The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

by Irene Radford

  The bridge didn’t sway and didn’t threaten to crumble. Beneath the walkway, the waters of Coronnan River gushed in a joyous race to the Great Bay. She tested the bridge again with one foot.

  It must be the stone foundation of the bridge that retained the fear of the people who had erected it.

  Three hundred years ago, the country had been in the grip of the Great War of Disruption. Lord fought lord. Magicians sought ever more powerful spells to aid their own battles and those of the lords. Families divided. Chaos reigned.

  The last remaining member of the royal family had slowly gathered together an army and a city. The river became their greatest defense. All of the bridges in the ancient city were replaced during that time. Each span was designed so that a single defender could pull a linchpin. The bridge would then collapse behind, cutting off any pursuer.

  It was this sense of overriding fear that permeated the bridges, even though most of the original parts had been replaced time and again.

  Brevelan sought the release device with sensitive fingertips. From the strength of the emotions embedded in the wood, she expected the defense mechanism to be clean and well oiled.

  Rust and grime flaked off on her fingers. The bridge had been neglected for many generations. Quite possibly, no one could pull the linchpin now.

  She moved on to the next bridge, and the next, forgetting the press of the populace and their unarmored emotions. In the inner city all but a few of the bridges showed the same degree of neglect. Gradually, as she worked her way toward the lesser markets, she noticed that about half of the release mechanisms had been replaced. Recently.

  As Brevelan approached the last bridge she needed to cross, she spotted a man in a small boat moored to the supporting arches. He wore a bright red tunic with gold braid on his sleeves and a jaunty boatman’s cap. His legs were encased in sturdy trews that hung loosely about his ankles.

  The boatman stared at her. His eyes narrowed in suspicion. Brevelan felt his wariness, as well as his arrogance.

  “Goodman, what brings you out on the river on a day when the current is swift and treacherous?” she asked, probing his mind to no avail.

  “Goodman!” Outrage poured from his mind as well as his soul. “How dare you demean me as a mere tradesman. I am a ranking member of the Guild of Bay Pilots.” His self-assurance was almost strong enough to convince Brevelan of his superiority.

  “Forgive me, good . . . sir.” Brevelan ducked her head in an accepted posture of subservience, which he obviously expected. “I’ve never met one of your Guild. I didn’t recognize your uniform.” From beneath her lowered lashes she scanned the bridge and the man’s boat.

  Tools and oddments of rusty metal littered the bottom of the boat. The linchpin on this bridge was very new.

  “Every citizen of Coronnan City knows the Bay Pilots and owes them proper respect. Who are you that you do not recognize the families who have kept the sea pirates and invaders away from our shores for centuries?” Even as he spoke, the man was scrambling to intercept Brevelan’s passage across the bridge.

  “I’ve just come from the country with my husband, good sir.” Mica chose that moment to wake. The noises coming from her throat were more growl than purr. “The villages aren’t safe anymore. There’re outlaws and evil magicians at every turn. We fled to the city for safety,” she prevaricated.

  “As well you should, goodwoman.” The pilot preened. “The Guild will keep the city safe, in spite of the interference of the Council and the magicians. We’d all be better off if we threw the whole lot to Sorcerer Simeon and his horde of evildoers, and left the running of the city to those of us that live and work here.”

  Mica poked her nose out from under the covering cloth and sniffed the air around them.

  “Prince Darville will lead our men to victory,” Brevelan asserted while she probed the pilot’s emotions. She could learn nothing from him. The habit of secrecy was so deeply ingrained in the man, he allowed no thought or emotion to escape.

  “If our prince is still alive,” the pilot snorted. “The Council’s got him hidden so’s he won’t try to be king and take power away from the arrogant bastards. Get rid of ’em, one and all, I say.”

  “And does the rest of the Guild agree with you?”

  The man’s eyes narrowed again, suspicion clouding them. “Why do you want to know, goodwoman? Why do you keep me here with your questions when I have work to do? Are you a spy, or mayhap a witch? I see red hair beneath your scarf. Only witches and magicians have red hair.” He took a step closer to her, his fists clenched as if he might strike her.

