The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  “Not that way.”

  Skeller stopped in his tracks. “Then which way. They all look the same to me.”

  “They aren’t. Observe the decorations as if they were a variation on a tune.”

  Skeller peered where Lukan pointed, at doorways and streets and then toward roofs and the tower visible above them.

  “I can find my way across vast expanses following trader roads, but I can’t navigate my natal city,” Skeller shook his head.

  “You never had to wander unknown streets before. You always had a road to follow,” Lukan reminded him.

  Skeller set off toward the marketplace and a road they’d learned well the day before. “Doesn’t that describe our lives since we set off on this journey?” His fingers began tapping out a rhythm against his thigh. A new tune would follow shortly.

  “Hey, I’m making this up as I go along,” Lukan called after him.

  “So am I.”

  CHAPTER 20

  SOUSKA’S HANDS GREW numb from clutching the dragon horn in front of her. Vaguely she knew that a crisp wind flapped her skirt and made the knapsack bounce against Krystaal’s side.

  If it bothered the dragon she made no mention of it.

  Tall stands of everblue trees passed beneath them, tiny spires against a green and brown landscape.

  “I will not think about how high we fly,” she whispered to herself over and over. And yet she couldn’t help staring in dread fascination at the hills and valleys they passed over. A village with a circle of thatched huts, smaller than pebbles along a creekside. The rivers and streams looked like silver lines drawn with a wavering pen, the ink welling up and flowing wider along a meandering path, then straightening out and growing narrower as if the artist gained more control over a quill pen, or sharpened the nib.

  The trees grew more sparsely, replaced with greener oak and elm that gathered in clumps. The villages became more frequent, plowed cropland nestled side by side with broad pastures and open grassland. Once she’d memorized those details, Souska realized that the steep hills lay behind them. Nothing in this landscape looked sharp. Everything had a roundish quality with blurred edges as the hills rolled gently and the streams wandered lazily.

  Then Krystaal tucked her wings a little and spiraled downward.

  “Are we there yet?” Souska dared ask. “I just got used to flying straight.”

  (Life is full of change and adventure. Sometimes it comes fast. Sometimes slow.) With that, the dragon folded her wings tighter against her body and dove straight down.

  Souska yelped and closed her eyes. “Stargods preserve me. At least if I must die in this fall, make my passing quick and painless.”

  Abruptly Krystaal opened her wings again, caught air beneath them and leveled out. (I would not be so careless with you, my friend. I have been charged with your safe delivery.) She sounded chagrined.

  “Did my fears disturb you?” Souska cherished the word friend deep inside her. Such a lovely and unfamiliar word. She wasn’t certain she’d ever had a true friend before. The children in her home village that she’d thought of as friends had been the first to throw stones at her when the headman had called her witch.

  But then Lukan had befriended her, helped her swallow her fears and hang on before the great spell that had broken the mage-born storm. He was a friend. A true friend who kept in touch with her several times a week while on his journey, when he wasn’t supposed to make contact with anyone.

  (Somewhat.)

  “I’m sorry. It’s just . . . just that I’m afraid of everything.”

  (That is why you were sent on this mission. To learn to overcome your fears or to use them.)

  “I thought Mistress Maigret sent me because I know how to use the hellebore correctly.”

  (That too.) Was that a dragon chuckle beneath the words?

  “I didn’t know dragons could laugh.”

  She sensed a question without words in the back of her mind.

  “I mean, you are so big, so magical, so . . . so important. Laughter seems—I don’t know, too trivial for majestic dragons.”

  With that Krystaal loosed a mighty roar that could only be laughter and set down upon the land in the middle of a fallow field at the edge of a small village, maybe fifteen asymmetrical huts, a communal barn as big as four of the houses, sheep bleating and running away from the dragon, chickens everywhere, and one solitary figure running tiredly toward them.

  “Lily!” Souska called as she slipped down off the dragon’s back. At the last second before her boots touched the ground she remembered the precious knapsack and grabbed it.

