his right cheek delicately. He’d be lucky if it weren’t bruised for the wedding ceremony and banquet. Not a good precedent to set for the beginning of a lifelong commitment.
“That was for every man in my life who presumes to know what my duty is and what is best for me. And since my father and brothers, and esteemed royal grandfather aren’t here to collect their share, you get it all.” She sat up, pushing away from his hovering presence. An angry flush replaced the paleness on her cheeks.
Some of her fears leaked through to his mind—the chill morning breeze against her nearly naked body, and the hostility of the lords and magicians surrounding her. He smiled, realizing that only he stood between her and all those terrible things. Things he could protect her from.
Shayla pushed her enormous muzzle closer.
Katie slapped her away—somewhat more gently than she had Quinnault. “Go away. I told you I don’t like other . . . beings mucking about in my mind. That goes for you too, Daddy!” She directed her last words toward the islands in the Bay. “Telepathy made me special back home. Here, it’s a nuisance. I don’t want any more of it.” Anger banished all those fears. But the faintest tremble touched her lower lip.
Quinnault wanted nothing more than to kiss it back into stubborn firmness.
“She’s a magician. We can’t have a rogue magician for a queen. The marriage treaty is voided!” Lord Hanic shouted across the courtyard. The other lords pressed closer, along with the magicians to look more closely at the angry princess.
“You can’t break a dragon-blessed treaty, Hanic,” Lyman reminded the Council member. “Nor can you depose a dragon-blessed monarch. You wrote that law and forced it upon the Council.”
Lord Hanic glared at Lyman, standing his ground. He opened his mouth to issue another pronouncement. Shayla turned her gaze on the man before he said anything. Quickly he closed his mouth with an audible click of his teeth and backed away from the dragon.
“I’m not a magician, and I don’t want to be one. I can read minds a little, and that’s too much,’ she retorted. “For seven hundred years, the only telepaths we’ve been able to find in my—um—country are in my family. Kinnsell wanted to take some of your magicians home to study them. I wouldn’t let him. Telepathy is a curse. From now on, I swear to keep my thoughts to myself and stay out of everyone else’s!” Except for you, Scarecrow. I couldn’t keep you out if I tried. “I’ll take drugs to suppress my talent if I have to.”
Quinnault sat back on his heels, amazed at the transformation of his gentle princess into this spitting spotted saber cat. Some of Shayla’s humor spilled over into him.
“You are the most beautiful woman in the world!” he laughed uproariously.
“Stifle it, Scarecrow, before I pack my bags and run far, far away from this dirty backwater.”
He ended her tirade with a kiss. She pummeled his chest with her fists. He captured them and deepened his assault on her full lips, savoring the taste of her on his questing tongue at last. Slowly she relaxed her struggle but did not respond. He enfolded her in his arms, pulling her into his lap, twining his fingers in her silky hair.
Her mouth opened a fraction as her arms stole around his neck.
Heat invaded every pore of his body, filling him with passion.
“Are you two going to come up for air?” Lyman asked.
“No.” Quinnault stole a quick gulp of air and renewed his kiss.
(Are you certain you wish to spend the rest of your life with this headstrong woman and no other?) Shayla asked.
Quinnault looked the dragon in the eye as he breathed deeply, trying to control his raging passion for the woman in his arms.
Shayla’s penetrating gaze made him squirm as she examined his motives. He looked from the dragon to the islands in the Bay, back to Katie, then returned once again to the port, thinking furiously all the time. He had so many questions. Was his love for her enough to overcome them?
Katie drew his eyes like a lodestone to iron. Finally he had his emotions under control and could speak in a normal tone of voice.
“I have no choice, Shayla. I have to marry her.”
Thwack! Katie slapped him again as she squirmed to be free of him.
“I thought I didn’t have a choice either. But I’ll be damned if I put up with this. I thought we could care for each other, but you are as selfish as every other man in my life.” She fought his grasp with fists and kicks.
