The crowd’s attention strayed from the majesty of the new king to the audacious display of bosom by his queen, Rossemikka. Her golden gown didn’t dip nearly as deep as her wedding gown had, but still, she challenged the modesty of all the other women present. Rejiia wished she dared expose so much of her own breasts. Her meek little husband and his father, Lord Marnak the Elder, had beaten and bruised her the one time she’d tried. They’d pay for that. Soon. When Darville was dead and she was queen.
If all eyes were on the queen, then no one would see the magically armored assassin make his move.
One of the acolytes ceased swinging his censer. Rejiia held her breath in anticipation as he lifted a small cylinder from the center of his incense holder. The assassin’s SeLenese beard poked through his disguise, making him look much older. Demon spawn! The armor did not work in the presence of the witchbane.
No outcry rose against the hired killer. Perhaps no one noticed him amid the dazzle of the Coraurlia and the queen’s white breasts.
A tiny dart head protruded from the bottom of the tube in the censer lid. The assassin held the tube up to his lips. He took a deep breath to blow. Rejiia filled her lungs as well, willing the poison dart to find its target.
Almost done. A few more seconds and she would be queen.
Hands reached out from beneath the dais and encircled the ankles of the assassin. One mighty yank from those hands and the hireling fell forward. Thunk! His face slapped the pavement with a hideous sound. He opened his mouth in a soundless protest and he inhaled the dart. The assassin’s eyes rolled up and his mouth foamed as the poison penetrated the delicate membranes of his mouth and throat.
Another yank on the assassin’s ankles by the person hidden beneath the dais and the body disappeared from view. No one in the crowd seemed to notice the slight disruption in the ceremonies.
Stunned by the failure of her plans. Rejiia stared at the place where her agent had disappeared beneath the dais. Jaylor, the youngest Senior Magician in history and King Darville’s childhood friend, peeked out from beneath the platform. His eyes searched the courtyard and rested on the King’s Gate where Rejiia stood.
“Dragon dung!” Rejiia gasped. “I’ve got to get out of here.”
She turned and ran down the corridor toward the throne room.
Failed! We have failed to execute Darville. What kind of demon is he to pervert fate and remain alive?
Calm. I must force myself to accept the failure and find another plan. Sooner or later the king’s luck will run out. The magicians protect him, even though I arranged for them to be outlawed. I must separate Darville from the Commune. Will they still protect him if he and Jaylor are no longer friends?
Today I must settle for rescuing Lord Krej from the dungeons. That should cause Darville some trouble. For only a magician can break the spells surrounding the cell, and the only magicians he knows belong to Jaylor and the Commune.
Yaakke slipped behind a broad-shouldered petit-noble. He watched warily as Jaylor peeked out from beneath the dais searching for someone in the crowd. If Jaylor couldn’t find his apprentice, then he couldn’t punish Yaakke for succumbing to cowardice and failing to intervene against the assassin. To protect the Commune, Coronnan, and the king was the most sacred oath of magicians.
Yaakke suspected his journeyman’s quest would be delayed once more because of his failure. A new commotion stopped him.
“Look, up there. A dragon!” A sharp-eyed priest shouted and pointed. All eyes lifted to the heavens.
Yaakke fought the compulsion to look upward as well. A vision of the court wallowing in dragon dung brought a smile to his face. He’d have to take more care how he cursed. Best he slip into the city and get as far away from his master as possible for the rest of the day. Jaylor had peered right at Yaakke and known he hadn’t done a bloody thing to save the king. Maybe by nightfall he’d forget Yaakke’s shortcomings.
He’d have to send a brief telepathic message about the smuggler when he was a safe distance from Palace Isle.
“It’s a blue-tipped male dragon,” King Darville added to the crowd’s murmurs.
This time Yaakke couldn’t resist looking up, as he eased closer to the guardroom exit. The outline of the winged creature hovered and shimmered in a shaft of sunlight over the courtyard, almost visible against the dark gray sky. The beast’s crystal-like fur directed light and sight around him, challenging the coronation crowd to look everywhere but directly at him. Yet their eyes needed to linger and seek a glimpse of the dragon.
