The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2

by Irene Radford

  “Dear heart, I. . . .” What could he say in the face of the truth. “I’ve missed you.”

  “Have you?”

  “Yes, my love. You are the light of my life and the anchor for my soul. And if I never see again, the one image I will treasure in my memory is your face.”

  “Oh, Jaylor!” She dropped things, the knife clattering against the clay bricks before the hearth, the tuber splatting in the same region. Then she cupped his face with both hands and kissed him long and hard.

  But her lips felt more desperate than passionate. After nineteen years and many adventures together, he knew the difference.

  He shifted Jule to one knee and tugged Brevelan onto his other, holding her tight around her swelling waist.

  “We’ll get through this, my love,” she reassured him, resting her head on his shoulder. “And while you learn patience and how to rely on your other senses, you will allow Marcus, the king, and Glenndon to succeed or fail on their own. And when you are well, you can charge in and correct all of their mistakes roaring in displeasure and secretly triumphant that you know best after all.”

  “I don’t do that.”

  “Yes you do. Especially the roaring. I miss hearing you yelling at everyone and everything in your path. That is what worries me most. You sit and brood. Or pace and brood. One would think you are Darville and not yourself.”

  “You could bring a few apprentices to me so that I can find fault with their technique in the loudest voice possible.”

  “That I may do.” She shifted away from him, returning to her place before the cook pot. “If you will allow them to help you too.”

  He heard her retrieve the knife and realized he could see her silhouette bend to pick it up. She clenched a fist against her lower back as she straightened up. Not a good sign for her to feel this much discomfort only five months into the pregnancy.

  Before he could voice his concern she spoke. “In the meantime, think about where Lukan might be sleeping and how we can bring him back to us.”

  “I fear he won’t come home with less enticement than a journeyman’s staff. He’s due for one. But I can’t just give him one. He needs a journey and at the moment I need him here.”

  “Then tell him that. Make his work here his journey.”

  “How can I talk to him, when he isn’t here?”

  “Figure it out. For now let Jule lead you outside to the garden. I need more carrots. Surely you can figure out how to uproot a few without damaging them.”

  He considered rejecting that order as impossible. How could a blind man dig vegetables?

  “With your hands,” she replied contemptuously before he voiced his complaint. “Trust me, you’ll figure it out. But you have to learn patience.”

  “Skeller,” Lily touched his arm tentatively as they walked behind the litter. Deep within the curtained dimness, Lady Graciella composed a new recipe for banishing a prickly heat rash. Lily didn’t understand how she could finalize the ingredients without actually mixing and mashing them together, but working it out with pen and ink first seemed to work for her. Perhaps the lady understood the soul of each plant better than Lily.

  Skeller flinched his arm away from Lily, masking his rejection in a need to fuss with his harp case.

  “The black cat with one white ear is a piece of legend out of our history,” Lily said, as if he listened to her closely. She knew he did. He just couldn’t let her know that. Not yet.

  “I need to make you understand what you are dealing with in accepting her and offering her affection along with food.”

  “There are lots of black cats with one white ear,” he said softly, still keeping his gaze and hands on the harp.

  “Many years ago, when King Darville first assumed the crown—the Coraurlia, it’s this huge glass artifact gifted to our royal line by the dragons . . .”

  He snorted, not quite trusting the importance of the magic-infused crown.

  “The Coraurlia protects the wearer from magical attack, sends it back to the magician who threw the spell. We call it backlash. The magic compounds and gets really ugly. By the same token, no one who isn’t of the royal line and blessed by the dragons can touch the crown without burning to ash.”

  Skeller made no noise, but he still wouldn’t look at her.

  “The king’s cousin, Lord Krej, was a secret magician. In those days, neither the king nor a lord could legally possess a full magical talent. Krej wanted to be king. But he couldn’t do that without killing Darville. He devised a spell that would turn a living being into a statue. He turned Shayla, the dragon matriarch, into a life-sized glass sculpture. Inside the prison of glass she was alive and aware of all that was going on around her.”

