“More like Mount Ohara by the size of him,” Lyman murmured just loudly enough to be heard.
“Can we get on with this?” Jaylor glared at the magicians.
Once more they linked hands. At Yaakke’s first touch, Jaylor sensed energy flowing strongly into his veins. “On my count. ONE.” Blood tingled in the back of his neck, and almost hummed with tightly controlled magic.
“TWO.” The singing flow of blood spread to his toes and fingertips and passed around the circle back into himself.
“THREE.”
The void yawned above him, waiting, calling, pulling him up and out of himself, out of Coronnan, out of life. Blacker-than-black emptiness reached on for eternity.
An almost physical shove launched him into the mind-numbing cold.
Yaakke paused long enough to catch his breath. The void was more beautiful each time he glimpsed it. Always he had sat on the threshold, uncertain where and how to proceed into the nothingness, unless he was zipping through it in transport. Now, with a strong link back to the Commune to pull him home again, he could afford to linger. He took his first tentative step forward.
Blackness swallowed him. Panic fought with his heartbeat. The silver umbilical of life that anchored him to the Commune quivered and tugged at him. He longed to follow it back to safety.
But Jaylor was out there, somewhere, searching for Darville’s wife, the pretty princess who had smiled at him once.
“Jaylor?” He called with voice and mind and magic.
Nothing.
“Master!” His voice cracked.
Then he saw it, a red and blue braid, very faintly trailing back to him, caught within his own magic web. One hand on the braid, the other reaching out in front, as a blind man’s guide, Yaakke floated forward with jerking irregularity. He had to force the image of his feet walking on solid ground. Moving through nothing sent his stomach roiling.
He looked back. His own silver umbilical was fading. The red and blue ahead was growing stronger, pulsing with vitality.
“Open your eyes, Yaakke, son of Yaacob.” Not exactly a voice, not exactly a magic probe, either.
“I can’t see anything.”
“Open your eyes.”
Yaakke thought his eyes were open. Maybe he was supposed to open all of his senses, including the web of magic armor that was always with him. He squinted and “saw” tiny pinpoints of light at each intersecting joint in the web. This was his protection, unique to him. He’d constructed it as a child, before he knew he had magic, as a defense from the older boys who taunted and jeered him for being stupid. He couldn’t break that web. He needed it.
“Open, Yaakke. Break free of your armor or you won’t survive the void.”
Reluctantly, Yaakke separated two of the pinpoints of light and peered through to the outside. Rainbows and braids pulsed with life. Colors seen and felt, heard and smelled beckoned to him. He could get lost out there.
“Open the damn thing or go back to the Commune!” That was Jaylor’s voice and mental probe.
Yaakke dropped the web, but he kept it close at hand. Those rainbows and braids were the essences of many, many souls. One never knew when those other lives would reach consciousness and reach out and grab him. He needed to explore this “place,” not stay here permanently.
“Mikka’s magic is akin to Brevelan’s—elemental. Search for the colors of Coronnan. It will be linked to Darville’s gold.”
A golden filament hovered before his vision.
“It’s bare. There’s nothing linked to it.” Yaakke scanned the umbilical as far as he could see in either direction.
“It shouldn’t be. Brevelan and I should be entwined with him, and Shayla along with Mikka.”
“I can’t see any links in any of the cords. Each one is separate, not even touching another.”
Someone yanked on Yaakke’s silver life-thread, hard. Urgent.
“BAAMIN!” he screeched. “Don’t die on me, Master. You can’t die yet. I need you.”
Abruptly he was sitting on his stool at the black glass table.
Darville flopped back in his chair, tired and hungry beyond belief. No wonder Jaylor and Yaakke ate so much. From the looks of the gathered Commune, all of the other magicians were as flagged as he was. They had poured all of their strength into Jaylor, and drained his mundane body, as well.
Except for Yaakke. His young body twitched with anxious energy.
“I have to go to him. He’ll die if I’m not there!” Yaakke wailed and burst from the room with more energy than he had a right to have left over.