  “Did you bring it?” Lily gasped. Her sun-streaked hair of mixed blonde and soft red looked limp and dull, her steps dragged, and her hollow cheeks had taken on a frightening pallor, much like that of her frail twin. Only her grasp upon a staff that held a straight and rigid grain looked firm and solid.

  “Yes, I brought everything you asked for. And more,” Souska replied, praying that the slightly older girl would not be her first patient. From the lack of activity in the middle of the day she guessed that all of the village was either sick or tending the sick. Or dead.

  “Thank the Stargods. We are saved.” Lily sank to her knees as if she didn’t have the strength to remain upright any longer.

  Souska bent to hold Lily’s elbow and help her up again. A white spot in the center of Lily’s forehead stood out like a candle flame at midnight. The skin looked . . . dead. Except that it showed no sign of blistering or sloughing off. She bit her lip in worry, wanting desperately to make a superstitious warding gesture against the evil eye.

  “I’m weak, not ill,” Lily said as she leaned heavily on Souska’s arm and on her staff in order to stand. “And ever so tired. The work never ends . . . I need your help.”

  “I’ll do what . . . what I can.” Souska had to either overcome her fears or give in to them and spend the rest of her life running away. She knew what Lily needed and how to do it. She did. She did!

  A dragon screech right next to her nearly deafened her. She slapped hands over her ears as she looked away from Lily to the dragon. A friend in distress. How could she hope to heal a dragon?

  (This land must be cleansed!) Krystaal bellowed, flapping her wings and running until she caught air and lifted. Her flight path took her around and around the village as she rose. (Fire and salt. Fire and salt to cleanse the land.)

  “S’murghit! I was afraid of that,” Lily said sadly and sank back on the cursed dirt.

  “If we need fire and salt to cleanse the land of the miasma left by the Krakatrice, won’t we create a desert, the kind of place that nurtures the black snakes?” Souska asked.

  “The ride downhill will be easier,” Scurry said quietly to Robb as he finished saddling the steed.

  “No ride will seem easy today,” Robb muttered. “But I will be grateful to leave this cursed ‘farm.’” He rubbed chafed palms together, trying to ease the ache that spread from his fingernails up his arms, across his shoulders, down his back, through his legs to his feet. He’d give a year of his life for a soak in the hot spring back home. Especially if Maigret was there to scrub his back with her lavender soap.

  After what he’d seen last night he couldn’t trust Lokeen to allow him to live a full year longer. He hadn’t slept well; every time he closed his eyes, he saw again the tangle of black snakes, large and small, writhing around a huge corral, the only fence two natural streams, an artificial ditch filled with water, and a sharp drop down to the big river. Acres and acres of black poison and insatiable hunger for blood and flesh.

  “Gather whatever magic you can find,” Lokeen ordered as he approached. He pulled on long leather gloves, supple but cushioning to his palms. He didn’t offer even that minor comfort to Robb. “When we stop to change mounts, you will scry, or summon, or whatever you call it, for your predecessor. He took with him a precious artifact, and I want it back.” No other words, no please or thank you, nothing but orders to fulfill his w
ishes.

  “What keeps the workers here?” Robb whispered as much to himself as to Scurry, who now held the reins of the surefooted steed.

  “They are slaves. To leave is death, long and slow,” the guard muttered back. “To fail in their duty means that their families are fed to the Krakatrice while they are forced to watch.”

  “What keeps you in His Majesty’s service?”

  “Loyalty to Lady Maria. Someone has to protect her from him since he removed all of the female guards from the castle. He thinks that by doing so he has weeded out her influence.”

  But he hadn’t.

  Robb had a feeling that Lady Maria’s royal blood—even though she was not qualified to rule because of her physical ailments—was the only thread holding Lokeen on the throne.

  Wasn’t there anyone else who could supplant him?

  “Now if the bard Toskellar would return and marry a princess from another city, he could push his father off the throne. Maybe even into the dungeon,” Badger added.

  A bard had stood beside Lukan and Chess when he saw them in the street.

  Robb allowed a glimmer of hope to blossom in his heart.