  Skeller blanched as he thought about that peculiar kind of torture. Then his fingers began to pluck and drum against the harp case. She knew he was composing an epic ballad of this adventure. He wasn’t the first.

  “When Krej turned the spell on a human, his victim turned into the animal that reflected his personality. The king had spent several months in the form of a golden wolf. My mother, with the help of Shayla, rescued him from a blinding blizzard, nursed him back to health and helped my father return him to normal.”

  A new light came into Skeller’s eyes, the kind of light she’d seen only when he sang. He was born to sing and compose music. She loved that about him.

  “When King Darville finally confronted Krej, Krej needed to turn him into a statue, not a living animal. My father knew how to reverse that spell. But neither he, nor Krej had counted on the king actually wearing his crown, the real one, not the small replica he uses for daily appearances. The spell backlashed and Lord Krej became a statue.”

  “What was Krej’s totem animal?” Skeller finally spoke. His fingers kept working out chords and melody lines on the case.

  “A tin weasel with flaking gilt paint.”

  “That explains the shadow in the bushes. But how did he become animate, and what does that have to do with the cat?”

  She had him now, he was fully interested. She could almost hear the tune rampaging through his mind down to his fingers. It would be better than any of the other ballads she’d heard. She wanted to sing it with him, harmonizing her light soprano to his more confident baritone.

  “That happened some years later,” Val said. “Krej’s province, Saria, passed to his cousin Jemmarc who is now married to Lady Graciella. He has absolutely no trace of magic in his life. The Council of Provinces bypassed Krej’s daughters, especially his eldest Rejiia, who turned out to be a very powerful sorceress connected to a coven bent on the destruction of Coronnan.”

  “Your people do not value women as leaders. They do in Amazonia.”

  Lily nodded. She hadn’t heard this little tidbit about the lands across the sea.

  “Wait, Jemmarc. Lady Graciella’s husband? She’s married to the lord, not lady in her own right!”

  “Yes. He’s much older than she and was already married with a son when he became Lord. Then . . . he . . . his wife passed and he remarried rather quickly. Lady Graciella conceived almost immediately.”

  “There are an awful lot of magicians floating around this country. In Amazonia, magicians are few and far between, not valued.”

  She giggled at the image of her entire family floating around Coronnan. Everyone of them except her. She banished that last thought and continued her story. Maybe she belonged in Amazonia where women had value as leaders and her lack of talent might be appreciated.

  “Fifteen or sixteen years ago, around the time that Val and I were born, there was a big dustup in Aporia to our far west—that’s where Lady Ariiell’s father rules. I don’t know all the details, but Lady Ariiell was there, working for the same coven as Rejiia, and some ghosts and other things happened. In the aftermath straightening out old spells, and freeing people of curses and such, Krej was brought back to life as that ugly weasel and his daughter became a black cat with one white ear. They were last seen chasing each o
ther the length of the kingdom. I’m told that in real life she had shining, straight black hair down to her hips with a white streak that ran from her left temple the full length of her hair. She was said to be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom.”

  This time he snorted again. “I doubt that she was that beautiful. Beauty brings its own power. Truly beautiful women don’t need magic. Or a less attractive woman uses magic to make her seem more beautiful.”

  “Ariiell is deathly afraid Krej and Rejiia are coming for her, to manipulate her, and work more evil upon her. Her nightmares are very violent.”

  He looked her straight in the eye. “I find your story interesting material for a teaching ballad. Nothing more. Such violence should be repressed. People need to overcome it. As you have.”

  She stopped short, mouth agape. “How . . . how can you say that?”

  “Because I have no need of magic even if it were readily available. From what I’ve heard, magic is more evil than good. It . . . it tempts people to do evil things just because they can, not because it is needed or beautiful, or even right. It needs to be banished.”

