“Ah, Baamin.” Darcine waved for the magician to approach him.
Brightly gowned ladies and richly jeweled men filled the Great Hall with shrill laughter. All were masked for the event, except the king. Baamin sensed the tension in the posture and rapidly darting eyes of the nobility. They must know this gaiety was only temporary.
“Your Grace.” Baamin bowed to his monarch.
As he straightened, he took the opportunity to carefully survey the tall figure of his friend. New tunic and trews of golden brocade, padded to disguise too thin limbs and slumping shoulders. A small replica of the Coraurlia, the glass dragon-crown, rested on his head. The token of his kingship contained hardly any heavy glass at all. Darcine’s neck couldn’t support the full weight of the crown.
The king didn’t need to mask his face. His entire body was cloaked in the guise of health.
“You’re late, my friend. But the night is still young. There is plenty of time to sample the delicacies the cook has provided.” The usual feverish flush on King Darcine’s face was now replaced with a more even and natural coloring.
Paint or healing?
“Have you seen aught of my cousin? Krej promised to attend this little gathering.” King Darcine snagged a goblet of wine from a passing servant. “He is so very entertaining.”
“Nay, Your Grace. Lord Krej has not privileged me with news of his activities.” Baamin wanted to discount Jaylor’s theories that the rogue magician operating in the south answered to Krej. The king’s cousin, with his reputation as a fierce negotiator, was their only hope of avoiding war if the prince could not be found soon.
“We can enjoy ourselves without Krej. He does tell such outrageous stories though. When the ambassadors come, his wit will charm then into a favorable marriage settlement.” The king made to move back to his guests.
“Your Grace, have you forgotten the most important element in the negotiations? Your son.” He paused while the king turned back, his face and posture slumped under the strain of dealing with that matter.
Laughter rose and surged toward the entrance. Newcomers stood there waiting for all to acknowledge their presence before entering. Baamin peered toward the bubble of excitement. Too many people crowded too close to the masked lord and lady for him to see more than a swirl of bronze and ebony lam’ fabric. Costly stuff.
“Perhaps this is your cousin, Your Grace, and his lady.” Baamin gestured toward the brilliant figures.
“If not his lady, then another beautiful companion. Krej does have wonderful luck with women.” Darcine winked knowingly. “Lady Rhodia is still recovering from her latest confinement. Yet another daughter. Very disappointing. I wonder who replaces her in my cousin’s affections, and his bed, this time?”
“I don’t think Lord Krej will keep her long enough for anyone to find out. Even your bold cousin won’t risk another of Lady Rhodia’s temper tantrums.” The last time Lady Rhodia had caught Krej with a courtesan, she had nearly destroyed their costly suite in the royal palace as well as her rival’s beautiful face.
Baamin turned away from the object of their discussion. He’d never liked Krej’s arrogance, nor the look of disdain that always clouded his bay blue eyes. The soul within the man was as frigid as the depths of the Great Bay.
“Welcome, cousin.” Darcine gestured toward the newcomer. In a complete departure from protocol, Darcine wandered away from his post on the dais toward Krej and the lady. The court flocked to them, currying favor and notice. Baamin held back, taking the opportunity to observe the entire banquet hall.
Every muscle in his body froze with fear. Icy sweat popped out on his brow and his back. In the center of the huge hall stood the monster of his nightmares, clothed in bronze lam’.
“What kind of joke is this?” he whispered.
Just then, Lord Krej lifted his masked face and stared directly at the Senior Magician, as if he had heard the frantic question. Beneath the mask of a spotted saber cat, Krej’s eyes glinted with malice. Baamin mentally shook himself free of the dread that rooted him to the spot. There was a glamour about the masked figure. He needed to move closer and examine the nature of that magic distortion.
His private fears stopped him cold.
“Can you call Shayla?” Jaylor raised his voice. Brevelan clung to the wolf with fierce intensity. Her eyes were huge in the dim light from the hearth.
