The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2

by Irene Radford

  “Home,” he said aloud, still rocking his son. “Go home.” He nearly cried out as the untamed energy shot through his heart, down through his body, down, down, down into the depths of the world. Each time he thought he’d sent the last of it on its way home, another long strand jerked away from Maigret’s careful weaving and burned a hole in Jaylor’s heart, his gut, or his brain while it sought to follow its fellows back to the Kardia.

  The pain was too much. He screamed and released Lukan so he could try and hold his head together with the strength of his hands.

  (Focus!)

  Shayla, matriarch of the dragons and longtime friend, turned that one word into a scathing condemnation of his pitiful attempts to accept her nurturing. Jaylor had never heard a curse from that gentle dragon voice. Didn’t know if Shayla could curse. That one word came too close for him to dare defy her.

  He opened his mind one more time, found the last four whipping strands of blue and red. His colors. With a deep breath he commanded them to braid together, just like his queue when it went wild, taming it into order. Magic resisted. He pushed. Blackness covered his eyes. He welcomed the cessation of blinding light that stabbed his mind from all directions, inward and outward.

  At the first sign of obedience from the magic he fumbled for his staff, always nearby, even when he dropped it. Someone pushed the wooden tool into his hands.

  (Focus!)

  “Come!” he commanded with mind and magic and voice. The blue and red braid twined around the staff, accepting a like pattern as part of itself.

  With a mighty effort he slammed the butt end of the staff against the floor, dislodging the raw magic and sending it shooting straight into the Kardia below.

  “Lord Jaylor, you did it,” Marcus gasped.

  “And that is why he is Senior Magician,” Maigret affirmed.

  “Not much longer,” Jaylor sighed. “I think I’m quite blind.” He passed a hand in front of his face and saw nothing. No shapes, no outlines, only streaks of colored light, akin to the lashing magic. Or the umbilicals of life pulsing through the void between here and there, now and then.

  “Stargods, it’s all my fault!” Lukan screamed. Running footsteps followed by the slamming of a door signaled he had run away from responsibility once again.

  “My own son ran away from me!”

  People are so naked in their dreams. All of their hopes and fears reveal themselves to the careful watcher. That little nap Jaylor took this afternoon may have rested his body, but his mind remains in turmoil. He barely noticed as I latched a piece of my mind to his. In fact he welcomed the tiny bit of calm that surrounds my presence.

  He and I are one now. What he knows, I know.

  I could not allow him to find my prisoner. When the crystal changed its circle to a straight line between the two points of interest, I had to break the circle. I am not yet ready to release Robb. My prisoner is strong in mind and body. He commands the respect and obedience of his journeymen. If I cannot break the master, I must separate him from his juniors. His belief in their betrayal is the strongest weapon I have.

  But I have absorbed the wild magic at the same time as Jaylor. I have endured the same pain as he. I knelt in the center of my own circle wailing in pain, trying to pluck the searing lightning from my eyes. I came close to embarrassing myself before my followers.

  Mind links have their dangers. If I sever my connection I may regain my sight quicker than he.

  But then I lose a great advantage.

  What to do? I have never been indecisive before. I have always known my path.

  What to do?

  I can endure this pain no longer. I give it all back to Jaylor.

  But I found the boy. I dismissed his dreams as too easy to read. He is too transparent and harbors few secrets. Worthless. I had no hold over him. But he is vulnerable because he is so young and so very angry with the world. I can manipulate him through his anger.

  Lukan climbed. The fastest path away from Da’s temper was to move upward, faster than his father could follow.

  First he ran. Blindly. A tree root tripped him just beyond the University steps. He flailed to stay upright, moving forward with each awkward step. When his head and feet knew up from down, right from left, he ran on until his knees connected with a boulder as high as his waist. Pain jolted from the bruised joints down to his feet and up his spine. His head wanted to disconnect as shadows within shadows spiraled around him. He flew forward with a gush of air exiting his body. Smooth granite scraped his palms.

