“A bit maudlin, Jaylor.” Krej sniffed in disdain. “However, you will make a better staff than any mere piece of wood because you won’t resist the flow. You might even help shape it. Let’s get to work.”
Jaylor peered closer at the red-haired lord. If he didn’t know the man so well, he might just think Krej was touched with emotion, too.
That thought vanished with the change of expression on Krej’s face as he nibbled on the succulent leaves Yaakke had given him. His bites were small, as if he were only consuming the leaves as a necessary prelude to working magic. But his eyes took on the light of a fanatic, eagerly anticipating the heights to which the drug would take him. The second leaf disappeared into Krej’s mouth in one eager gulp.
“I need more. There weren’t enough essential oils to combat the witchbane.” His pupils dilated and began to glaze.
Yaakke squinted at Krej in the way Baamin had taught all of his students to focus magic sight. “Your aura nearly fills this room. You’ve had enough,” the boy pronounced. “Any more and you won’t be able to concentrate. You might kill Brevelan.”
“You dare contradict me? Me!” Krej roared. He lifted his hand to strike the boy.
Yaakke stood firm.
“Are you feeding magic, or are you feeding your craving?” Jaylor asked. “I followed you into a Tambootie trance once. I know the needs the drug induces.”
Krej glared at him.
Jaylor stared back.
At last they both looked at the now unconscious form on the bed. “The boy must leave. His magic might interfere.”
Jaylor nodded to Yaakke. “Go to the other side of the bathing pool.”
Yaakke pleaded with his eyes to stay.
“You heard him. We can’t take a chance on your uncontrolled magic breaking into the spell and destroying it prematurely.”
The door closed silently behind the boy’s tear-streaked face.
“What do I look for?” Krej asked in a normal tone of voice. There was only a hint of strain in his shoulders.
“Once in the void, seek out a crystal umbilical. It should be entwined with Brevelan’s copper life force.”
“One cannot cut crystal with a knife.” Krej placed a firm grip on Jaylor’s shoulder.
“You can snap it with a quick thrust.” Jaylor linked his fingers with Brevelan’s limp ones. She was cold and weak. They had to hurry.
“A clean sever could be mended with fire at a later date. I won’t allow that.” Krej focused the gold-rimmed piece of glass on the flames in the hearth. “The umbilical must be smashed into several pieces.”
Jaylor sighed in resignation. “So be it.”
One breath. A second deeper one. As they exhaled a third time, they melded into a trance.
Krej’s magic pulsed through Jaylor’s blood. A bubble of blood-red and fire-green magic worked its way from the point where the two men were joined, down his chest, into his heart. It paused there a second, blocked by damaged pathways. A little extra push from Krej and the bubble pushed through and dissolved the scar tissue, seeking direction, then sped outward along Jaylor’s arm to his fingertips and into Brevelan.
She spasmed. A second bubble followed the first, enlarging the pathway through Jaylor’s healed heart. It passed easily into Brevelan. She twitched again, less violently, accepting the magic more readily.
A third and a fourth bubble flowed in rapid succession. Jaylor was on fire, inside and out, as the alien magic fought with his own. He forced his mind clear. He couldn’t allow himself to think, or to direct the spell. He was only a staff, only a focus.
Krej’s aura grew and filled the room, overlapping everything else. From his vantage point outside his body, Jaylor saw his own aura seek to overcome Krej’s in intensity, then subside in subservience. Brevelan’s yellow and orange and copper colors were fading rapidly to gray.
The magic flowed more smoothly. The bubbles swirled through Jaylor. They spread to all of his arteries and back again. There was pain, and yet no pain. He willed himself out of his body, observing this odd feeling.
Red and green bubbles danced before his eyes. They joined in long chains and wound around and around the three linked figures in the room. The last vestiges of reality faded. The void beckoned.
The chain of signature-colored cords, pulsing with life, extended from each of them, joining with others in the void.
“Crystal umbilical,” Krej repeated.