“Grrower!” The gray overcast dissipated in the blink of an eye, as if commanded by the dragon’s trumpeting call.
Sunlight danced across translucent wings and arced downward. Rainbows sparked the Coraurlia with life and color. A giant aura spread around the glass dragon crown for all to see.
This was the Coraurlia of legend; forged by dragon fire to protect the rightful king and no other.
Lord Andrall lifted the crown high and turned within the circle of prismatic light to face King Darville. His face glowed with the same wonder Yaakke saw reflected in every face in the court. Warmth and joy tingled from Yaakke’s toes to his ears.
The dragon shifted. The rainbow followed his wing movement and bathed King Darville and Queen Rossemikka in the light of magnificent blessing.
The young king and his consort mounted the six steps of the dais amidst applause and cheers. The dancing rainbows seemed to follow them, bursting into bright auras for all to see, magic and mundane alike.
Yaakke smiled and lingered outside the guardroom. Darville deserved to be king. The few times Yaakke had encountered him, the young ruler had been kind, almost friendly. Rossemikka had to be the most beautiful woman in the kingdom, maybe in the three kingdoms.
An image of black lashes surrounding huge blue eyes flitted across his memory. Well, maybe there was one girl, almost-woman, more beautiful than Queen Rossemikka.
The procession followed Darville and Rossemikka, ready for the ancient ritual to consecrate them monarch and consort of Coronnan. An overwhelming sense of pride and joy lingered in the court. In a tradition not seen in living memory, the dragons had validated Darville’s claim to the throne.
(Come to me.) The dragon voice came into Yaakke’s head.
“What?” Yaakke whispered. Only royals were supposed to hear dragons. He looked up again, searching the clear sky for a glimpse of wing or tail.
(You are needed.)
“Did a dragon speak to me?” Maybe the dragon spoke to someone else and Yaakke merely overheard. He eavesdropped on people’s thoughts easily, why not a dragon’s?
(Meet me in Shayla’s old dragon lair. Above Brevelan’s clearing, two weeks hence.) The dragon disappeared above the remaining fluffy white clouds.
“What would a dragon need me for?” He craned his neck in search of one last glimpse of blue-tipped crystal.
(I know of your parents, Boy. Come to me and we will discuss those who left you with no name and no heritage. Tell no one of our tryst. You must not be followed.)
“Two weeks? I only need that much time if I bother taking a travel steed. I have the transport spell. I can be there tomorrow.” His parents? Maybe he had a real name after all and needn’t borrow one from history.
(No. You use the transport spell too often. Danger follows it. Steal a steed if you must, but come in two weeks.)
“Steal? What if I get caught?” A thrill of danger almost replaced the awe of speaking to a dragon. A real live dragon who spoke to him and wanted to meet with him in secret.
(You will not be caught. I will tell you of your heritage two weeks hence. No sooner.)
“If I sneak out through the dungeon tunnels, I can be out of the city before sunset.” Who would miss him? Yaakke lifted the latch on the guardroom door.
(Don’t be late.) The chuckle in the dragon’s voice reminded Yaakke of Old Master Baamin. Grief touched his eyes with moisture for just a moment.
Then he straightened his
shoulders with pride. “I’ll follow the dragon for your sake, sir,” he whispered to the memory of an old man who had cared for him when he was nothing.
(Do it for your own sake, or you won’t find the lair.)
Chapter 3
Katrina Kaantille halted her quest for a cup of milk or a cracker to stop her stomach growling. The door to the family kitchen was firmly closed. Raised voices beyond the door made her uncertain she wanted to overhear yet another fight between her parents.
Cold seeped from the floorboards into her feet. Winter had come early to Queen’s City—to all of SeLenicca according to market gossip. Just a moon past the equinox and frost made the front steps slippery every morning. She should have stopped to slip clogs over her velvet house slippers. But she’d put down her study of geometric grids for only a moment. A sudden growth spurt had made her stomach clamor for food all the time lately. Often she couldn’t concentrate for the discomfort.
