“You have the ability to heal yourself, Darville. Jaylor won’t survive without me.”
“Then come to the capital at least. I need you near me.”
Baamin had never seen his prince so insecure, so vulnerable. Those moons of ensorcellment in the guise of a wolf had taken a heavy toll on Darville’s mind as well as on his body. These were weaknesses the prince had best hide from the Council and Lord Krej. That greedy cousin wouldn’t relinquish his regency powers easily.
“All the minds and emotions of the throngs that dwell in your city would kill me, Darville. You know that better than anyone. Let me go in peace. Please.”
Darville’s hand dropped to his side. His fist clenched tightly. A muscle in his jaw jumped. Then he bowed his head in acquiescence. “Go quickly, then. Before I lose my courage and command you back.”
Baamin nodded to his apprentice, Yaakke. The boy tugged on the harness of the left leader steed. The litter swayed and lurched as the beasts began their plodding journey. Jaylor groaned from the depths of the blankets. Brevelan turned her back on Prince Darville as she reached a loving hand to soothe the ailing magician.
“I love you, Brevelan,” Darville whispered.
“I love you both,” she whispered back.
Neither of them seemed to notice Brevelan’s cat, Mica, who crept from the shadows and parked herself on Darville’s foot.
“Merrow,” she begged for attention from the prince. He didn’t respond. “Merrower!” This time the cat rubbed her head insistently against Darville’s leg.
Baamin stared at the creature, eyes wide with questions. He swore the cat had spoken out loud, first in reassurance, then in petulant tones.
Before he could puzzle out just how telepathic the cat was, the raging arguments inside the castle spilled into the courtyard. Twelve lords, their magician advisers, and their retainers aimed for the desolate prince. Darville picked up the cat and cradled her in his arms. He stroked her fur in rhythm with her calming purr.
“Your Grace.” Lord Jonnias puffed out his round belly to emphasize his importance. “We will not countenance Lord Krej’s arrest for treason without further proof of his misdeed.”
“Further proof? He transformed me into a wolf with illegal rogue magic and left me for dead. Is that not enough?” Darville’s upper lip lifted in a growling sneer.
“By your own testimony, you did not see your cousin, Darville. You said Lord Krej had fallen behind in the hunt. The foreign rogue who actually threw the spell was disguised as a naked man with the head of a spotted saber cat.”
“A red-haired spotted saber cat,” Baamin clarified. He’d seen the beast-headed man a few times himself. “Hair as red as Lord Krej’s.”
“I was never on that hunt, Prince Darville,” Krej sneered the title. “I don’t know who was masquerading with my face, but I was with my wife, attending the birth of my youngest daughter. No one, not even a rogue magician can be in two places at once.”
“Jaylor saw Krej and his minions transporting Shayla, our beloved dragon, here. Our last dragon. We watched Krej ensorcell her into a glass sculpture.” Darville ignored his cousin and advanced on the strutting Jonnias. The pompous little man withdrew two steps for every one his prince advanced.
“Excuse me, Your Grace, but we cannot accept as evidence what your friend saw while in a magic trance, nor what you saw while still ensorcelled yourself.” Lord Andrall cleared his throat and looked at the paving stones rather than face his prince.
“Then why did we find that same glass sculpture here, in Krej’s Great Hall?” Darville growled menacingly, teeth bared. In the uncertain light his nose seemed longer, his untrimmed beard took on the aspect of whiskers. And that mane of hair! Did any wolf in the wild with its ruff bristled look more dangerous than Darville at this moment?
The cat leaped from his arms and circled warily, clinging to the shadows.
“I’m sure there is a benign explanation.” Jonnias couldn’t resist inserting one more comment. “Lord Krej is renowned for his art collection and his generosity.”
“Every last piece of sculpture in that collection was a living animal captured in stone or metal by magic,” Baamin reminded them all. “How did you come by such unique pieces of art, Lord Krej?”