“Separate the crystal before you break it,” Jaylor reminded him.
“There are two plaited together. One is copper, one is crystal, but they take color and texture from each other. Soon they will be indistinguishable.”
Krej directed Jaylor’s hand to the bound cords. His fingers moved with a puppet’s lack of volition and inserted themselves between two whorls. His arm tugged gently until one loop separated. Which was it, crystal or copper?
“Smash it!”
His fist came up to obey.
“Which is it?”
“It doesn’t matter. Smash it!”
Chapter 10
“Smash the cord, Jaylor. Do it now, before it bleeds all of Brevelan’s life force away!” Krej commanded.
Jaylor resisted the puppetlike manipulation of his fist. Which loop of the umbilical belonged to Brevelan, and which to Shayla? He couldn’t be sure; they both looked the same. Neither was totally copper or crystal, but a blend of both.
“Color defines and describes.” Brevelan’s words came back to him.
The separate loop under his fist was dull, fading from bright metal to lifeless clay. Deep in the twining mass of colored cords pulses another one, the same color, but glowing with brightness and vitality.
Brevelan was dying in her premature labor. Shayla was birthing her healthy brood on time. The withering umbilical at hand had to belong to Brevelan. He must grab and separate the bright one.
“Obey me, Jaylor. Smash the cord.” Krej’s words drifted through the swirls of magic. With them came the compulsion to raise a fist and slam it down onto the copper umbilical of life.
Inch by inch, Jaylor’s fist came up. He resisted, fought Brevelan’s father with all of his will. Sweat broke out on the body he had left behind. Black stars clouded his vision, both real and magic.
His hand was at the apex of its upward arc, prepared to drop with incredible force. Forcing control back into his muscles, Jaylor managed to open his fist. But he couldn’t stop the forceful downward plunge of his arm.
At the last second he diverted the momentum. He was tangled in the plait of colored cords. The blue and red one of his own life felt hot from his resistance. Krej’s maroon and green colors were slick with ill intent. The gold one, representing Darville’s loving bond to both Brevelan and Jaylor, was cool and distant.
Jaylor slid his hand deeper into the colors until his fingers closed around a tube of cold glass. The cord pulsed against his palm.
“Forgive me, Shayla,” he whispered. With one last effort of self-will he yanked on the cord until it was totally separate from the mass. Then he allowed Krej’s deadly wish to take over once more. His fist smashed the bright crystal once. Twice. A third time. Slivers of crystal danced in the glow of magic.
And still his fist came down as a hammer, breaking even the slivers into smaller pieces. Again and again he pounded the glass. His hand was raw and bleeding. Yet Krej continued to use him to pummel the dragon with years of hatred and frustration.
“Cease, Father! You’re killing the dragon,” Brevelan screamed.
Where did my rival go? I cannot find him anywhere. Always, his mind has been as close to me as a thought. Now he is gone. Armored.
This mischief must stop before the coven pushes him to the focus, leaving me behind.
I must follow the trail of his foul-tasting Tambootie, even if it takes me through the void. Our kind are not welcome there. There are traps laid by the spirits of our ancestors. They wish to keep us with them. I am not yet ready to join Simurgh.
Reality
surged back around Jaylor with a jolt. He was in the hut again. He slumped over the bed, exhausted. Both hands rested on the edge of the mattress where Brevelan had lain in agony only moments before.
“Stupid bitch,” Krej cursed. “You broke the spell!”
“You went too far. You were trying to kill Shayla or me—you didn’t care which—not just separate us.” Brevelan hung on her father’s upraised hand.
“Brevelan, are you all right?” Jaylor reached a weary hand to his beloved. She was standing, neither strong nor hale, but standing nevertheless. Her face was still paler than moonlight.
They had saved her. And the baby?
