The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  She backed up, awed and frightened by this alien man. Her hands instinctively clutched the goddess pendant beneath her clothes. She thought she had gotten to know Robb a bit, thought they were becoming friends. But this . . . this was not the Robb she expected.

  This man controlled vast powers she could not fathom.

  Robb glided off his stool, graceful, barely grounded against the wide wooden planks of the floor. He stood at the table and began rearranging his assembled tools without looking at them. Then he waited, expectantly.

  Young Frederico rushed to shove the stool behind the mage. Robb sat, again without looking, as if he knew precisely where everything in the room should be.

  A snap of his fingers produced a tiny flamelet on his left pointing finger. He dropped his hand toward the candle, and the ember jumped to the wick where it flared high and eager to burn the waiting oil-soaked linen braid. His right hand did not fumble as he brought the tip of the feather to the flame. It scorched only, sending a column of smoke outward, without pattern or direction. The gold coin touched the smoldering feather, and the smoke organized itself into a circle. When Robb gently placed the coin and the feather into the bowl of water, the smoke spiraled downward, following them, only to be trapped by the glass as he floated it in the water atop them all.

  Maria watched every move with her jaw hanging open. How? How could he do this? How many years had he studied just to bring flame out of nothing? The symbolism she understood. The means she could not, not without much more close observation.

  She barely noticed as he passed the sealed letter through the flame without burning and dropped it atop the glass with the written destination facing downward.

  “Seek, seek the one whose face appears on the coin. Fly free and swift, straight as I send you,” he murmured, eyes finally focusing on the letter.

  Smoke and flame flared up from the bowl, engulfing the letter in a tight twist of gold and green, then flew out the window, straight across the harbor toward the ocean. Maria watched it as it grew smaller with distance but did not dissipate in the constant movement of air over the water.

  When she could no longer see it, she looked back toward Robb and the bowl. He slumped in exhaustion across the table. Inside the bowl, the letter was gone.

  And so was the glass. Its silk protection lay neatly folded but empty beside his elbow.

  She smiled secretly, finally releasing her grip on her talisman. Here was a man she could admire as a leader. If she could find a way, she’d make him king of Amazonia, consort to one of her many female cousins, and cheerfully watch Lokeen die, eaten by his own Krakatrice.

  Lily waded across the River Dubh on a string of flat rocks that looked to be placed by the local people for just this purpose. Cool water flowed across her toes, and she wiggled them in delight. A chuckling tune came to mind rounding out the voice of the river. Skeller had sung that song . . . She had to stop thinking about Skeller. He was right. They both needed time to heal from the murder of Samlan and her deep empathic bond with her victim—a bond she couldn’t help sharing with the man she loved. They’d both endured the moment of death as if their own. But they’d lived. And they needed time apart.

  But she missed him sorely.

  The river continued its joyful path toward the River Coronnan and thus to the sea, heedless of the human suffering along its path.

  Should she take the time to wash up a bit before striding into a strange village? A quick inspection showed her hands no dirtier than usual, and she’d splashed her face with water upon rising. Bare feet were always dirty. Her boots hung from her pack, barely used. They blocked her connection to the land. Kardia Hodos, her home. A living, breathing world that nurtured humans and dragons and everything in between. One big circle of life that she couldn’t join when she wore shoes.

  (Krystaal here. Are you looking for excuses to delay?) a female dragon whispered into the back of her mind.

  “Lily here,” she replied with proper dragon protocol. “And no I’m not looking for excuses. I just want to present myself as friendly and helpful, not ragged and desperate. These people have probably seen too many ragged and desperate people fleeing the devastation of the flood.”

  (You are not dirty. Go.)

  An emptiness at the base of Lily’s skull where the dragon’s presence had been almost sent her toppling off the ford. Dragons were like that, intruding with unwanted wisdom one second and then completely gone within a heartbeat.