“Call Shayla?” she asked into the wolf’s fur.
“Yes. Call the dragon,” he pressed. His hand reached out to stroke her hair, to draw her attention to his words. He didn’t need magic to see the terror on her face. The lightest touch and the source of her panic flooded through his fingers to his mind.
Fire. Hot. Smoke. No air. The heat. The pain.
Something in the girl’s past brought on this terror. Something she dared not let him see.
Jaylor allowed his touch to become comforting. He stroked her cheek and cupped her chin gently. “Brevelan, trust me. There is no fire. We can get out of this if you’ll just call the dragon. The rogue still fears her.”
Tender warmth filled the gap between them. Jaylor wanted to wrap the girl in his arms and hold her. He was aware of her, but for once desire didn’t overwhelm him. He needed more than physical union with her. Their one kiss had taught him that. If only the wolf were not between them, he would reach over and hold her tightly against his chest and treasure the completeness she offered.
“Bring the torches!” Old Thorm’s voice carried on the evening breeze. “The thatch is damp, the smoke will drive her out.”
“She’s mine when she runs,” the fisherman crowed.
“What gives you first right?” someone else challenged.
“Once we’ve had her, she won’t be a witch anymore,” Old Thorm chortled.
“What about the wolf?”
“I’ll slit the devil dog’s throat first, before he can protect his mistress, before he has the chance to drain the blood from another man’s body.”
Brevelan blanched. Jaylor pulled her, and the wolf she cradled, tight against his chest.
“I won’t let them hurt you,” he promised. Though how, he didn’t know. There were at least ten of them. His magic wasn’t designed to hurt people. That was the first law of the Commune.
His answer came from overhead. A roar that only a dragon throat could muster filled his mind and ears. Both he and Brevelan sagged in relief. Wolf looked up, his mouth open in a doggy grin.
Seek me, you impudent puppet of evil! The dragon’s thoughts flooded the clearing. As if from a dizzying height, Jaylor saw the object of Shayla’s wrath. He was disguised as a one-eyed beggar, dressed in rags. But Jaylor/Shayla knew him now, knew a powerful magician hid behind a glamour. Once revealed, this enemy could never again hide behind this flimsy disguise.
The vision pulled back, and Jaylor knew Shayla flew higher. Then, as she tucked her wings back and dove, the ground rushed up at him with frightening speed. Nine men hovered near the rogue—a vigorous, red-haired man in his prime. But dragon eyes weren’t meant to focus on the details of human faces. Nine white blurs looked up. Only the fear in their eyes shone through.
Jaylor felt the roar of triumph pelt from the dragon’s throat, and his own. The first flicker of flame erupted, with a roar dredged up from the roots of the mountains.
The hut shook and trembled with the rocking ground beneath it. Jaylor plummeted back into his own senses. He heard shouts and screams from the villagers outside. Through Shayla’s eyes, but his own body, he could see them running from the fingers of flame licking their heels. One man rested while flames tickled another’s backside. Then, before he could contemplate safety in another’s pain, the first man felt the heat of Shayla’s wrath again.
“Why does she just toy with them? She should flame them and be done with the menace.” Jaylor spoke to thin air.
Brevelan opened her mouth to answer. Her voice cracked with a giggle that bordered on hysteria.
“Are you seeing this, too?” Won
der flooded his senses. For a moment they had all been linked into the mind of a dragon.
She nodded. Her eyes were still huge in the firelight.
“Shayla will never harm a man, even though these are the same ones who slaughtered her litters. Dragon pride compels her to honor the pact.”
“The pact with Nimbulan—three hundred years ago?” Jaylor asked.
Brevelan shrugged her shoulders. “Shayla only said there was a pact, made with all of Coronnan. She can send dragon-dreams to lead the dangerous ones astray. But to her, our lives are sacred and must be preserved.”
Superstition in the village had become perverted over the generations. That perversion now endangered all of Coronnan. Had it been directed by a single man—a lord with red hair?