  You know what you have to do. The words haunted Maria over and over again. What did she have to do?

  She pondered her options as she went about her duties maintaining the castle. As she had always done. Make sure this section of rooms was thoroughly cleaned so that not a single dust mote dared linger. Dispense the proper amount of valuable spices to Cook for the main meal. Air and change bed linens, oversee the week’s laundry. Inspect the steeds for signs of neglect or illness and oversee the rotation of guards.

  And dozens of other things, including a little matchmaking between a scullery maid and the head groom. And along the way she sent for the midwife to take up residence in the domestic hall to await the birth of Cook’s first assistant’s first babe.

  She also had to avoid the notice of a dozen courtiers who had no occupation but to consume food, demand new clothes, and try to win Lokeen’s good notice. In return Lokeen demanded unquestioning loyalty from his leeches. And any armed soldiers they could command or buy. They’d speak ill of her to Lokeen with any excuse.

  This was what she had to do.

  (Not enough. You know what you must do.)

  She had to invoke the law to displace Lokeen from his ill-gotten throne.

  But if she did that, who would rule? There was no one left in the family. Removing Lokeen would leave a vacancy, and the rulers of a dozen nearby city-states would all seek to fill it. War. She’d bring war to Amazonia. Her people had not seen war in almost two hundred years.

  “My lady,” a breathless guard said, bowing deeply as he skidded to a halt in front of her.

  “Yes,” she replied absently as she glared at the slate steps leading to a small side courtyard. She was certain that discoloration in the shape of bird plop wasn’t there yesterday. Whoever had cleaned it hadn’t done it properly.

  “My lady, a bard has been sighted within the city precincts,” the man said, never quite regaining his breath.

  Everything inside of Maria froze. Not even her mind worked properly. “Wh . . . where?”

  “No one place. He seems to be wandering the city, scouting it.”

  “Looking for a likely tavern to host his singing, no doubt,” she replied. “What makes you so certain this bard is . . . our bard?” She clasped her pendant near her throat. The rounded edges of the Great Mother warmed to her touch, as if reassuring her that this communication was important.

  “I do not know, my lady. Sergeant Frederico told me to tell you.” He ducked his head.

  “Tell your sergeant he did well. Have the bard watched. Followed closely. Do not approach or apprehend. We need to know if this bard is our bard before we proceed.”

  “Yes, my lady. Oh, and the bard was seen with another man, younger than he, carrying a staff, like the king’s adviser used to do.”

  “A staff?” A magician’s staff? Mayhap someone sent to rescue Robb?

  Did she want that to happen?

  “I would know more. Discreetly. Before His Majesty returns. You have proved yourself loyal and trustworthy. I commission you to procure this information and report it back to me and no one else.”

  “The king?”

  “No one save me.”

  “Yes, my lady. By the Great Mother, my lady, I will do as you command, with honor and pleasure.”

  “Great Mother, please let this bard be our Toskellar. Please let him return home and take up his duties as prince. If he marries the right princess he can rule in her name. Now which princess is most likely to tempt him into marriage? She must bring with her lucrative trade and a strong army or we’ll not oust Lokeen. He won’t step aside without a fight.”

  Quickly she retreated to her private rooms. She had letters to write and dispatch swiftly. If only Robb were here to do that magically! But he wasn’t. So she had to depend upon mundane messengers and fleet steeds. Who could she trust?

  If only Lokeen had left two or three women among the guard she’d use them. But they had all become blacksmiths and tanners and drovers. Perhaps . . .

  As soon as she’d written the letters she threw a light cloak over her, masking face as well as body, and slipped away from the castle. She knew where to find a blacksmith and a tanner.

  CHAPTER 21

  “BREATHE WITH THE bellows, match the rhythm,” Chess coaxed Lukan into the first mystery of the magic of blacksmithing. “Keep it steady. Steady!” The last came out louder, more urgent as the apprentice guided Lukan’s hand.

  Lukan’s arm muscles froze with the bellows handle pulled halfway down.