  She jumped clear of the rocks and walked a short way up the hill south of the ridge. Not a lot of flat land here, but the hills rolled gently without steep slopes—except for that ridge. Quickly she realized the village only looked abandoned from a distance. Flusterhens and goats meandered among the kitchen gardens in back of the houses. Dogs lazed on doorsteps in the sun, and cats perched here and there observing all.

  But where were the people? Children should be running and playing. Women should be hanging the laundry or shelling peas for supper. Men needed to mend some of those fences, or cut firewood in the copse toward the west.

  A flicker of movement in her left periphery that might have been a bird caught her attention. She listened closely for merry chirps. Instead, a mournful tune drifted on the wind from the other side of the hilltop.

  Lily trod slowly upward, fearful of what she knew she’d find. She’d sung that same song at Mama’s and Da’s funeral.

  To the east and south she found another copse, smaller with slighter trees, a mix of maple and alder with a scattering of oak. Not an everblue in sight. Twenty or so adults and as many children stood in a loose circle around a tiny mound of dirt. Six stones piled on top of each other formed a memorial cairn.

  Lily’s heart caught in her throat. Sadness, loss, grief, hit her like an emotional wave. She nearly drowned under the onslaught of her empathic bonds.

  The grave could only be for a baby. Six moons old, one stone in the cairn for each moon of life. Had it died in the night while Lily rested across the river, safe and snug in her nest of blankets with a good fire when she should have been here with her herbs and knowledge and ability to understand the nature of the illness?

  Guilt dropped her to her knees and she died a little more inside.

  CHAPTER 8

  NEARLY A WEEK I have sat in this filthy inn awaiting a ship—any ship—returning to Amazonia to carry me and my minions away from Coronnan. Minions only. These slackers only want power given to them. They think the Tambootie gives them power. If they had any to begin with, the drug would enhance their talent. As it is, the dried leaves only give them the illusion of power. Addiction has already set in on one of the men. They are not willing to work for magic.

  The three idiots serve a purpose. Nothing more. When I have the critical number of twelve followers so that we number thirteen, all working together, my power will be complete again.

  And oh, how I will glory in torturing them all, drawing energy from their pain until they either must bring their latent talents alive or die.

  They think only of the pleasure they give themselves during our sexual excess. I think beyond. That is why I am their leader. Bette and Geon have some potential. Bit by painful bit I draw out morsels of magic from them. They work better at feeding me power than doing anything on their own.

  Unfortunately, Dillip will have to leave our little coven sooner rather than later. He has not a dollop of talent. His only interest lies in the unconventional sexual liaisons we practice. I need both talent and a willingness to step away from cultural strictures.

  These meager three have proven useful in garnering information, though. They listen closely and blend into gossiping crowds. Deep in the recesses of the palace servants’ quarters Bette, guided by Geon—by the great Simeon, I do not know how he knows the palace as well as the nether parts of the city—has learned that sniveling Lady Ariiell has finally grown a backbone and discarded the marriage offer of Lokeen, the king of Amazonia. He wants a woman of noble lineage, a proven breeder, and with
magical talent.

  I fit all those categories.

  In the meantime I watch the bard. Last night after singing, he cut his hair to fit Amazonian standards. He sings songs of home, of loneliness, and wandering in exile. He also sings of cooling sea breezes in a hot desert. He knows much about the lands across the sea. He has access to the intimate details of their culture that his people do not discuss among aliens. While I listen to him, I dispatch my two men to listen to gossip on the docks. Sailors always talk to other sailors, even if it is just male boasting of conquests among the barmaids. That kind of information says a lot about expectations and attitudes.

  At last, an hour after dawn, Jaylor’s boy returns. His hair is a loose mess, his clothes stained, he is bright-eyed with the fevers of hunger and fatigue. But there is a new confidence and quiet settling about his shoulders. He has lost some of his anger. He has gained a staff.