“I’ll get you yet, you monstrous beast from hell! My magic will defeat you.” A loud voice boomed across the clearing in defiance.
Cleared of disguise, the educated accent and condescending drawl became very distinctive to Jaylor’s ears.
Through Shayla’s eyes once more they saw the faceless rogue at the edge of the clearing. Gone were the trappings of the one-eyed beggar. They watched him gather a ball of dark red and green magic energy in his hands. With a mighty effort of broad shoulders and strong arms, he hurled it toward the sky.
Shayla sent forth a magnificent burst of bright green dragon fire. Flames engulfed the magic ball, then shattered it into myriad starry sparks. The pinpoints of light drifted harmlessly to the ground.
Puny man. Shayla dismissed him with another lick of flame. The rogue disappeared into the sheltering trees. One last lashing of flames followed him away from the clearing.
“Thank you, Shayla.” Jaylor formed the words in his head as he spoke. Brevelan’s eyes were closed and he sensed her joining her gratitude to his.
We must settle this. Bring the golden wolf to my lair.
“Can’t you just land in the clearing?” Brevelan asked.
The evil one may return. I am not safe on the ground. Bring the wolf to me. Close the path behind you.
“How will we find you? The mountain is huge, the trails difficult.” Brevelan’s voice shook.
Follow the path that only you can find. Blur your trail so he does not follow. Shayla’s imagery disappeared from both their heads.
Jaylor looked to Brevelan and the wolf. She still clutched the animal to her. Wolf seemed perfectly happy there, his head nestling between her breasts.
If only she could learn to love Jaylor as much as she did this scruffy beast.
“Call your journeymen home, Baamin.” King Darcine basked in his flower garden the morning after the ball. The spring sunshine flooded the bench he had chosen for this interview with his magician.
“Is that wise, Your Grace?” Baamin hedged.
“The dragons are protecting my son. They will return him when the time is right. I am well now and have the kingdom under control.” The king closed his eyes as he turned his face to the source of the warmth. He looked like a contented cat napping in the sunshine. He’d gained a little weight this past week, lost a little of the gauntness.
“When did you learn that your son would be returned by the dragons?” Baamin mistrusted any predictions that didn’t come from his own glass. A glass that had been dark and silent since the appearance of the beast-headed monster. The monster couldn’t be the same rogue who plagued Jaylor’s footsteps. No magician, no matter how powerful, could traverse such distances so quickly. Nimbulan had bewailed his inability to transport himself after he’d had to exile his own wife.
How much of the king’s “control” was mere illusion created by the rogue?
Baamin’s magic faded more each day. He could probably summon enough magic to throw a truth spell at the king. If he dared.
Long years of friendship and respect, as well as fear of the monster, stilled his desire to use magic.
“My cousin, Krej, told me in a dream last night. He assured me Darville is safe. The dragons need him for a while. We are not in a position to question the dragons.” The king seemed once more a regal monarch instead of an ailing old man.
“How does Krej know so much about dragons? He is not the keeper of their lore.”
“You forget, he carries the same royal blood in his veins as I do!”
“His mother is an outland princess, from SeLenicca with ties to Hanassa. Your mother, Your Grace, was a noble lady of Coronnan. The royal blood is purer in you.” Baamin took a step away from his king. He didn’t have to throw a truth spell to see an aura. But he did need space. The king’s colors fluctuated and shimmered in and out of visibility. Darcine was not in control of his own emotions, let alone the kingdom. His health and resolve came from somewhere else.
“Does Lord Krej speak to you often in your dreams?”
“Lately he comes to me almost every night.” The aura flared red with anger, then settled into a mild rainbow dominated by shades of green and red, the colors of Krej’s crest.
“Lately?” Since dragon magic was on the wane and a rogue wandered Krej’s province freely. “What about before?” Baamin prodded.