He clung tighter to her, desperate to rectify the misunderstanding. “Katie, I meant that you are the only woman I want. I can’t choose another after meeting you.” He put all of his feelings into his eyes, staring at her. Willing her to believe him.
She glared at him. He held her gaze. Gradually the truth penetrated her stubborn mind.
“Oh, Scarecrow,” she sighed and kissed him as passionately as he had kissed her only moments before.
(You have my blessing, King Quinnault Darville de Draconis. Enjoy!) Shayla bunched her muscles, took two running steps, and launched herself into the sky. (Tonight I shall fly with my consorts as will you. We will both conceive, though the seasons are not quite right. The future of Coronnan and of the nimbus is assured.)
“Where are you going, Shayla? Won’t you stay for the wedding?” Quinnault asked. He kept a tight hold on Katie, afraid she’d disappear in a puff of smoke now that she was his.
(I have my own celebration to attend.) The dragon blasted their ears with a high-pitched screech that announced her triumph and her passion. As she circled the courtyard, the outlines of five male dragons joined her.
Quinnault picked out red, blue, green, yellow, and orange along the wingtips and veins of the consorts.
“The more fathers, the big and stronger the litter,” he quoted.
“Not for this princess, King Quinnault. You are the only one allowed in my bed,” Katie retorted. She reinforced her statement with a resounding kiss that left him light-headed.
“Well, at least wait for the nuptials and some privacy,” Lyman laughed. “Don’t we have a banquet to prepare?”
“Go ahead. We’ll be right with you,” Quinnault waved them away and pressed his mouth to Katie’s once more.
Nimbulan walked closer to Myri, slipping his arm around her waist, a subtle support before she stumbled again. She didn’t lean into him, but she didn’t pull away either. He was too tired to think about the tangled mess he’d made of his personal life.
Maia still presented a big problem.
What to do with her? He owed her a home. She’d never be allowed to return to her clan. Without them, she had nothing. Unless Televarn was still manipulating her through his mind link.
How far away must Maia be to get beyond Televarn’s reach? Had the Rover Chieftain survived the knife thrust?
He turned his mind back to watching his steps rather than thinking about how much women complicated his life. The bachelor life of most magicians seemed inviting.
But if he hadn’t married Myri, loved her so desperately, he’d not have his daughter. His very beautiful daughter.
“Let me take the baby, Myri. She must be very heavy for you.” He lifted the tiny bundle of life out of her make-shift sling.
Myri’s hands grabbed for her child, resisting separation. Nimbulan saw her emotions play across her face even as he sensed them. “You won’t lose her if you let me hold her for awhile. I’m not Yaassima. And I’m not a Rover who will steal any child for the sake of new blood in the clan,” he reassured her. He refused to look at Maia while he spoke. Did the Rover woman still seek to kidnap Amaranth for the benefit of the clan and Televarn?
Myri re
linquished the burden of the baby’s weight reluctantly. As he cradled Amaranth in the crook of his right arm, he draped his left around Myri’s shoulders. The sudden warmth that filled his soul almost stopped him in his tracks.
In many ways, Nimbulan was an unknown to her. Their courtship and marriage had been brief before her exile.
He had allowed her to become the victim of an edict that put the fears and prejudices of the Council above the needs of the individual. He had become so involved in politics he hadn’t followed through with the sporadic communication with her and Powwell.
He kept walking, trying to figure out his emotional upheaval. He thought again of the four islands in the Great Bay. He’d take Myri there, and they would live together for the rest of their lives. He couldn’t leave her again.
But he couldn’t tell her about his plans in case they came to naught. There had to be a way to keep her close without breaking the laws of Coronnan.
The low mountain pass twisted and turned back on itself a dozen times, leading into box canyons and across surging creeks before descending the hills into Coronnan. Nimbulan didn’t know how to use the terrain to their advantage. He needed a broad plain with two opposing armies. That he could plan for.
They’d walked for hours. They were all tired and hungry. They all watched the sun march progressively closer to the horizon and the time for Quinnault’s wedding.