  I must work quickly if I am to seduce him to my coven. I cannot delay. He must be an active and willing partner in my bed before we sail on today’s high tide. I’ll take the bard as well. He is quite comely, and the ache in his heart makes him vulnerable.

  “Mistress?” Souska asked her teacher.

  “Hm?” Maigret replied, her attention on the stack of missives on her desk and not on her apprentice. Apprentice Linda, Maigret’s primary assistant, continued writing another letter in the endless chain of letters required for the operation of the University. Her pen scratched annoyingly against the fresh parchment. Must be an important letter to warrant new parchment rather than one of the many Souska scraped clean every evening.

  She’d learned how each scraping thinned the cured animal skin and how each reuse demoted the value of the words written upon it, according to the rank of the recipient.

  “Mistress, I’ve had another spell.” Best to get the excuses over with first so understanding of Souska’s failure followed. She had orders to report each spell so that Maigret could track her healing, or lack thereof.

  “How bad?” Maigret looked up from her reading and restless rearranging, her attention fully on her apprentice now.

  “I don’t know how long my mind wandered in the void.”

  “Were you doing anything dangerous when the lapse overcame you?” The furrows across Maigret’s brow deepened and her mouth turned into a more aggressive frown than her usual worry and sadness.

  “I don’t think so. No, not dangerous. But I know there is something important that I forgot.”

  Linda’s pen ceased moving. The lack of noise from her desk sounded much louder in Souska’s ears than the scratching had.

  “What did you forget?” Linda asked.

  “If I knew what I forgot I wouldn’t have forgotten it!” Souska nearly screamed.

  “But you might be jostled into remembering.” Linda smiled slightly and returned to her writing. Such a neat hand, filled with curlicues and flourishes. The recipient must be an important noble who needed written confirmation of something rather than just a message passed along by his attending magician.

  “Tell me what you were doing when the spell took you,” Maigret said. She fixed her gaze on Souska, worming a trickle of magic into her mind, looking for the trigger to release the memory.

  “I received a summons,” Souska said reluctantly. Her nightly conversations with her journeyman were special. She needed to keep them close to her heart, private.

  Linda’s penned stilled, but she didn’t look up.

  “From whom?” Maigret demanded. The worm of magic became thicker, more insistent.

  Instinctively Souska threw up a wall in her mind to keep her mistress from penetrating deeper.

  Maigret reared back as if Souska had hit her. “When did you learn to do that?” she demanded, surprise and . . . and respect coloring her voice and posture.

  “I . . . I don’t know. I just did it.”

  “Well figure out how to do it again. That is a valuable skill in a magician. But I still expect you to tell me everything. Everything. You understand?”

  Souska flicked a glance over to Linda and back to Maigret.

  “Don’t worry about my private assistant. She knows how to keep secrets and has sworn to do so,” Maigret coaxed.

  “I . . . I receive a scry most every night from Journeyman Lukan,” Souska said quietly, dropping her head so that her words were muffled. “I think he’s lonely and uncertain of his journey. He has no one else to talk to.”

  “His sisters . . .” Linda started but dropped back to silence at a wave of Maigret’s hand.

  “I don’t know how often he speaks to Lillian or Valeria. He’s not supposed to speak to anyone from the University except in cases of dire emergency or threat to the kingdom,” Maigret prompted.

  “I’m his friend,” Souska insisted. “And I’m not really part of the University. I’m just an apprentice in . . .”

  “You have a magical talent, no matter how minor. You are a part of this University. So what did Lukan tell you that was important enough for you to reveal his lapses in observing the rules of his journey?”

  Souska bit back the flood of words that wanted out. She knew that every summons from Lukan eased her own loneliness and uncertainty as much as his. He explained her lessons in detail, making her understand the why as well as the how. That was important. She needed to dig deeply into each process and figure out her own way of understanding the reason for each exercise that led to a bigger spell. She could never remember the steps without understanding why she had to do each one of them.