  CHAPTER 16

  MIKK LOCKED THE door to his room with a firm click. He didn’t need Geon sticking his long and overly curious nose into his business right now—especially not into the books Mikk borrowed from the library. Hopefully the tall, thin, sour-faced man had enough to do cleaning Mikk’s riding leathers to keep him elsewhere for an hour or so.

  With careful steps, Mikk assembled his tools, then eased into the straight-backed chair at his writing table. General Marcelle had eased up on arms practice to concentrate on riding and shooting arrows from steedback. Mikk couldn’t remember hurting so much. Ever. Even Grand’Mere’s occasional reprimand with the flat of her hand on his bum hadn’t hurt this much. Absently he rubbed his chafed thighs as he concentrated on the candlewick in front of him.

  His gaze ran down the list of preparations in the tiny book by Kimmer, Scribe of the South.

  One: breathe in slowly on a count of three.

  Two: hold the breath on the same count.

  Three: release the air held in your lungs completely.

  Four: remain still for a count of three.

  Five: repeat the above as many times as necessary to feel at peace with the world and find a connection to the Kardia. The magnetic South Pole should tug at your back.

  Oh. He faced east where the narrow window on that wall offered a little extra light on his tasks.

  Reluctantly he grasped the seat edges of his chair, braced with his legs and shifted one quarter until he faced north and his back was to the all-essential south.

  He groaned as his legs protested any movement. Then he had to lunge to keep the candle from tipping and rolling away. Learning magic in stolen moments of privacy was hard work. But he had to do it. The dragons had spoken to him, led him to the book, and insisted he learn.

  “I can do this,” he affirmed to himself. “Breathe in on three, hold three, out on three, hold three.” He followed his own instructions, concentrating on filling and emptying his lungs.

  Repeat. And repeat. And repeat. Nothing. No peace. No grounding. No connection to the magnetic pole. Nothing.

  (Repeat!) The word sound loud in the back of his head. The masculine voice of a stern teacher commanded him.

  Startled, he gasped out an extra morsel of air. The top of his head lightened and threatened to float free of his body.

  (Repeat. Breathe long and deep.)

  He did so without thinking.

  (Again.)

  And again; five times he filled and emptied his lungs, lengthening his count until the air flowed in and out, in and out. His vision glazed into tiny squares of color. Outlines became abstract suggestions of the objects in his room, the bed, the tapestries, the thick and comfortable chair by the hearth, the cloudy sky through the window.

  On the sixth breath his back itched. He couldn’t reach the tiny spot between his shoulder blades. He squirmed and almost lost the strange lightness of head and heart.

  (Turn.)

  He could not disobey. The compulsion to shift his chair once more overrode any concerns of aching muscles and raw skin. Keeping his eyes half-crossed and his attention on his breathing he lifted the chair once more and turned to face south, staring into the empty hearth.

  The itch disappeared and his feet felt as if they melted into the plank flooring, apart from the building . . . no, he was a part of the land, the wood and stone were merely an extension of the Kardia.

  A blast of air into his face ruffled his tightly bound hair and added to the filling of his lungs. He breathed it out, completely, until he thought he’d have to plant his face against his knees because nothing inside him supported his spine.

  The world snapped into focus. Too sharp. Too bright. He breathed again long and full. His mind accepted the new reality his vision found.

  (Now, think of the candle. Separate the wick from the wax in your mind.)

  A fuzzy memory of how the candle on the desk looked flashed before his inner vision. He needed to turn around to see it.

  (Do not move. You do not need to look to see the candle.)

  Mikk concentrated on his last memory of a stout column of beeswax, a creamy yellow in color. The ribbed texture made it easier to hold in his hand without having it slide out of his palm. It fit nicely into his hand, needing his entire hand to enclose it. He had to stretch his fingers wide to measure the candle from top to bottom. A scholar’s candle designed to burn long into the night while he studied or wrote.

  (The wick?)