  He wanted nothing more than to crumple to the ground and let the cool drizzle wash away his hurts, inside and out.

  “Lukan!” Da called from inside the building.

  Clumsily, Lukan braced himself on the boulder and pushed upright.

  “Lukan, come back here,” Da commanded on one of his trademarked roars.

  Lukan hastened around the solid rock, his feet finding the well-worn path uphill. Sixteen long strides and he sensed an opening among the trees. An apprentice meditation circle. Straight across the small clearing he found another path and continued. Thirty strides and he heard the chuckle of the creek above the first fall. Then one hundred strides until he found his tree. His tree. The stunted everblue with sturdy limbs that stretched close to the ground. He could crawl up against the trunk and remain as hidden as if in a cave.

  He’d done that often enough when hiding from Glenndon in childish games. But Glenndon always found him.

  So he climbed, finding handholds and foot grips by memory. The rough bark oozed soothing sap over the scrapes on his palms. “Thank you, my friend,” he whispered with mind and voice. Tree responded with a ruffle of long needle tufts and a sense of enfolding Lukan within his shadows.

  Lukan’s tree might not be as tall as his fellows but his limbs were stout and solid ten feet up before they spindled into a fluffy top. Clinging to the trunk he edged around until he settled his butt into a convenient fork that always fit his body as he grew and allowed him to lean back to rest his head against a soft splotch of moss.

  He heaved a sigh and listened to the wind. The gentle breeze carried only its own gossip, not the turmoil he knew must roil through the University at this moment.

  “What’s happening to me?” he asked both the tree and the wind.

  They answered by releasing the sharp scent of the sap and . . . and something more. Something exotic that had picked up the weight of salt water, grain-filled plains, and a spice that tantalized and burned his nose at the same time.

  “Foreign,” he guessed. “Something from far away.” That wasn’t quite right. “Someone far away.”

  Wind and tree quieted in agreement.

  “Someone invades my dreams, trying to learn what I know. But I don’t know anything. I’m just an apprentice and no one trusts me.”

  He thought back to the scrying spell that had gone all wrong. Such a simple spell. A basic spell with crude tools.

  Simple tools, the tree reminded him.

  “Simple?” That was the key. Nothing complicated. A simple path from mind to magic to answer. Anyone with half a mind and cunning could step onto that path, probably in his own shadow and watch all. And then . . . and then just as the answer seemed obvious that shadow person from his dreams had twisted the path, hidden the answer, and wreaked havoc with the spell.

  “Not my fault!” he cried to the wind. “But I will be blamed. Just as I am always blamed. Even when I am innocent. Though I’m usually not. But this time I am.”

  Satisfied that there was nothing he could have done to prevent the chaos, he wrapped himself in the warmth radiating from the tree’s sun-warmed bark and slept.

  Slept for the first time in weeks without troubling dreams with strange whispers and images awakening him every hour.

  CHAPTER 11

  SKELLER PLUCKED A string on Telynnia. It twanged a hint sharper than the middle C he needed. A touch to the string key sweetened the tone to match his voice. The D sounded true.

>   All the bouncing and changes in temperature during the day’s march hadn’t affected his old friend much. She just needed a bit of tender loving care to remind her he’d not forgotten her.

  The young woman with the sun-streak red-gold hair from the bright litter turned her head away from ladling up a bowl of stew—the one without meat—for the pale and vague woman who paced around and around the litter that now rested at knee height on four boxes instead of at chest height when supported by two steeds.

  He smiled at the girl. A slender young woman in the way of girls passed into the middle of their teens, but sturdy and well-rounded in the right places.

  She returned the smile, giving him only half her attention. Partly she watched her charge. She also kept her head tilted, tuned toward her sister. He guessed the scrawny girl with barely any curves at all who’d come running in search of them the moment the caravan stuttered to a stop was a younger sister. Younger by a year, more likely two. Other than that little bit of maturity in her figure, the two girls were very alike in height, in features, in coloring, and posture.