“You’ve done what you came for, Lord Krej.” Brevelan stared at the magician. Her posture mimicked her father’s perfectly. She had inherited more than just her red hair from the man. “Go, now, before I use some of your own brand of magic on you. Would you rather face the Council of Provinces as a flustercock, or,” she grinned in a manner that made Jaylor shudder. “Or would you rather be impotent?”
“Not even a thank you, for saving your life?” Krej shook himself free of her grasp as if she soiled him.
“You would have killed her had I not fought your murderous impulse,” Jaylor accused. “Get out. Now.”
“I cannot return on my own. Teach me the spell and I will gladly leave you—forever.” Krej stood firm. The fog of the magic spell was clearing from his eyes. But lines of fatigue radiated into his temple.
“Yaakke!” Jaylor called. The boy poked his head inside the door so quickly he had to have been listening, or even watching. “Find refreshment for his lordship and find out where he wants me to transport him. When I have rested, I will perform the spell.”
His apprentice nodded and winked. A big smile spread across his face. At least he understood that the source of the spell was to remain secret.
But how long would he play the game at Jaylor’s bidding?
A clump of heather quivered in the morning breeze. Darville tightened his grip on the reins and clamped his thighs tighter around the mettlesome steed who decided the movement was a good excuse to assert his will. The strong stallion tried to rear, and when that failed, he fought the bit and controlling reins with nervous dances. A lesser man would have been thrown.
This was what he needed, Darville reminded himself. A strong war-steed willing to give him a hard ride. The troop of men and officers at his back were soldiers on patrol instead of huntsmen. But the principle was the same, a wild ride through countryside in search of a quarry. Human quarry instead of beast this time.
Raiders had been sighted two days’ ride to the northwest of the capital. Too close. They must be routed out before the capital itself was endangered.
In keeping with his pronouncements to the Council, Darville had taken charge of this expedition. If only his mind were on the task instead of on Baamin’s report, he might just enjoy this battle of wills with the steed.
The old man couldn’t decide if Princess Rossemikka and Mica were one person split by magic into two bodies, or two people, each in the wrong body. A third possibility existed. One or the other was a powerful witch controlling the actions of her twin.
The heather moved again, almost unnaturally. Darville touched the tiny pewter dragon dangling from his right ear. Baamin had fashioned the talisman for him last night. Through the medium of the metal, the magician could armor Darville with protective spells.
Snooty Princess Rossemikka probably wouldn’t like his dragon any better than his cat.
“Just over that ridge, Your Grace, there should be a village. We can water the steeds while we question the folk for signs of strangers.” A middle-aged knight pointed toward a line of foothills. The leader of this century of men looked tired. His comfortable life of privilege, with the occasional ritual of military training, had been thrown into upheaval by this war.
“If the village still stands, then they haven’t seen any outsiders,” Darville reminded the man, the closest thing to a veteran in his army. “The steeds drank at the last stream, and the one before that. We’d best push on until we find evidence of where the raiders were, then follow their trail.”
Sometimes I think I am the only man in the kingdom with a grasp of tactics. What could he expect after three hundred years of peace enforced by the magic border? That he would have troops and reserves standing ready to fight any and all corners without additional training? All of Coronnan had become too dependent upon that border.
“The villagers may still have seen something,” the knight protested.
“Send two men who can be trusted not to get drunk in the local pub to question them. The rest of us will ride farther north.” Buoyant resolve lifted Darville’s spirits. “There are caves in those hills. Excellent hiding places for raiders. Let’s root them out.” Darville spurred his eager steed forward, leaving the others to follow or be disgraced.
Sir Holmes, who had been at the rear of the century, was the only one keeping pace with him. Fred had been to his left, but was now falling behind. If these men had been trained by Rossemeyer, there would be no question of their ability to keep up, or complete their assigned task.
He’d have no troops from Rossemeyer if he didn’t find out the truth about their princess . . . soon. The key to the princess was Mica; that seemed obvious. Darville wondered if his cat was safe in Baamin’s care while he roamed the countryside. Mica was vulnerable to both the whims of the Council and the princess’ venom.