  Brevelan clasped her abdomen in instinctive protection of the baby. Mica growled within the basket.

  “Never!” Brevelan stood as tall and straight as she could. “Are you a spy? You, who tamper with the bridges. You are the one who keeps me here with your arrogant posturing. Move aside.” She put the full force of her magic into her glaring eyes.

  The man returned her stare a moment, then took one step back. “The Guild will want to know about you. Can’t have foreign spies and witches learning about our defenses. You’ll come with me, woman, and answer to the Guild.”

  “What right has the Guild to detain innocent citizens?” Brevelan stood her ground.

  “The Guild of Bay Pilots is . . . is the Guild!” The pilot suddenly looked confused, as if he’d never had to understand why Guild orders must be obeyed. “You’ll just have to come with me!”

  Brevelan ducked under the man’s reaching grasp. She ran across the bridge as fast as the bulk of her belly and the hindering basket would allow. The pilot ambled after her, confident his superior position in life would allow him to catch her. He was halfway across when Brevelan reached for the linchpin. He halted abruptly in his tracks.

  Brevelan moved her hand away from the shiny new mechanism the man had just installed. He took a step closer. She reached again for the release that would topple him into the angry river.

  “I can’t swim, goodwoman.”

  “My quest is honest. Outlaws and raiders stalk honest women in the villages. I don’t trust you.”

  “Yes, goodwoman.” He took a cautious step backward.

  Brevelan dropped her hand to her side. Slowly, the pilot returned to the riverbank where his boat was secured, glaring menace and retribution with each step. When he was safely ashore, she loosened the linchpin. It slid easily within its housing.

  “Don’t do that!” The pilot stared at her, aghast.

  “Can I trust you to leave me alone?” The wooden planks on the bridge groaned as she played with the linchpin.

  “I am a Guildman. My word is trusted.” Trusted, not trustworthy. The Guildman crossed himself in the manner of the Stargods. When he dropped his right hand from the gesture, he let it rest crossed over his left. A flicker of either hand would invoke the much older ward against Simurgh.

  Brevelan backed away from him. She knew she shouldn’t trust him. What few emotions he allowed to escape fluctuated wildly.

  With a low groan of wood pushing against wood, the bridge shuddered and collapsed, one plank at a time. The Guildman held up the linchpin on his side of the river. “This is the only bridge onto Last Isle. You’ll not be leaving ’afore I come back with my captain, witch,” he hissed, as he climbed back into his boat.

  Now what? Brevelan stood in indecision and near panic. Her fingers itched to throw a spell at the man. He would look very nice as a strutting flustercock. Not today. She had a Rover woman to find before the Guild caught up with her. Then she’d worry about getting back to the University.

  The image of a fat rodent appeared in her mind. Mica wanted to chase the self-important river-rat into a pile of refuse where he belonged.

  “Next time,” Brevelan promised the cat.

  “What do you mean, Brevelan went in search of a Rover woman?” Jaylor yelled for any and all to hear. The fact that Darville was within a pace of him, and he sat in the middle of the library where quiet reigned didn�
��t affect the volume of his protest.

  “Since when have I had any control over Brevelan?” Darville asked quietly. “I’m still her favorite ‘puppy.’ ” He slumped against the doorjamb.

  Jaylor knew that pose, knew the worry behind Roy’s eyes and the coiled tension in his back and thighs. He’d seen it too many times over the years.

  “How long has she been gone, Roy?” Jaylor thrust aside the tome of magic to grab his notes. If he had to find his wife and a Rover woman, he wanted the aid of the simple binding spell he’d spent a night and a day puzzling over.

  “Too long. She left before noon and the sun is now about an hour to setting. Even Old Baamin is getting anxious, and he sent her out. Oh, and she took Mica with her.”

  “Does that signify something?” Jaylor stared again at Darville’s posture. The prince was definitely in a high state of agitation.

  “Mica signifies a great deal. You haven’t seen some of the tricks she has pulled recently. There are people in my capital who would dearly love to drown that pesky cat and anyone who tries to protect her.”

  “There seems to be something you are not telling me, Darville.”