  “Don’t stop. Just ease up. You’re putting too much air in.”

  “Okay, okay. Slow and steady. I got it.” Lukan forced himself to breathe with the flow of his movements, willing the air pump to infuse greater heat into the coals.

  “Use all of your senses, Lukan. Smell the fire, hear the smoke rising, taste the heat.”

  “Feel the sweat dripping into my eyes.”

  “That too,” Chess chuckled.

  “All I can hear is your girlfriend’s hammer slamming into the metal over and over again,” Lukan grumbled.

  “I’m not his girlfriend,” Gerta said flatly as she dropped her hammer neatly into its place on the rack and lifted with her heavy tongs the steedshoe she worked. After a brief inspection she grunted and plunged the arch of steel into a bucket of cold water. Steam hissed as it rose around them, carrying the unique odor of the trade.

  Lukan’s nose was so stuffed with heat and smoke, of burning coals, of hot metal, and he didn’t know what all else, he could no longer tell which scent belonged to which component.

  “Smith?” A faint whisper at the edge of the awning arrested all movement.

  Lukan whipped his head around so quickly his neck cricked.

  A tiny woman, draped from head to toe in a cream-colored cloak that fluttered lightly in the breeze, stood just inside the shadow of the overhang.

  “My lady,” Gerta said reverently, dipping a curtsy, right knee bent to the side with the toe touching the ground behind her left heel, that was at once the epitome of respect and grace and utterly absurd without a skirt to flare.

  Chess rapped Lukan’s arm free of the bellows sharply and pushed his back so that he bent over in an unplanned bow.

  “Who?” he mouthed.

  Lady Maria. As if that answered his questions.

  “My lady, you honor my humble workplace,” Gerta said, retaining her dip.

  Lukan’s back threatened to cramp in his unplanned and awkward pose. A hasty look around told him he really shouldn’t shift so much as an eyelash.

  “Blacksmith, I have need of messengers I can trust,” Lady Maria said, taking a step closer to the forge.

  “My lady, I am but a simple journeyman smith for my father. I no longer perform such services.” Gerta straightened and stiffened. She stood tall, at attention, eyes star
ing into the distance. Like a soldier.

  “There are no messengers left in royal service that I trust,” Lady Maria replied. “I would reenlist those I’ve lost.”

  “My lady, I regret . . .”

  “Smith Gerta, please. This is important.”

  “Aunt?” Skeller appeared on the opposite side of the awning. His harp hung loosely in his arms as he drank in the sight of the woman.

  “Aunt Maria!” He rushed to enfold her in a hug, for once the harp an awkward impediment instead of an extension of his personality.

  Lukan ducked in to relieve his friend of the harp.

  “Toskellar!” she cried and threw herself unashamedly into his arms.

  “It’s Skeller now, Aunt Maria. Just Skeller. Prince Toskellar no longer exists.”

  “I know, I know, my beautiful boy.” She caressed his cheek as if memorizing the planes and angles. “I have missed you sorely.”

  “And I you. Tell me how you fare?” Skeller kept his hands on her shoulders, stepping back just enough to allow him to survey her.

  Then Lukan noticed that she stood crookedly, leaning heavily to the left. He wondered if she’d topple should Skeller remove the support of his touch.

  “My lady,” Gerta interrupted. Her eyes swept back and forth around the streets and passersby, wary. Her hands at her sides clenched and unclenched as if itching for a weapon. “My absence on a messenger mission for you would be noted.” Her chin flicked in the direction of two heavily armed men wandering from shop to home to well, keenly observing everything.

  And Geon slinking ten paces behind them.

  “I have had some luck wandering the streets at will, my lady,” Lukan interjected. But he’d have to find a way to lose Geon in the maze of alleyways. “May I be of service?”

  Lady Maria looked at Lukan in puzzlement.

  “Aunt Maria, my friend, Journeyman Magician Lukan, and Apprentice Magician Chess,” Skeller said. “Lukan, Chess, Lady Maria, most royal sister to our late queen who was my mother,” he said solemnly.