“At a great deal of expense, Master Baamin. Expense lost to a careless spell that released all of the animals, not just the dragon. And now my home has been extensively damaged in the bargain.” He turned a malicious eye on the Senior Magician. “You really should train your journeymen better.”
“You won’t gain my sympathy with your sad tale, Krej,” Darville growled at his cousin. “We lost the dragons because of you. Without the dragons we can’t maintain the magic border. Rovers have already infiltrated. Our enemies are invading from the west, and you complain about some stones and mortar!”
All eyes turned toward the charred hole in the western wall of the keep. Awe struck them silent a moment as they recalled the vision of Shayla breaking free of her sculptured glass prison. ’Twas her fiery green breath that had blasted the great hole in the otherwise impregnable wall. ’Twas the all color/no color spines of her wings that had widened the opening for her to fly away from Coronnan forever.
“Without the dragons we don’t have traditional magic. We don’t have any defenses, and we don’t have our king. When you ensorcelled Shayla, you killed my father!” Darville howled and launched his body across the space that separated him from the assembled lords. His hands encircled Krej’s neck.
A torch fell and sputtered on the damp stones. Shadows rose and wavered. Colors and forms lost definition.
Feral snarls erupted from the prince’s throat. He rolled on the ground with his victim, not releasing his strangle-hold. Krej choked; his face grew red and mottled as his feet scrabbled on the wet ground for purchase.
Magical golden light haloed the combatants. Light that shone on the yellow fur of a huge wolf. Men screamed in primal fear.
Was Darville a man or a wolf? Baamin couldn’t tell anymore.
“Release him, Darville,” Baamin ordered, trying desperately to break through whatever mind haze held the prince. He fought his way to the center of the milling men, avoiding the flailing limbs and snapping teeth of attacker and defender.
A silvery-blue line of magic wandered beneath Baamin’s feet. He anchored himself to the surging power and rolled a fistful of magic into a barrier between Darville’s hands and Krej’s vulnerable throat. He was about to throw the barrier when the golden light around Darville surged defensively toward the ball of magic.
“Stargods!” Baamin breathed shallowly through his teeth. “The boy’s been infected with magic.” Instead of throwing the magic, Baamin wrapped it around his hand, like an armored glove. He reached between the two men to separate them.
Darville jerked back and away from his touch as if burned. He lay on the ground, twitching. Spittle foamed at his mouth as his upper lip continued to curl back from elongated fangs.
“Get a healer,” Lord Andrall called to a hovering retainer.
“No!” Baamin countermanded. “No magic must be thrown, even to heal.” He knelt beside the now fully human young man. Anxiously, he drew all vestiges of magic back into himself. He held one hand over the prince’s heaving chest. Red sparks bounced into Baamin’s palm. Magic sparks. No natural fire on Coronnan burned any color but green.
“What’s wrong? Why did he revert to his wolf form?” A cowering lord ventured to peer into Darville’s pain-contorted face.
“Who threw the spell to transform him?” Jonnias looked about nervously, as if expecting himself to be the next victim.
“ ’Twas no new spell.” Baamin continued his examination of the prince. “I’ve read of this. When a mundane is the victim of too much magic, his blood becomes infected. Like a disease. The emotional stresses of this night further weakened him. Exposure to any magic at all, even that of a healer, will only make it worse.”
“Can it be cured?” Lord An
drall peered over Baamin’s shoulder.
“In time.”
“Can he rule?”
“When he is cured.”
“What will we do until then? The king is dead. The prince is almost dead.”
“We have a regent,” Jonnias reminded them. “Lord Krej led us quite nicely for many moons during the boy’s absence. He is an able general, as well as a diplomat. I don’t see why he shouldn’t continue. With the Council’s guidance, of course.”
“Krej is a rogue magician!” Baamin protested. “We wouldn’t be in this mess without his treasonous manipulation of temporal and magical power.”
“That has yet to be proved, Baamin,” Krej choked a response, rubbing his injured throat. Bright finger marks were already bruising.