Jaylor reached a weak hand to restrain the boy.
“Let him go. He’s useless in that state.” Zolltarn closed his eyes. Fatigue drew new lines in his exotic skin. He looked in better shape than the others in the room.
“I didn’t have a chance to find her. I’ve got to go back in.” Jaylor began his deep breathing to repeat the spell.
“You can’t,” Slippy protested. “It’s too soon and you are too drained. We might not be able to pull you back.”
“That’s a chance I’m prepared to take.”
“I don’t see how you expected to find one life strand in that tangle, Jaylor. Give it a rest. We can try again in a few hours. When we’ve eaten and slept.” Slippy yawned.
“A few hours may be too late,” Darville reminded them all. “Every hour we delay gives Krej that much more time to strengthen his defenses.”
“Relax, Your Grace. We’ll get Krej eventually. As for the queen, it was a political union, not like she was your mistress, someone you really loved.” The ancient magician in a faded and threadbare cloak grumbled.
“None of you will ever understand!” Darville thrust back his chair. It teetered and fell over, as he pushed himself upright with an effort.
“Mikka is my wife. My wife, s’murgh it. How can any of you wrinkled old eunuches hope to comprehend what it is like to love a woman, to need a particular woman beside you as a companion, lover, friend, and adviser?” He glared at each one of them. Only Jaylor met his eye.
“I’m going back in. I’ll find her for you. It would help if I knew what essence to look for. I couldn’t find anything resembling Mica.”
His mispronunciation of the name had to be deliberate. Jaylor knew the woman better as a cat than as the wife of his best friend.
“She is gold and copper, silver and lead. Diamonds, rubies, emeralds, sapphires, and opals. Kardia, air, fire, and water—all of the elements rolled into one. I caught just a brief glimpse of her as Yaakke pulled us out.” Darville closed his eyes as he tried to describe the wonderful mix of life that comprised his beloved.
“A dragon could find her,” Slippy grumbled.
“We don’t have any dragons,” Jaylor reminded them. “But we do have the dragon crown.” He suddenly looked excited. “The crown is more than a protection against alien spells. It is part of your link to the dragons. I’ll take you into the void with me. We’ll find the dragons and make them help us find her.”
“Wait!” Zolltarn cautioned. “You’re too tired, Jaylor. If the void claims you now, you’ll never come back. I won’t be responsible for Brevelan’s wrath if that happens.”
“But I’ve been in the void with the dragons on two occasions. They know me. They respond to me.”
“All the more reason not to go back again so soon. The dragons are possessive. They’ll keep you.”
“He’s right,” Darville agreed. “Remember the time you overdosed on the Tambootie?” He looked at his friend with a great deal of pain and pleasure in that memory. “We nearly lost you. While you soared with the dragons, you wanted to break all ties to Coronnan and your mortal body.”
“Until Brevelan’s love reached up and enticed me back.”
Darville had been a part of that call, too. From the distance of several moons later, they were both too embarrassed to face the aftermath of that night—all three of them in bed together, Brevelan pregnant by one of them. Which one?
>
“Gentlemen, there is an easier way,” Zolltarn announced. Every eye in the room turned to him. “We can construct a ritual that draws magic from all life, not just dragons. A ritual will require less than half the energy and will bind us all together so that no one gets lost in the void.”
“Another eight-pointed star? There are thirteen of us here,” Jaylor looked skeptical.
“All the better. Eight points, with a ninth for the center, taps ancient and arcane powers that require more of our souls than we are willing to give at this point. Twelve points, with a mundane center, is rooted to the very essence of Coronnan.”
“What makes you think I trust you to conduct such a ritual?” Darville asked. “I don’t doubt that you wish to find Mikka. But your reasons for helping us, when you and your people have been outcasts for generations, is beyond me.”
“The void stripped us all of outer shells. Could any of you detect dishonesty in me?” Zolltarn spread his hands, palms upward in appeal to the other magicians.
“I wasn’t looking,” Jaylor admitted.