Lyman and the other magicians continued to ignore a summons spell. Without a dragon to carry them to the capital, Nimbulan had no hope of preventing the union of his king and the false princess before the invasion.
“We need to stop and eat,” he said though his mind urged him to continue forward.
What had gotten into Quinnault that he would risk his fragile peace? Where had the Princess of Terrania come from? More important, who was behind the plot?
“I’m sensing a mass of people behind us,” Scarface replied warily. “I don’t think this is a good time to stop.”
Nimbulan scanned the canyon to his left. A small creek joined a slightly larger one at the mouth of the opening. He guessed the easy game trail led into yet another dead end, hopefully one that offered numerous hiding places, possibly caves where they could light a fire and rest.
Powwell turned automatically up the trail, without argument. He’d been so depressed since leaving Kalen behind that Nimbulan wondered if the boy was capable of independent thought.
Yaala trudged after the boy, bound to him by their shared experiences in the pit and yet apart from them all.
Myri reached to take back the baby.
“Please, Myri, let me carry her a little longer. I know I don’t deserve this special blessing, but . . .” How did he make amends for all those lonely moons of exile that made her vulnerable to Televarn’s kidnap and Yaassima’s cruel imprisonment of her?
She nodded slowly, maintaining eye contact with him.
“Our daughter is very precious. I vow before you and the Stargods that I will never do anything to harm her or you again.” He touched his heart, then hers to seal the vow.
Myri rewarded him with a weak smile. Her hand lingered tentatively on his as he supported Amaranth against his shoulder. Yet he feared every moment she would withdraw from him.
Maia’s face turned bronze-red beneath the olive tones of her skin. “I was your first love. I gave you a son. You never promised me anything.”
“Myrilandel is my love and my wife. I will provide for you, Maia, do what I can to protect you from Televarn and the rest of the clan. But I do not love you, I doubt I ever did. We were both victims of Televarn’s manipulations. We did not enter that union of our own free will.”
“They’re getting closer!” Scarface hissed, urging them into the rugged canyon. “Can’t you feel their malevolence beating against the rocks? They want blood. Our blood.”
Cradling Amaranth in one arm, the other supporting Myri around the waist, Nimbulan increased his stride. He left Maia to Scarface’s ministrations. Yaala guided Powwell.
They needed a hiding place, someplace with wood where they could separate from their talents. Only then would they be safe from the witchsniffers.
“Not that way, Lan. I feel people up this canyon. Lots and lots of people!” Myri held him back.
Nimbulan turned to retreat. Two dozen archers faced them, arrows nocked, bowstrings taut.
“So we meet again, Nimbulan. This time on my terms, on my battleground, without any of your dragon demons to defend you or your witch,” Moncriith said mildly, working his way through the ranks of soldiers to face Nimbulan.
Chapter 35
Doubts nagged at Quinnault. He didn’t have enough to do to keep them at bay. Katie was closeted with the women, preparing for the wedding. His servants and stewards bustled about the palace, preparing for the ceremony and the banquet to follow. Even the magicians all seemed to be occupied, looking for omens in arcane spells and rituals.
More often than not, he was in the way—just like the day they had prepared for battle. This time his chief steward and the senior ladies of the court had become the Battlemages.
He chuckled at the idea of viewing a wedding in the same light as a major battle.
Memories of Katie and her argument with her father came back to haunt him. I am in charge, she had said. They’d do it her way or not at all. Do what?
Kinnsell had left, accepting her edict that the Varns would harvest the Tambootie, build the port, and leave, never to interfere with Kardia Hodos again. What rare qualities of leadership did Quinnault’s bride possess that allowed her to command meek obedience from her father?
Quinnault wondered if she’d order her husband around with the same authority. The telepathic bond between them meant that she could manipulate him with a thought. Would she? Or would she keep her vow to suppress her talent? He didn’t know if that was possible. He’d never heard of any drugs that effectively masked a talent without putting the patient to sleep for days on end.
