His memory called up scenes in villages between the mine and the capital. Women singing as they went about their daily chores. Songs of joy, of love, of nurturing.
In those villages the ley lines had glowed with life, like newly planted fields of wheat. There had been a few areas where the magic was stronger, where there were supposed to be villages—groups of homes and people visible to Corby, but not to Jack. Could the women have Sung a kind of armor around their homes?
Brevelan Sang all of the time and her clearing had the best protection of any place he’d encountered. Except the time he’d visited there on his way to and from meeting the blue-tipped dragon. The barriers had been down then. Because she was dead? He prayed that merely her prolonged absence had opened the clearing to him.
Men protected their families with brute strength. Women were more subtle, and perhaps stronger, in their forms of protection. Nurturing and strengthening from within.
“Sing something, Katrina.”
“What?”
“At the factory, you created a pool of magic beneath your workstation. You Sang the magic into life. That’s the power Simeon sensed within you. But you awakened it by yourself. Please Sing.” He levered himself to a half-sitting position, balanced on his right elbow, the side that didn’t hurt quite so badly.
“I have no magic,” Katrina protested. But she leaned forward, almost eagerly, to listen closer to him.
“You are a woman. Therefore you have the strongest magic of all, even if you can’t throw it in specific spells. Sing me a lullaby. A healing lullaby.”
Just then the foundations rumbled for the tenth time since Jack had been captured. The sense of a series of small collapses in the land filled him with a new anxiety. They hadn’t much time before the burned-out ley lines gave way to the pressures of the abandoned and exploited surface.
All is quiet, all is still,
Sleep, my child, and fear not ill,
Wintry winds blow chill and drear,
Lullaby, my baby dear.
Katrina’s thin voice whispered into the darkness. She nearly choked on the last line. “The last time I sang this lullaby was to my sister Hilza.”
“The one who died?”
She nodded. Then she lifted her tear streaked face and sang again, stronger, surer.
Let thy little eyelids close,
Like the petals of the rose;
When the morning sun shall glow,
They shall into blossom blow,
When the morning sun shall glow.
Then the little flowers I’ll prize
Then I’ll kiss those little eyes.
And thy mother will not care,
If ’tis spring or winter drear,
And thy mother will not care,
If ’tis spring or winter drear.
Jack concentrated on the air surrounding Katrina. He didn’t need magic to read an aura.
Healing green shimmered around her in increasing layers. Palest green of new willow shoots accompanied the first lines of her Song. Then a darker green of grass marked with dew at sunrise grew between the willow and the white afterimage surrounding her like a halo.
When she began the second verse, the white burst into yellow and the next layer, the color of mature ivy, climbed from the stone floor into the glowing colors.
Katrina came to the end of her melody and the colors dimmed but did not disperse.
“Again,” Jack coaxed, awed at the controlled power contained within this woman who knew only the magic instinctive to her gender.
The dark-eyed Rover came over the hill
down through the valley on May-day.
He whistled and he sang ’til the city rang
and he sought the heart of a lady
Katrina’s aura renewed itself with the first five notes of this slow and mournful tune. The layers deepened and Jack’s magic reached out to embrace her power. He sensed the twisting of the lock on his manacles more than heard or felt the release.
He lay back and listened, renewing his strength and his magic. Eyes half closed, he watched for any further change.
Her father forbade the Rover’s suit
Her mother wept a malady
They cried and they blamed ’til the rafters rang
Never could he love the lady.
They ran away to the forest’s lure
They refused her parents pity.
But they wept and they died, alone and poor,
Ne’er to return to the city.
The last note of the Song hung in the air, an almost visible souvenir. And then she Sang the words again. The meaning of the lyrics penetrated Jack’s weary mind. A love song. A man and a woman of different class and culture separated by loyalties and responsibilities greater than themselves. Typical of SeLenicca, the ballad was sad, pronouncing dire fates to young people who valued love over money.
In Coronnan, the song was joyful, and full of promise for the lovers. ’Twas a song he’d like to sing for Katrina—in better times and in a better place.
He allowed himself only one moment of poignant regret. Katrina sang it correctly. She could never love him. His life as a magician was destined to be more solitary than that of a Rover. Superstition would push him to the fringes of civilization, make him an outcast. Katrina deserved better.
The song built an ache in his heart as the notes climbed and lingered near the top of Katrina’s range. The dark blue-green of an everblue in moonlight pulsed at the depth of her aura.
More blue burst forth and filled the gaps. Like quicksilver, the blue energy molded and flowed up and down and around. It slid into the floor and quickly filled the gaps in the paving stones, spread and formed a network of fragile ley lines.
Baby lines that needed love and care and nurturing to grow and fully integrate with the four elements to become part of the Gaia.
Katrina brought her song to a close and slumped against the wall. The power of her spell vibrated in the air. Some of the glow in the new ley lines dimmed, but they continued to pulse and throb.
“Can you see what you’ve done, Katrina?” Jack gasped.
“I sense nothing different. Only another tremor. But this one is smaller.”
A crash and rattle of broken shutters and cracked wooden panels above them belied her words.
“Not smaller. You have stabilized the ground directly beneath us, for the moment.” He continued to stare at the ley lines. His need to be free called to them. One tiny flash of blue stretched toward him, like a feeder root seeking water.
Jack stretched out his foot to touch the line. His skin crawled as if a hundred ants swarmed up his leg.
“Ah,” he sighed in relief. He allowed the power to nourish him.