  He played a chord, testing how each string blended with its fellows. The rose-gold blonde picked out the top note and sang it lightly. He took up the challenge, matching his light baritone to the bottom note of the major chord, letting the harp hold her own with the middle.

  One bowl of stew delivered to the vague lady, the girl with the sunset hair carried two more as she joined him on a convenient rock beside his own. Still no meat. Oh, well, he’d grab a more substantial bowl with chicken after a song or two.

  “Lillian here,” she said shyly. Her speaking voice sounded as lyrical and melodic as her singing.

  Odd phrasing though.

  “Skeller here,” he replied.

  She raised both eyebrows in surprise.

  “What?” he asked.

  “I thought my family was the only one that spoke to dragons.”

  “Huh?”

  “Oh, you were just mimicking me.” Her face fell out of the smile.

  An ache of disappointment tightened his chest. Not knowing how to bring back that smile he played a complex set of scaling patterns to loosen up his fingers.

  Behind him, the steeds stamped restlessly.

  “They love you,” Lillian whispered. And the smile came back.

  His chest lightened. “It’s a curse. Every time I sing, one of them decides I’m the herd’s newest best friend. They think I’m one of them and not human at all. They’ll follow me anywhere.” He sighed dramatically at the burden of his life.

  “Do cats and dogs do the same thing?” She spooned up a bite of the luscious smelling meal. Even devoid of meat it carried the subtle aroma of skillfully blended herbs.

  “Stray dogs do, not the ones who have a master to look to. Cats not so much.” He set aside his harp in favor of the stew, deciding he’d sing better on a half-full stomach. He wouldn’t truly be satisfied until he’d had some real meat. “I sing in a different key from cats. Or maybe it’s the catgut strings on Telynnia.” He patted the harp at the same time he grinned hugely to show he was only kidding.

  Her look of horror changed to a gentle smile as she realized his joke.

  “Cats do view the world as their own private universe and humans as obnoxious aliens,” she replied quietly. “They sing their own songs and work their own magic in ways that have nothing to do with our perceptions.”

  “You should work on that. If you could herd cats, the world would worship you.”

  They both laughed.

  “You know cats then?”

  “Mama has a few that keep down the rodent population in the kitchen garden. Sometimes they listen to her.” She lowered her eyes to her bowl and refused to lift them to his face.

  They ate in companionable silence for a time. He scanned the assorted personalities in the caravan, seeking a suitable song to fit the end of a long day of walking. The caravan master prowled the long line, mindful of his duties. He scowled deeply at Skeller, reminding him of his duties.

  “Time to sing for my supper,” he said when he felt his spoon scrape the bottom of the bowl. Too soon. He wasn’t sure if he needed more stew or more conversation with Lillian.

  She took the bowl from him and went in search of the vague lady’s for general washing up. The spoon he wiped clean with a handful of grass, wrapped it in a linen serviette, and tucked both away in his pack.

  Then he held Telynnia, his song mistress, in his arms and strolled about, strumming this and that, waiting for a reaction. When a group turned toward him with their bits of cleaning and mending, willing to listen, he plucked a joyful chord and sang the opening phrase of a rousing drinking song.

  At the back of a sledge someone opened a cask of ale. Skeller heard the pop of the bung and smelled the yeasty froth of liquid. He repeated the chorus urging his companions to join him.

  Lillian gave him a sip of ale, keeping the wooden cup nearby so he had both hands free for the harp.

  Whimsically he kissed her cheek in thanks and turned the song to the soaring delights of a barmaid.

  She laughed and blushed. The crowd joined him on the first chorus.

  A rush of wind and screeching roar overhead drowned him out. All and sundry travelers ducked their heads beneath their arms or upflung aprons.

  Except Lillian and her sister. They looked up, searching the twilit skies with big smiles on their faces.

  “What was that?” he asked when the noise passed on.