“I saw your loyalty to the spell, Zolltarn.” Slippy leaned closer to the Rover, peering at him with slitted eyes. A truth spell brushed them both, negated by the other’s magic. “But you have other loyalties, as well.”
“Lord Krej and his sister, Janataea, have betrayed me,” Zolltarn defended himself. “I admit to ruthless ambition on my part, for me and my tribe. But even I will not degenerate into the ancient practice of human sacrifice to please the pagan god, Simurgh.”
Terrified silence rang around the room.
Chapter 31
Why hasn’t Rosie come into heat? The time has come and gone, but still she hides. Any normal cat would be seeking the company of a male, any male, rather than go through the torment of a mating urge without one. My weakling brother has retired again, rather than seek her out in the dungeons and tunnels of this rat’s maze of a castle.
Perhaps the shock of our kidnap has delayed Rosie’s normal cycles. I shan’t worry. She will come out when she is ripe.
The kidnap! What a glorious flight. I never believed in the god Simurgh, not like Maman did. Yet now, now he has granted me the power to achieve what I must. My faith is restored.
But Krej does not believe in anything. He uses people and gods for his own ends. He is becoming more and more like Mother’s husband. I always assumed we had the same father. Mother loathed her husband. She returned to her lover, my father, in Hanassa often. My father should have been Krej’s father. But now I wonder. Krej grows weaker of will, he strays from the purpose of the coven. That sniveling lord, Dratourelle, who married Mother, must be my brother’s father.
I only need Krej a little longer. As soon as he impregnates Rosie, I shall offer him to the altar of Simurgh. I shall offer the entire coven in sacrifice. I don’t need them any longer.
All I need is the Tambootie and Simurgh.
The door to Baamin’s bedroom flew open with a bang. Brevelan looked up at Yaakke with annoyance. Not that the boy’s careless and noisy burst of energy would affect Baamin. The old man was even now sliding deeper into his final sleep.
“I can’t let him die yet!” Magic radiated from the boy in visible waves. His aura extended toward the limp figure on the bed.
“You’ve got to let him go, Yaakke.” Brevelan rose swiftly, grabbing Yaakke’s shoulders. “His heart is worn out. He can’t be healed, believe me, I’ve tried.” She shook him to distract him from his projected spell.
“But I can lend him strength. I can support him until . . . until . . .” he broke off in a sob.
“He can’t be healed, Yaakke. All we can do is wait and project our love so that he can die in peace.”
“But I need him!”
“The entire kingdom needs him. But there is nothing we can do.”
“Darcine?” Baamin called to his friend, Darville’s father, who had been dead nearly seven moons. His voice was frail, barely more than a whisper.
Brevelan stilled her entire body in eerie surprise.
“Darcine?” Baamin called again. “I have seen her.” A smile curved his bloodless lips.
Cautiously, Brevelan approached the bed. The old man’s hand twitched. She grasped it lightly, pouring love and strength and healing into him.
“I have seen a dragon.” He stopped speaking, but his lips kept moving.
Brevelan leaned closer to catch his whispers.
“All these years, I never saw a dragon. But I saw Shayla!”
And he slipped away.
Tears trembled in Brevelan’s eyes.
“I can lend him my body.” Yaakke grabbed Baamin’s lifeless hand away from her.
“NO! Look what happened to the magicians who borrowed magic from Krej. They disintegrated very rapidly and very painfully. They are aging before the eyes of their guards. The remaining three will be dead by dawn. How much worse would it be to borrow an entire life. Do you want the same thing to happen to you? There is no way you can both survive.” She choked back a sob as the pain crowding her heart suddenly burst and dissipated.
The last of Baamin’s emotions passed through her. There was a moment of emptiness. Then, miraculously, a wonderful joy flooded her.
Brevelan looked at the wasted body of an old, old man, stunned. She had presided at a number of death watches. Her empathy had guided more than one spirit into the next plane of existence. Usually she encountered fear, loneliness, and regret. Inevitably, a little piece of her soul bonded with her patients and passed over with them. This was the first time she had felt such a wonderful anticipation and a restoration of her individuality—as though all the lives she had guided onward had returned the bits and pieces of her soul they had taken with them.