“A compromise?” Lord Andrall inserted himself between Baamin and Krej. “This witchbane drug you spoke of earlier. How effective is it?”
“The ancient sources claim it will neutralize a man’s magic instantly. Given in the proper dosage, the effect lasts about eight days.” A heavy dosage had been thrown at Krej at the beginning of the night’s adventures. No wonder he hadn’t armored himself against Darville’s attack.
“Then, if Lord Krej agrees to take a dose of witchbane every week, he can’t continue his magical plans, if he had any magic to begin with.” Lord Andrall glared at each of the Council members present, daring them to contradict him.
Jonnias was the only one brave enough to question the man whose diplomatic skills had soothed many a problem in the Council of Provinces. “What if Lord Krej is falsely accused and is actually a mundane? The drug could kill an innocent man.”
“Witchbane has no effect on mundanes,” Baamin asserted. “And it causes only brief pain to magicians.” He hated the thought of Krej being placed into power again. But what choice did they have? Until Darville shook off the effects of magic infection or Krej was proved guilty of treason, there was no other man of royal blood left in Coronnan.
And there were no more dragons to choose a new king. Sadly, Baamin agreed to the compromise. His eyes turned once more to the ugly breach in the stone walls of the keep. “I have seen a dragon!” he whispered to the wind. “The last dragon anyone is likely to see for some time to come. I cannot guess how this kingdom will survive without a dragon. But I can live, or die, with no regrets, for I have seen a dragon!”
Chapter 1
Dragons have hunted my people for a millennium. Our existence is bane to them. For when the populace realizes the power we wield, they transfer worship from dragons to us. To the covens.
Only the perseverance of our Nine has protected us from the depredations of the greedy dragons. All of the other covens have passed into oblivion.
Now the dragons are gone. We should send out our tentacles of power unhindered. We need to found new covens and spread our dominion through the three kingdoms, and then the world.
But Maman has left us, passing from this plane of existence into a new dimension of power. The coven is bereft. Without her central focus, the eight-pointed star has stalled, will fragment. We will lose all that we gained when the dragons departed.
A new center for the star must be found among the remaining eight. I have the potential to ascend to the focus. But I must have more power to triumph over seven. Another seeks the same.
I have a plan. Even now my power expands into the other territory, if I can recruit the new ninth, then no one will dare contest my move to the focus.
The Princess Rossemikka is the key. The treaty between Rossemeyer and Coronnan is just the beginning. I will force my princess to marry Prince Darville in spite of my rival’s interference and his attempts to claim her body.
A cold autumn wind rushed along the river from the Great Bay, warning of the rain squall to follow. The tall man lingering in the shadow of University Bridge retreated into the deep hood of his cloak, pleased to see that others in this busy marketplace also hid their faces. Except for his height and the breadth of his shoulders, he should blend into this black-clad crowd.
Since the war with SeLenicca began last spring, black had become the dominant color in Coronnan City. Not for fashion. Not for practicality or elegance. For mourning.
The man slouched purposefully. The curve of his back lessened his height and added the illusion of breadth. With luck, no one would notice anything unusual about him as he crossed the bridge to the University of Magicians.
One last time he checked the fringe of the market crowd for the ever-present Council guards. The fugitive had crossed and recrossed six bridges among the islands of the capital city. He had wandered and slunk through as many crowded squares to end his flight from the palace within sight of his starting place. Now he examined the market square on the little island nestled between the palace and the University for remnants of pursuit. The man-at-arms who had followed him from the gates of Palace Reveta Tristile should be thoroughly lost in the wynds and alleys of Coronnan City.
Three men with short swords on their belts stopped and hovered near the blacksmith’s booth. None were the man who had followed him so diligently. But they watched the University Bridge as if they knew who would try to escape across it.
They had to capture the man before he traversed the bridge. Council guards and royal armies were not tolerated at the University of Magicians.
He needed a diversion.
“Meow?” A brindled brown cat stropped his ankles.