  “Some things I don’t even tell Baamin. But if you will find three women for me, I’ll let you in on all my secrets.

  “Only three women, Roy? Are you losing your touch or becoming more conservative in your old age?”

  “Neither. I have fallen in love.”

  “Last spring you were in love with Brevelan.”

  “I still am, in a way. But she is your wife now, the mother of your child. I can’t intrude on that relationship.”

  “What if the child is yours?”

  They’d never had any secrets from each other. Right from the start the two boys had been brutally honest with each other. Lies ended with black eyes and swollen jaws when they were found out.

  “Impossible. She married you.”

  “She rescued me. You know her compulsion to heal. The child didn’t affect her decision.”

  “She rescued me, too, at one time. But she refused to marry me. I can only presume she chose the father of her child.”

  “How could she tell?”

  “Women know.”

  “Does your new woman know that you love her? Do you know you really love her?”

  “I am hopelessly, irrevocably . . . passionately in love with Mikka.”

  “Mica?”

  “Mikka. There’s a difference. Now, help me find them. I’ve searched most of the capital with a troop of trusted cavalry. But my citizens don’t trust anyone in uniform.”

  Chapter 19

  Brambleberries! The last small ones of the season drooped on the vines. Yaakke plucked a handful and thrust them into his dry mouth. The sourness started a flood of saliva. His stomach growled. The berries barely filled the gnawing emptiness that was the aftermath of too many spells thrown too quickly.

  Stargods! he was hungry. He hadn’t felt this empty since his early days as a kitchen drudge and his meals were whatever scraps he could steal before the other servants found them. More than once he’d had to fight for the meager pickings and ended up bruised and supperless.

  That’s when he began listening to other people’s thoughts—to protect himself. He’d been listening for as long as he could remember, without knowing he was doing it.

  But he now knew that not just anyone could listen to another’s most intimate conversations with themselves. Nor was it polite to invade their privacy. Brevelan kept hammering at him to respect other people and remember his manners.

  No one had respected him or remembered their manners around him until he’d revealed his rogue powers! From birth until after his thirteenth or fourteenth birthday he had been “Boy,” a foundling too stupid to learn anything more than scrubbing pots. Too insignificant to even have a name. His past and his true age were lost in poorhouse records.

  Just because he couldn’t gather dragon magic.

  Oh, well, he sighed, as he grabbed another handful of berries. Brevelan had a point. He didn’t want strangers learning all of his secrets, so he shouldn’t try to learn theirs. But there were times when it was ever so convenient to know what other people expected of him.

  Yaakke scanned several of the small, uninhabited mounds of sand and snake grass that appeared and disappeared each season in the huge river. A dozen of them dotted the watery landscape between here and the mainland. Aits, the locals called these temporary islands. City dwellers ran bets as to which ones would survive the winter floods. City boys made daring games of swimming around them.

  Six aits between here and the next true island. Yaakke didn’t think he could make it that far without a meal.

  He set a new path around the brambles. His feet plodded to a sandy cove on the north side of Sacred Isle. A five-foot cliff, held up by massive tree roots, sheltered the cove from prying eyes.

  Resting on the quarter-moon beach and tied to one of those exposed roots was a rowboat.

  Instantly, Yaakke stilled his body and his mind. His personal armor snapped into place. Who could be on Sacred Isle? Priests came here to prepare for festivals. The equinox was weeks past.

  Journeymen magicians came here in search of a staff. He clutched his own new tool protectively to his chest. There were no journeymen left at the University. And only five apprentices, other than himself.

  Who else? He sought for a memory, any memory that might tell him who had left the boat.

  Guild Pilots roamed the waterways and islands at will. But this boat was plain and small. The oarlocks showed signs of wear, and paint was flaking from the sunbleached seats. No respectable pilot would be caught dead in so neglected a boat.

  Who, then?

  His mind drifted back to the spell that had brought him here. He’d sniffed for a strong concentration of magic. He’d landed on Sacred Isle, in the middle of the most blessed grove, with the remains of a Tambootie wood fire at his feet.