“Your Grace.” A winded officer, about Darville’s own age, drew alongside his galloping steed. “You must not endanger yourself so. Please stay closer to your troops.”
“Then have your men keep up with me!” Once more, Darville dug in his heels. His face stung with the force of the wind. The air whipped past him with the cold bite of autumn. For the first time in nearly five moons, he felt strong and clean. His mind cleared and sought a path as straight as his steed’s.
He knew what he had to do. By the time he proved himself in the field with this expedition, the dark of the moon would be upon them. That was the time to find the truth about Mica and the princess.
Baamin claimed the spell was too risky without further investigation. But not knowing might prove even more dangerous.
“Aiyeee!” A helmeted man appeared out of a clump of heather, whirling his broadsword above his head.
Darville’s steed screamed and reared, pawing the air with angry ferocity. The raider lunged. His huge blade aimed directly for the steed’s exposed belly.
Yanking fiercely on the reins, Darville swung his mount aside. His own blade was unsheathed and sweeping toward the head of his attacker before either had time to think. The sword missed by a hair’s breadth.
Another raider appeared behind the first. A dozen more behind him. A quick glance over his shoulder confirmed Darville’s suspicion that his men were in disarray. Useless yells of panic surged through the air.
He whirled his blade above his head in an age-old signal to rally round him. None seemed to see or understand.
“S’murghing amateurs,” he cursed under his breath as he swung at a lunging raider. His sword bit deep and tasted blood. Red spurts erupted from where the man’s arm had been. Shock kept the raider on his feet, gasping, flailing to find his missing limb.
“Aiyeee!” Another raider jumped in front of him, grabbing for the steed’s reins.
Darville yanked his mind back to the present crisis. That raider fell with a great slashing wound to his belly.
Parry. Thrust. Rear. He maneuvered frantically to stay asteed and alive. Cavalry had the advantage over foot. Unless the mounted men were thrown into disarray by surprise and heavy losses early in the fray.
He tried again to rally his men into some kind of formation.
Off to his left, the knight who had wanted to stop at the village fell with a lance through his body. Silently, be slithered to the ground to be pounded by the hooves of his own mount. Other bodies littered the ground. The heather soaked
up their blood as if quenching a drought. The smell of blood and dust, death and pain rose around the troop. The noise deafened his senses.
“Dragon dung! A century of cavalry against a dozen raiders and we’re losing.” Darville impaled a hook-nosed man. Two teeth showed through his death grimace.
“Form up!” Darville deliberately reared his steed so his men could find him in the melee.
The young knight who had cautioned him slashed through the throng to take his position to Darville’s right and slightly behind. Holmes was at his left shoulder. Fred, in a too large helmet, fought his way to Darville’s rear. Other men won control of their steeds as they found previously practiced positions.
Raiders surged around the flanks of the wedge of cavalry. There were more of them now. Perhaps three dozen in all.
Darville dug in his spurs, brought his sword up over his head and forward. He leaned over his steed’s neck, his sword pointing ahead. Behind him, his men followed suit as they raced through the throng of attackers. The raiders laughed and jeered at the rapid retreat.
“After them! Don’t let the prince escape!” cried a huge fair-haired man sporting a square beard in the style of a SeLenese nobleman.
Darville dared a glance at this apparent leader. His chain mail looked new, and his helmet shone in the fall sunshine. He was no outlaw dependent on the spoils of pillaged villagers.
The troop’s path took them uphill. At the crest of the ridge, Darville wheeled the formation around to face his enemy once more. Without a word of command he charged back into the jeering outlaws. His men followed eagerly, their weapons at the ready.
“I want the leader alive!” Darville commanded as his sword bit into the gut of a man who dared stand in his way.
Fred and Holmes raced toward the man with the distinctive square beard. The enemy’s sword swooped and sliced into Fred’s mount. As the boy jumped free of the falling steed, Holmes removed the head of the foreign nobleman with one vicious blow.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 44