And what about Kinnsell’s plot to kidnap magicians for study? Katie claimed that was the core of their argument last night.
Quinnault had no doubt that Kinnsell had the means to remove several powerful magicians from Coronnan without detection. Would he obey Katie’s edict or appear to accept her orders and then do precisely what he wanted later?
Kinnsell hadn’t been seen all day. Would he come for the wedding? As Katie’s father, he had every right to participate in the ceremony.
Too many questions and no answers.
Too many people rushing about the Great Hall, including Lord Konnaught. Quinnault’s fosterling stood in the center of the dais, hands on hips, lower lip thrust out belligerently. No one paid him any attention.
Quinnault decided he’d ignore the brat, too.
Since he couldn’t talk to Katie or her father, Quinnault decided to talk to someone else. Piedro, the Rover assassin. He’d feel a lot better about the ceremony if he knew who had hired Piedro. Nimbulan had told him often enough that Rovers were incapable of independent thought, all were manipulated by the clan chieftain who was always the dominant mage. He wondered if last night’s attempt to strangle Katie and place the blame on Quinnault was part of the aborted poison plot arranged by Televarn.
“Bessel,” he called to the journeyman magician who directed apprentices on the placement of witchlight torches around the great hall. “I need your assistance.”
The young man detached himself from the younger students almost eagerly.
“Do you know who sealed the dungeon cell last night?” Quinnault asked as he guided Bessel toward the cellars.
“Gilby and I did it, Your Grace, along with Master Maarkus.” Bessel thrust his shoulders back proudly.
“Can you undo it by yourself?”
“I can let you in and out of the cell, sir. But since the three of us set the spell, only the three of us can break it and allow the prisoner out. Do you wish to interrogate the prisoner now?” Bessel loomed back over his shoulder at the hectic p
reparations for the wedding.
“Yes, now. Before his employer tries something else.” Quinnault signaled two guards to follow them.
Together they wound their way through a series of cellars, then down another spiral staircase into the chambers cut from the bedrock of Palace Isle. A long corridor broken by the doorways of a dozen cells stretched before them. All the doors except one stood ajar. Quinnault hadn’t jailed anyone but Piedro in years.
“Are you going to torture the prisoner now? Can I watch?” Konnaught asked as he hurried down the steps behind Quinnault and Bessel. He pushed his way between the guards who followed the king everywhere. The men stepped away, hands on the hilts of their swords, eyes wary.
“This is none of your concern, Lord Konnaught. Return to your lessons at once.” Quinnault stood firmly in place, refusing to move any closer to Piedro’s cell until the boy had left. With a flick of his head upward he gestured for the guards to remove the pest.
“But I must know how this is done when I am king.” Konnaught glared at him, mimicking his hands on hips posture.
“I have no intention of dying prematurely so that you can be king. Tell me, did you arrange this assassination so that I would?” Quinnault grabbed the boy by the neck of his tunic. He wanted to shake the brat but restrained himself, as a king must.
“I’d be more direct, if I were to do something so stupid. And I’d hire a more intelligent assassin,” Konnaught snarled back, not intimidated by Quinnault’s superior size or his barely restrained anger.
“Then why are you here?” Quinnault asked. He kept his eyes focused on the stone steps behind him rather than the boy who incited such anger in him.
“Because I want to watch the Rover-scum squirm under torture.”
“Did you ever watch your father beat his lovers until their faces were bloody pulps and they bled from the inside?” Quinnault bared his teeth as he moved his face closer to Konnaught’s, maintaining his fierce grip on his collar.
Konnaught shook his head. He closed his eyes and gulped.
“What about the times your father pillaged and burned entire villages for no reason other than to soothe his temper? Did you watch then as innocent men and women burned alive? Did you enjoy watching their skin melt away and their hair becoming torches as their lungs clogged with smoke?” Renewed anger at the depredations of his now deceased rival burned within Quinnault. In this moment he put aside his regret that he had wielded the sword that killed Kammeryl d’Astrismos, Konnaught’s father.
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