  “Close your eyes and don’t think about it. You always overthink your lessons and then freeze for having lost the first part in your musings.” Maigret’s voice took on a musical cadence that needed additional notes to finish.

  Souska played and replayed the chant until an ending flitted across her tongue. “Lukan saw someone . . .” she said and then lost the rest of the thought.

  “Someone. Someone important. Someone out of place,” Maigret continued the chant.

  “Someone dangerous,” Linda picked up the litany.

  “Someone with magic . . .” Half a thought more crept out of Souska’s mind.

  “Dangerous magic,” Maigret said.

  “Rogue magic,” Linda added.

  “Old rogue.” Souska fought the words free of her mind.

  Maigret and Linda exchanged a glance.

  “Lady Graciella said that at the end of the storm, when the magic that created it sought to restore the land and people to a previous condition of respect for dragon magic and magicians, it also restored Lord Krej and Rejiia to their human bodies. She saw it happen,” Linda said.

  “Unfortunately, Lady Graciella just this morning returned to her mother’s household in Saria to await the birth of her child. She cannot tell us more about this transformation until she reaches her destination and we can speak through a local magician,” Maigret dismissed the information.

  Mistress Maigret must know about that transformation already. Souska had heard it spoken of since teams set out to help clean up after the storm. Everyone was instructed to keep a look out for the strange pair.

  “Lady Rejiia!” Souska pounced on the name. “Lukan saw Lady Rejiia.”

  “Where?” Maigret demanded, rising from her chair and reaching for her scrying bowl and candle.

  “I . . . can’t remember,” Souska said sadly.

  “Where was he when he summoned you?” Linda asked.

  “I . . . can’t remember. Though I think there was water near him. I remember hearing a gentle splash. And he had to cut short our discussion.” Souska shrugged. Energy drained from her head, down past her shoulders to her middle and then out her legs and toes. She thought her head had floated free of her body and looked out at the world from high above her, near the darkness of the void. Bright starbursts behind her eyes nearly blinded her.

  “Still here I see,” Lukan said to Skeller. The bard sat on a bench at the table he’d stood upon while singing last night. Today he slumped over a
bowl of mixed grains, boiled to mush and sweetened with goat milk and honey. Just like Mama used to make.

  Lukan’s mouth watered as he remembered he’d not eaten since last night and had rowed his little boat a considerable distance to this portside tavern.

  “Wha . . . where . . . gotta sleep,” Skeller mumbled as he lifted his head a few inches from the table.

  Lukan caught a glimpse of red-rimmed eyes and several days’ growth of beard before the man dropped his head again, just barely missing planting his nose in the cereal. “Well if you aren’t going to eat this, I am.” Lukan grabbed the bowl with one hand as he fished his wooden spoon out of his pack.

  Skeller mumbled something more without moving. His harp at least was packed into her case and resting farther along the table, safe for the moment. The bard always saw to his harp’s well-being before his own.

  “Sometimes I think you love that harp more than you ever did my sister,” Lukan grumbled around a mouthful of delicious food. Possibly the best-tasting meal he’d had since Mama had died. Since before she died. Brevelan hadn’t been well for several moons. Her seventh child, dead before birthing, had killed her as much as losing her beloved husband had. Fitting that she and Jaylor had passed within minutes of each other. Were they together in the void with the dragons? Or some special other life promised by the Stargods?

  He hoped they were together. Neither one seemed whole without the other. Like the twins. Like he and Glenndon used to be.

  He shook off that thought.

  “Do we have a ship?” Hunger appeased for the moment, Lukan scanned the big open room. The innkeeper had opened the shutters over broad windows letting in the morning light and revealing all the stains made by generations of spilled drinks and the flood mud not completely cleaned, just covered up with rushes on the plank floor. Two men sat by the open window, enjoying the fresh breeze on a morning that promised to grow hot within an hour, while they consumed their own breakfasts with foaming tankards of ale.