The king looked sharply at his magician. The aura flared once more, this time with the yellow of uncertainty. Clearly he had not thought about this often. “Ever since Krej was a teenager at the University he has advised me through my dreams. Never often. Just when I really needed his wisdom.”
“Your Grace, with the prince gone, your cousin Krej is the next heir. He is ambitious. Can you trust him so completely?” Baamin offered in his mild way. He had learned long ago it was not wise to be aggressive with Darcine. He tended to resent the trait in others when he had so little aggression in his own soul.
“Krej has only the welfare of the kingdom in his heart. He will do what is best. He tells me the truth.”
“But perhaps not all of the truth.”
“You defame a member of the royal family, magician.” The king’s back straightened indignantly. The aura faded, as if masked.
Or armored.
“I am sworn to defend the kingdom, Your Grace.” Baamin swallowed deeply. Who had armored the king’s aura? Was the monster eavesdropping on Baamin’s very thoughts? “Our best defense now lies with your son. I cannot order my journeymen home until the prince is returned.”
“You speak of defense. The border will do that. You need only obey your king.” Darcine’s meager strength seemed to wane a little as the sun slid behind a fluffy cloud.
“There are not enough dragons left to maintain the border.”
“Explain,” the king demanded.
“Shayla has bred. She is strong and healthy, so there is more magic this week than last. But she is the only breeding female left. There is just not enough magic left for us to hold the border inviolate. I have suspected this for a long time. But the change was so gradual that no one noticed until the border refused to stay in place.” Sadness weighed his eyelids down to near closing.
So much good came from dragon magic, and not just the border. Now they would be left vulnerable to rogue magic as well as invading armies. Unless they took drastic diplomatic measures immediately. Was the marriage of Darville to the princess of Rossemeyer the answer?
That action would cause a war with SeLenicca. But if no alliance was formed, Rossemeyer promised to invade. And if Coronnan stalled, the borders would be vulnerable to both countries.
“Lord Krej has said nothing of the border to me.” Once more the king was alert and concerned. Just as he had been in his youth. “I cannot believe my cousin would not inform me of such a dire mishap.”
“Rovers have been sighted at nearly all the border crossings.”
“Rovers! Thieves and degenerates. Their women have no morals. The men will steal anything without compunction.” Outrage radiated from the king. “Have they stolen any babies yet?” He half rose, as if to commence battle with these menaces out of history.
“Not yet.” Baamin hid his concern at Darcine’s agitation. The king wasn’t s
trong enough to withstand such strong emotional upsets. “The few dragons left to us are doing what they can to defend against the Rovers with their dragon-dreams.” But that could work against the kingdom if the Rovers decided to replace their lost men with babies born to Coronnan.
“Have the marketplaces watched. Rovers are adept at hiding. But their wares are unique. If you see some of their distinctive metalwork, then you know a Rover is lurking nearby.”
“Their crafts are indeed distinctive, creative, and in many ways superior to ours. If we alert the populace to beware, perhaps we can learn something from these strange tribes.”
“At what cost, magician?”
“The border was established for a reason, Your Grace. Perhaps those reasons were shortsighted. Have we really benefited from three hundred years of isolation?”
“‘We trade with friends. We have avoided invasion. What more can we want?”
“Stimulation, creativity. Sometimes security leads to complacency. That has left us ill-prepared now that danger threatens.” And the magic faded. They had no knowledge of the rogues who had been banished and might seek revenge.
“We still have armies. We can fight off any invasion.”
“A very small number of troops who have grown soft with easy living. They are more concerned with the color of their uniforms than with how to wield a sword.”
Fashions hadn’t changed; artisans still held to traditional forms, good in their way but lacking imagination. Even at the University there had been no exploration of new techniques, not even new medicines. The secret technology of the Stargods had revealed nothing new in the heavens for generations.
Young people lacked the stimulation to grow beyond their parents. Without that growth there was only stagnation, decay, and death. Now that he thought about it, Baamin saw all the symptoms clearly. He was as guilty of complacency as everyone else.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 11