“Can you feel him, Yaakke?” she whispered. “Look at the smile on his face, Yaakke. Master Baamin wants to leave this reality. He’s relieved to pass on his responsibilities to younger, more capable hands. You are a part of his grand plan for our future.”
“He’s going. I can bring him back. Really I can. I know the spell.”
“How dare you!” She stayed his hand. “Such work is forbidden. You have to let him go.”
“But . . . but. . . .”
“No. I don’t care what you are capable of, Yaakke. Ability has nothing to do with right. You’ll never be a true magician until you learn the limits of what you may and may not do.”
“But I can do this.”
“There is a difference between ‘can’ and ‘may.’ Look at him, Yaakke.” She stood behind him, forcing his face to the bed where a slim shell of an old man was lost in the expanse of sheets and coverlets. “Really look at him and think about what is right for him. Not what is most comfortable for you.”
The taut muscles of Yaakke’s back crumpled. Tears streamed down his face. “What will I do without him, Brevelan? He’s the only one who ever cared about me. He’s . . . he’s like my father and mother both. He’s the only good thing that ever happened in my life.”
“He gave you a wonderful gift, Yaakke. He gave you the right to think for yourself. He gave you the skills to make decisions. The time has come for you to reach beyond Baamin and find out what your life is meant to be.” She plunked down into her chair and picked up her knitting.
Calmly inserting her needles, she resumed her rocking. The rhythm of her chair matched the flow of tears down her cheeks.
Yaakke collapsed against the bed, crying so hard his breath came in jerky spasms.
Darville settled the Coraurlia on his head. His shoulders firmed and his chin came up as he found a new balance. The weight of the thick glass and gems became a natural part of him.
Around him, twelve magicians shuffled into their places. Each carried a candle. Twelve more unlit candles marked the edge of the smaller inner circle that defined Darville’s space in the ritual.
Heavy incense smoldered in twelve censers around the circular subterranean room Zolltarn had found for this ceremony. Not a trace of the Tambootie was
present.
“We are deep within the foundations of the University of Magic. Deep within the rock and soil of Coronnan. We bond with the kardia. If the one we seek rests anywhere on rock or soil, or in a building with foundations buried in the land, she is one with us and will be found,” the Rover intoned. He moved two steps in. One step to his left he lit one of Darville’s twelve candles from the taper he carried. The scent of newly plowed fields rose from the flame.
“Rossemikka we name her. She is flower and sunlight,” Jaylor spoke his part of the ritual. He, too, moved inward two steps and one to his right. The candle he lit smelled of roses.
“A princess from the land of Rossemeyer. Her spirit soars like the kahmsin eagle of that land.” Slippy’s candle was more smoke than flames, smoke that lifted and spiraled around the chamber, like an eagle on the wind.
Each of the twelve spoke and lit a candle. Each portion of the rite defined Mikka, caught a bit of her essence.
By the sixth candle, Darville’s senses were reeling. His vision faded in and out of focus. The eighth candle nearly sent him out of his body.
“Let go, Darville. Let the scents lift you into the void,” a voice, perhaps it was Jaylor, or maybe Zolltarn, whispered into his mind or his ear. Or maybe he said the words himself.
“Dragons of Coronnan, gather to our plea. Lift us. Assist us. Set Rossemikka free!” Thirteen voices beseeched the creatures of the void.
Black nothingness. Numbing cold. Burning voices.
Darville opened himself to the void. Vibrantly colored threads tangled and wove about him. They pulsed with life, moved closer, wove away from him. A fat gold strand wound around and around him. He lifted it away from his face to better see whose life-thread intertwined with his own.
Dragons! Dozens of them, in all colors and shapes. Big and little, old and young. Invisible dragons with primary colors on their wing tips. Solid dragons that glowed with life and light and could be seen from leagues away. Every kind of dragon imaginable hovered in a glorious nimbus.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 61