  “Magic,” Lillian breathed.

  “A dragon,” her younger sister said with the same sense of awe.

  They looked toward each other in silent communication he could not fathom.

  “Sing us a dragon song,” Lillian finally said as the camp returned to normal.

  “I don’t think I know any.”

  “Where are you from that a bard knows no dragon songs?” the younger sister asked in disgust.

  “Play this,” Lillian hummed a tune that sounded like a joyful hymn.

  He repeated it, feeling the harp come to life with a vibrant joy he’d never felt before. And then Lillian sang in her bright soprano of the pure joy of soaring among the stars on dragon wings.

  The crowd swayed in unison, humming along.

  Almost, for a moment, he felt as if he and the music soared with the great beasts of legend; that his harp and the dragon sang to each other.

  “Magic,” he whispered. “The stuff of magic.”

  Magic. The one thing he’d come to discredit, along with the magician who so unwisely counseled Lokeen, unrightful king of Amazonia.

  Then he looked more closely at the sisters who had spawned this magical moment. Sisters, much alike in face and form. Each sister rode with a great lady in a litter.

  Which one was the pawn of Lokeen and his magician counselor?

  Glenndon watched his father, King Darville, tap the feathered end of his quill against a small square of parchment laying flat on his massive desk.

  The king read the missive again, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly. A frown tugged his mouth into deeper and deeper disapproval.

  Glenndon fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, rotating his shoulders, fingering the pommel of his useless ceremonial sword, missing his staff, trying to stand respectfully before the man with graying gold hair who held his future in his hands.

  The king’s bodyguard Fred, father of Frank, hovered in a corner, unobtrusive and constantly wary, as he should. General Marcelle lounged in a chair beside the cold hearth, one of the few allowed such familiarity in the presence of the king. He’d earned the right over the years, loyal, constant, giving cautious counsel when needed—both when asked and when needed but not asked.

  Finally King Darville leaned back in his massive wooden chair and glared at Glenndon, as many a teaching master had glared at him over the years of study at the Forest University, trying to force him to speak when he had no need to speak. “Do you know how important our new alliance with Amazonia is
?” the king growled, no sign of the affectionate and proud father in his voice or posture.

  Both the general and Fred leaned forward with interest.

  Glenndon flashed a glance at General Marcelle. The older man frowned at him. His loyalty clearly aligned with the king first and the king’s family second.

  Glenndon nodded to his father once, sharply, retreating into the safety of silence. As he had always done.

  “Then why did you dismiss the ambassador without even seeing him?”

  Glenndon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he reached for the parchment that had been sealed with deep, sea-blue wax.

  The king placed his hands atop the letter, blocking Glenndon’s view of the damning words.

  “Tell me what happened, yesterday noon that prompted the ambassador to send me a scathing reprimand this morning,” King Darville demanded.

  Glenndon turned his head away, finding his old defense of silence inadequate and yet . . . yet. . . .

  “Talk, son. Talk to me. I know you can speak. My daughter Linda taught you how. There was a time when words poured forth from you as easily as they did her.”

  But Linda was gone. A thousand miles away, studying at the Forest University. She was safe there. Safe from prejudice and assassins and treaties that assigned her a husband. She used that precious gift of time to learn control of the gift of magic Glenndon had given her. In return she had given him the gift of words during a healing spell. Once again he lived the moment of marvelous blending of their minds and souls encased in a bubble of magic. The half sister he’d not known existed had truly become his sister in those moments while she removed magically burning acid from his hand, along with the blockage of scar tissue from his throat. While they both resided in the capital she was closer to him than either Valeria or Lillian, whom he’d grown up with.

  Now that she was so far away, he wasn’t sure their perpetual mind link was as strong as before.

  He swallowed deeply, trying to ease the dryness in his throat.

  “The ambassador threatens to pack up the entire diplomatic delegation and return home, ending all of our trade and talk of mutual defense treaties,” the king said, bringing him back to the immediate problem.