“What do you mean there isn’t enough money to buy Katrina’s apprenticeship!” Katrina’s mother, Tattia, hissed.
Katrina pressed her ear against the kitchen door to listen more closely. Her entire body shivered with apprehension.
Money was hard to come by all over SeLenicca these days. Yesterday the price of milk was twice what it had been last week. P’pa had dismissed the scullery maid, valet, and governess last week because he couldn’t pay them. Cook would go next week.
But Katrina’s father, Fraanken Kaantille, was a wealthy merchant. M’ma worked as the queen’s Lace Mistress. Exporters and lace factory owners valued M’ma’s new designs. Surely her father could find enough money for her apprenticeship somewhere.
Katrina loved the fine thread work that had become SeLenicca’s primary export. She’d reached her thirteenth birthday last moon, the age of apprenticeship. Only a few weeks’ more work and she would complete the entry requirements. That future now seemed in jeopardy.
“There will be enough money. Just not right now. Upon King Simeon’s request, I’ve invested all our money in a ship,” P’pa explained.
Katrina could almost see her father place a soothing hand on M’ma’s shoulder before her volatile temper exploded.
“And just what cargo do you expect to put in the hold of that ship? The mines are played out and the timberlands are nearly barren. Lace is the only thing left to export and the queen controls every shipment,” M’ma argued. Her voice was growing louder rather than softer.
Katrina nearly winced at the acid in her mother’s tone. Talented and highly respected artist that she was, Tattia Kaantille had never learned moderation in her emotional reactions. Lesser beings were expected to jump to her commands and bow to her superior knowledge.
“But what do you make your lace with, my dear?” P’pa’s wide and generous smile shone through his voice. That endearing grin usually soothed M’ma.
“Inferior cotton and short-spun linen. Since the war with Coronnan, we can’t get any decent Tambrin. Our own Tambootie trees are too small, too tough and irregular in their fibers. And there’s barely enough of them in a few isolated spots to bother seeking.”
Katrina breathed a little easier. M’ma’s angry tones continued, but now her temper was directed toward the enemy of SeLenicca and not her husband of fourteen years.
“How much would one ship filled with Tambootie seedlings from Coronnan be worth, cherbein Tattia?” P’pa used an intimate endearment meant to soothe and flatter. His voice lifted with pride and greed. “Seedlings that will grow into thread-producing trees in a few years.”
Katrina gasped. The long, silky fibers of six-year-old Tambootie trees made the best lace in the world. One tree supplied enough Tambrin to make a hundred arm-lengths of finger lace, symmetrical insertions as wide as the queen’s ring finger was long. Of course, some of the trees would have to be saved to produce seeds for the next crop. Even so, a shipload of seedlings, once grown to proper size, but before they were mature enough to sprout flowers and seeds, could save SeLenicca and make Katrina’s family as wealthy as the queen.
But trade with Coronnan was forbidden. Military ships inspected every cargo. What if P’pa’s ship was stopped? The entire family would be in deep trouble. He’d invested all of his money in that ship. All of it?
Too excited and frightened to be hungry anymore, Katrina returned to the workroom on the third floor of the tall, narrow townhouse. Vents from the kitchen fires kept this room warm enough for the entire family to pursue their daily occupations.
Dolls and miniature clothing lay scattered around the workroom floor. Katrina’s two younger sisters had obviously used her brief absence as an excuse to abandon their lessons in keeping household accounts for playtime. The limited pictorial language of household ledgers might be all they ever learned to read, but women in the Kaantille family could add and subtract better than any merchant who might try to cheat them.
“Katey, Maaben says my dolly isn’t as pretty as hers. Tell her it isn’t so,” six-year-old Hilza wailed and tugged at Katrina’s long woolen skirt.
“Your doll is ugly and broken,” nine-year-old Maaben rejoined. “Tell the truth, Katey. Tell her how ugly her doll is. Its hair is dirty and doesn’t look blond anymore, and the eyes are dull, not blue like a real lady’s. Only peasants and outlanders have dark hair and eyes. It’s ugly,” Maaben quoted the often-heard prejudice. “And peasants can’t wear lace. Give my doll that shawl and cap!”