  Tambootie was increasingly rare and most people still considered it the embodiment of evil. He remembered Lord Krej eating two fat Tambootie leaves. Krej had been deeply involved in a rogue ritual when Yaakke had found him. A Tambootie wood fire had burned at the center of that ritual.

  Yaakke slipped back to the Sacred Grove. Dozens of bare footprints scuffled the area around the fire. A witch dance!

  Panic swelled his tongue inside his mouth. The recently uncontrolled saliva dried. Even with his wild and unexplained magic, until he’d eaten heartily and slept several hours, he’d be no match against the evil of a full coven. He dared not bring food from the University kitchens to help overcome his weakness. A witch would be able to smell the magic. But would a witch be able to tell who stole the boat?

  Probably. If the witch were still on the island. He sent out a quick mental probe, not really magic, just “listening.” The dart of consciousness spun outward in ever widening circles. He found two deer, five squirrels, one lizard, eight field mice—no nine, one was still abirthing. Birds of all description sang through his mind. Then, finally, he touched a dream. A human was dreaming of a huge bonfire of Tambootie with naked figures dancing around it. Four men, four women.

  A sniggle of guilt coiled inside Yaakke for eavesdropping on the witch’s dream. He pushed it aside. This was important, and interesting. Inside the dream the naked figures coupled and danced, taunted and coupled again with new partners, not always of the opposite sex.

  A second dream overlapped the original vision. The same dream from a different viewpoint.

  Uh-oh. Had he stumbled upon two witches?

  The two dreams wove a seductive web into Yaakke’s mind, enticing him to slumber and join with their memories. Each time two witches joined, a surge of magical energy erupted from the grove. Residue from the spells thrown by the coven during those surges was the magic Yaakke had followed during his transport across half of Coronnan.

  Yaakke’s adolescent body reacted to the erotic dream with intense interest. He listened to the witch’s tho
ughts and followed the images to the thicket where the dreamers slept off the night’s activities and the drugging effect of the Tambootie. Sheltered within the burned-out trunk of an immense oak slept a middle-aged man with a square-cut beard and close-cropped hair. He was half draped over the body of a voluptuous, auburn-haired woman. They were both naked.

  A foreigner. Citizens of Coronnan City were clean shaven and wore their long hair neatly restrained in a queue.

  This stranger didn’t seem affected by the cool river mist. Not with the woman clasped so tightly against him. Maybe they were both strangers from a colder clime. Red hair on a woman was unusual. He’d know her if he ever saw her again.

  Even as he watched and “listened,” Yaakke observed the dreamer’s body rouse while his mind continued to sleep. Witch or no, this man wouldn’t be aware of Yaakke’s presence or of the boat’s absence for several hours yet.

  Rowing across the turbulent river would be tiring. But not nearly as much as transporting himself to another island. Yaakke caressed his new staff, wondering how much easier magic would be with the tool. Maybe he should try bringing food to refuel his body.

  The witch and his lady mumbled and squirmed in their sleep. Yaakke silently withdrew from the thicket, embarrassed by their intimate display. Theft seemed more ethical than watching these two perform, or starving to death on this island of blessings and profanity.

  The baby squirmed and bounced within Brevelan’s belly. This walk across the city had taken too long. Her feet were swelling and her eyes were tired from her careful scrutiny of so many strangers. Both she and the baby needed food and water.

  Mica’s humming purr ceased abruptly.

  Cautiously, Brevelan peered around her to see what had disrupted the cat’s pleasant reverie.

  A market square spread out in front of her. It looked like any other village market: one baker, one horse-trader, one carpenter/fix-it, one barkeep, and not much else.

  Except there was an old woman sitting on a stool at the extreme corner of the square, as close to an exit as she could perch and still be part of the market. She wore a plain black skirt and kirtle, like any matronly tradeswoman. But her blouse was bright purple, her kerchief was red banded in black, and the hem of her skirt was pieced with strips of red and purple, yellow and green. In front of her was spread an assortment of mended cooking tools and gaudy, tooled silver jewelry. Her costume proclaimed her a Rover. The palm reading she performed for a succession of men, young and old, confirmed her identity.