  “Braided linen. Nearly beige next to the yellowish wax. It stands one fingernail above the well of wax,” he replied, keeping the image firmly in his mind. He could almost see the candle within his hand rather than on the desk behind him.

  (Light the candle.)

  “How.”

  (See it lit!) the voice demanded, almost angry at his dimwittedness.

  Mikk imagined a flame topping the illusory candle in his hand . . .

  (No. You must see the fire leaping from your heart to the wick and finding a new home there.) A new voice whispered to him, still masculine, but younger, gentler, and friendlier. An almost-chuckle escaped from this new personality.

  (The fire must come from his mind,) the older voice snorted in derision.

  (But he thinks with his heart.)

  (That’s his problem. He doesn’t use his mind, his logic. He reacts before he thinks.)

  (He thinks with his heart. Mikk, the fire you need is deep within you, waiting for you to allow it to exit. Let the flame leap to the wick. Don’t think about it. Just let it flow.)

  Mikk sighed. Just like home. Grand’Mere and his tutors always argued about what was best for him, what he needed to learn. No one thought to ask him what he wanted.

  (What do you want?) the older voice asked, no longer irascible or demanding. Just asking.

  “I want to light this candle with magic.”

  (Then do it.)

  Mikk closed his eyes, keeping the image of the candle firmly in mind, and watched a tiny spark jump from his heart to the wick.

  It burst into flame like a flower opening its blossom all at once.

  (Now look at the real candle,) the younger voice giggled.

  Slowly, fearful of undoing what he’d just done, Mikk turned his head to look over his shoulder. Sure enough, the candle burned brightly.

  Triumph blossomed in his gut and his mind.

  “Master Mikk?” Geon asked loudly as he rattled the latch. “Master Mikk, the queen has requested your presence in her private parlor. Master Mikk, you must come now.”

  The flame blinked out, leaving an uncharred wick, as if it had never known fire.

  Lukan nestled tighter in the fork of two branches of his everblue tree. The linear ridges of the bark irritated his back as they never had before. He shifted his butt, twisted his shoulders, then leaned forward.

  Nothing helped. He still felt as if the u
ngrounded magical whips from the abortive spell had flayed him.

  But it wasn’t that magic rubbing his skin raw. Something else. Something not right, but controlled.

  And therefore dangerous.

  He watched the stars emerge in the darkening sky. They looked frail and dim compared to his usual observations. He’d seen no clouds. And yet . . . the color of the sky was off too.

  He needed to figure out how and why.

  Inside his tunic pocket, his apprentice glass tingled against his skin, warm and comforting, a gentle massage rather than the annoyance of alien magic. He knew without looking at the violet swirl of color that Val summoned him. She did most every evening if he didn’t make the time to scry for her.

  “Not tonight, little sis. I have more important things to think about than your recounting of the day’s march across the prairie.” He wiped a dry finger across the glass, terminating the spell without even looking at the caller’s identifying colors.

  “Now what, or rather who, is tampering with the weather?”

  “What is magic?” Skeller asked the steeds as they plodded forward. Almost like wading across a sluggish river in the thick, humid air. “My tutors told me that all magic could be explained by logic if we just look deep enough for another explanation.” No one in Amazonia wanted to become a slave to magic, so they denied its existence, even in the face of incontestable evidence.

  He puzzled over Lily’s tale of cats and weasels, ghosts and curses, speaking to dragons. “Stuff and nonsense.” His spoken words no longer held the ring of truth. He wasn’t in Amazonia anymore. Magic ruled in Coronnan. He’d seen it. He’d heard a dragon.

  Lily knew and loved magic.

  “No one employs magicians or magic at home.” Though King Lokeen had employed one for years. “Until I came here, I’d only ever seen one true magician and I do not trust him at all, Champion.”

  Skeller remembered entering his father’s office without knocking. He hadn’t expected the king to be working there. He should have been at his wife’s bedside, holding her hand as she passed.