“Maaben, Hilza, stop it! Now get back to your lessons. I can’t waste time on such stupid squabbles. I . . . I have to work at my lace for a while,” Katrina brushed aside the grasping hands of her sisters. She needed the soothing thread work to banish the frightening argument she had overheard in the kitchen. What if P’pa lost all of his money?
She walked past the long study table to the cupboards beneath the single glass window—the greatest luxury in the house. Her agile fingers pressed the lock buttons in the proper sequence and the doors sprang open to reveal her finest treasure.
She caressed the tubular pillow stuffed with unspun wool, from sheep bred half a world away. Her hand traced the dimensions of the pillow—as long as her forearm and as thick as her fingers stretched wide. Tucked inside the center of the tube was a compartment designed to hold the strips of stiff leather that were a lacemaker’s patterns. Pinholes in a geometric grid covered the patterns, guides for the weaving of the lace. Katrina had inherited nearly one hundred patterns from her father’s mother. Irreplaceable patterns that had never been duplicated and that she alone could legally work.
The velvet-covered pillow rested in a wooden frame that kept it from rolling. Gently, Katrina carried the precious pillow and frame to the study table. She placed it in the one spot the autumn sun brightened the most. Only when the pillow rested securely in place did she remove the loose cloth draped over the top to reveal an arm-length of a simple piece of lace. Two dozen spindles of carved bone wound with thread dangled from the unfinished end of the lace.
This lacemaker’s pillow and the patterns were Katrina’s thirteenth birthday present as well as her heritage and her dowry. Gentlewomen of SeLenicca had always made lace to adorn their wardrobes. In the last three generations, lace had been elevated to a national treasure. Only the export of lace could replace the money lost from the failing mines and empty timberlands. Only lace could buy food and wine and woven cloth from abroad, for the land of SeLenicca had never been farmed.
“Can we watch?” Maaben crossed the room on reverent tiptoe. Her blue eyes widened with wonder.
Hilza crept behind her sister, moon-blond curls glistening in the weak sunshine. The dolls lay abandoned in a heap.
“If you are quiet, you may watch. I can’t think if you ask questions or argue.” Katrina caressed the first two pairs of bobbins, thrilling at the texture and wonderful lace they would produce. Engravings etched some of the thin bone spindles. She examined tiny pictures of mythical animals or the names and birthdays of the relatives indentured to the royal family SeLenicc
a as lacemakers, including herself. At the bottom of each bobbin was a circle of precious beads, some wood, others metal. The bangles added weight to the slender bobbins and kept them from rolling and twisting the thread. Only the bobbins commemorating a Lace Mistress, like Tattia and Granm’ma, contained a single, priceless, glass bead within the circle.
Peasant women who worked in the export factories couldn’t afford slender, beaded bobbins, light and smooth enough to work Tambrin and the finest long cotton and linen threads. The factory owners supplied their workers with heavy, barely sanded, wooden bobbins with fat bulbs on the ends, as well as pillows covered in rough homespun and stuffed with straw. The factory tools, including the pins, were so clumsy that only thread heavy enough so it wouldn’t suffer damage from rolling bobbins and overtwisting could be used on them. The light in the factories was poor, restricting patterns to large, open, and symmetrical designs. Katrina pitied those women for a moment. Her family was wealthy. She would learn the art of lace and design at the palace, as well as how to finish the lace onto garments. She owned her own equipment and could work at home if she chose, once she’d finished her journeywoman’s work. She also had a treasure trove of exclusive patterns to keep her work unique. These wonderful tools would grant her special privileges at court, and if she managed to design a truly glorious pattern, she could be named a national treasure.
M’ma was still working for that status. Granm’ma had achieved the prestigious title days before her death last winter.
Deftly, Katrina worked a stitch, double twist right over left in both pairs, single cross, left over right between the pairs, and push a very slender pin into the proper hole in the pattern that encircled the bolster. Then, another double twist of right over left and a cross of left over right to enclose the pin in thread. Set aside one pair of bobbins, pick up the next in line.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 67