“Not now, Mica,” he hissed at his pet. She was probably the most conspicuous cat in the entire capital. Her brown/ black/gold/bronze fur was unique. Everyone in the kingdom knew where Mica belonged and the name of her master. So he’d left her behind. And now she had found him.
If only she could transform herself into the beautiful woman of his vision in the dragon lair five moons ago. Now that would be a diversion!
In his mind’s eye he saw again the long-legged young woman with multicolored hair flowing past her hips. She raised her arms in a glorious song of freedom. Her words whispered through his mind, haunting him with a poignant message he could almost understand. Then the magic had all gone awry and the woman had vanished back into the cat body. This same cat who followed him everywhere.
“Hey, you there!” One of the three guards advanced toward the bridge.
The man retreated farther into the shadows beside the arched supports, ducking his head so the folds of his cloak became a mask. He shifted his balance onto the balls of his feet, ready to run. Mica slunk away quietly.
Heavy boots splashed through a nearby puddle, spraying him with blobs of mud. A stripling lad with wispy hair and feet too big for his body ducked and dodged as he ran through the crowd, around the ancient Rover woman who read palms, past the bridge entrance, a loaf of bread barely hidden under his ragged shirt.
“Stop! In the name of the Council, stop where you stand!” Two guards followed the boy, a lot less careful of whom they pushed aside and how roughly. A fat baker waddled in their wake. The Rover woman stuck out her foot and tripped the baker.
The tall man peeked out from his hiding place. He hoped the boy escaped. Judging by his physical condition, he needed the bread more than the fat baker. Too many people in Coronnan needed bread they couldn’t afford. The combination of war and crop failure was eating away at the kingdom’s vitality. Conditions must have worsened if the boy risked theft practically beneath the palace walls.
A crashing splash brought shouts of anger and dismay. The escaping lad had pulled the linchpin on the far side of the bridge, collapsing the span into the rushing river with the two guards on it. Merchants and customers alike, but not the Rover woman, hurried to haul the Council’s men out of the water.
The river wasn’t deep right there, as the fugitive knew from experience. He didn’t spare the men any remorse. They probably needed the bath. Two down, one to go. Then he could complete his mission in the University.
The one remaining guard shouted orders as he trudged toward the collapsed bridge, knocking over
an awning that sheltered a pile of baskets in his clumsy frustration. Other patrons of the market, led by the ancient woman in Rover black with bright purple accents, howled and shoved each other. Confusion reigned.
Altogether, a typical day at the market.
No one barred the path anymore.
The tall man slipped silently onto the bridge. A tiny brindled brown cat clung to the shadows at his side.
The hair on the back of his neck prickled as if he were being watched. He checked over his shoulder. The movement dislodged the hood of his cloak. For one brief instant his face and head of distinctive blond hair were exposed to the feeble sunlight. Even though he’d restrained his mane in a fashionable queue, the bright color, combined with his height and the presence of the cat were dead giveaways to his identity. Hastily he adjusted the folds of thick oiled wool.
With renewed purpose, he took the last two steps toward the end of the bridge, confident of his safety and success now that he’d escaped the Council guards. The future lay in the information he must impart to Baamin, Senior Magician and Chief Adviser to the Crown.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” A heavy hand landed on the man’s shoulder. “The Council requires your presence. Immediately. The flagship of Rossemeyer has been spotted at the head of the Great Bay.”
“S’murgh it!” Prince Darville cursed. “Inform the Twelve Lords of the Council of Provinces that I must consult with my adviser before I can join them. The marriage treaty carried by the ambassador from Rossemeyer is too important for me to judge alone.” He couldn’t tell the guard his real excuse for seeking out the Senior Magician when he’d been forbidden contact with the University. That was too private, too essential.
“I’m sorry, sir. I was told to bring you back to the Council Chamber without delay and without any magicians.” The soldier looked as if he wished to give in to his prince’s demands, but was afraid to ignore the order the Council had given him.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 35