“You can open your chains now,” he said to Katrina, still drawing the magic into his starved and battered body.
The rocking tremor increased in intensity. The iron bars rattled. Shouts of alarm echoed along the corridor. Torches fell from their brackets and smoldered in the damp, filthy straw.
“I think we’d better make a break for it, Jack. This room might be stable, but the rest of the city is likely to collapse on top of us.” Katrina hastened to the door, rattling it to see if the lock had sprung.
Jack pulled one last bit of power into himself, as if drinking the last few swallows of ale after a meal. He gestured the door open and crawled to his feet.
No part of his body was free of pain. Each breath stabbed in his chest. His vision blurred and shifted focus, spinning his head in six directions at once. He used a little of his careful store of magic to reduce the pain to manageable levels.
“Don’t pass out on me now, Jack. We’ve got to get out of here.” Katrina hauled on his arm toward the exit.
He groaned from the pressure on his ribs.
The last of the blue lines withered as a nearby building collapsed in a tumbling crash.
Katrina draped Jack’s right arm around her shoulders, careful not to touch his wounded left side. Witches wer
e supposed to be left-handed—that was one way to tell a witch from a normal person. So the guards had concentrated on Jack’s left side, to weaken him further. She knew he was right-handed. Another superstition broken by fact.
Half-dragging his weight, she stumbled into the deserted corridor. The only light came from a fallen torch and the smoking straw beneath it.
As she watched, the filthy mess ignited.
“You’ve got to help me, Jack. I can’t carry you,” she pleaded with him. The twelve steps up to the next level of cellars appeared a mile high with his weight holding her back. She remembered how slippery and narrow the stone slabs were and how easily she had tripped on the worn centers.
Dutifully, Jack tried steadier steps. His right, her left, they wobbled and nearly fell.
“Together, Jack.” She paused to regain her balance. “Right, left.” They took two steps together and remained in rhythm.
They traversed the short corridor with relative ease. The stairs seemed another matter. Jack’s bare feet recoiled from the cold stone. Katrina’s torn indoor slippers didn’t insulate her feet much either.
“If I had my staff . . .” Jack looked around him.
“Here, use this burned-out torch as a cane.” Katrina picked up the nearest fallen brand. About as long as her arm, the handle was sturdy and whole. The oil-soaked rags wrapped around one end had ceased smoldering in the damp straw, but made a decent base.
Katrina stepped onto the first stair. Jack followed. They paused. She climbed. He climbed. Haltingly they rose to the next level.
“I don’t like the sound of your breathing, Jack. You sound kind of wheezy.” She paused while he took short shallow breaths, wincing with every intake.
“Got to keep going. Worry later.” Grimly he took another step, putting as much weight on her shoulders as he did the improvised walking stick. “I can’t waste magic on myself. Got to conserve it for the tasks to come.”
The cellars above the dungeons were deserted. Barrels of dried goods and casks of ale lay on their sides, some still rolling against a new tilt to the floor. Ropes of onions and garlic had been flung from their ceiling hooks. One barrel of flour had burst when it collided with a wall. The white powder was scuffed and filthy from running feet.
“Looks like a band of Rovers wreaked havoc in here,” Jack surmised.
Katrina just grunted and hastened to the next flight of stairs. She didn’t like the way the outside wall bulged and water seeped through the gaps in the stonework.
These steps were easier, because they were wide enough to hold an entire foot and had recently been scrubbed clean of cellar-damp slime. But there were fifteen of them and Jack was already tired.
As she placed her foot on the first wooden plank, another quake shook the floor. They didn’t bother counting stairs or pausing until they were at the top.
Jack’s weight dragged against her shoulders. She loosened her grasp and he slumped to his knees. A new round of coughing claimed his strength. When he was done, he collapsed into a fetal ball on the kitchen floor. Each intake of air sounded like a boat whistle.
“Please get up, Jack. Oh, please. We haven’t much time,” she pleaded.
His eyes opened. Fever bright and unfocused he mumbled something. “Water,” he repeated the sound, a little closer to a recognizable word.
Mercifully a pitcher remained upright on the long work table in the center of the kitchen. A cup rolled on the floor, handle broken, rim chipped, but the bowl was intact.
A few sips, most of which dribbled from Jack’s mouth along his cheek to the floor, seemed to revive him. He rolled to his knees but didn’t have the stamina to rise further.
Katrina placed the fallen torch into his hand once more and crawled beneath his other arm. Straining her back and thighs, she heaved him upright. They proceeded to the back door.
More painful steps up into the garden. Then a level path to the street.
Noise assaulted Katrina’s ears as soon as they rounded the end of the manor house. Everywhere, people ran screaming. Children cried. Steeds wailed and dogs howled. Fires burned out of control. Houses gaped and split, while near neighbors remained intact.
A stream of frightened citizens clogged the broad street. All headed out of town toward the hills and safety.
“The river’s broken its dike.”
“Rovers fighting the palace guard.”
“Flooding in the factories.”
“Fire in the slums.”
“Rovers looting the shops.”
Comments flowed around them. How much was fact and how much was rumor?
She turned into the crowd, hoping the press of bodies would carry them.
“Turn back,” Jack ordered.
“Don’t be a fool, Jack. We’ve got to get out of town.”
“I have to go back to the factory. I have to get some Tambrin lace to patch the dragon’s wing.” He wrenched free of her grasp, staggered and nearly fell beneath the feet of a frightened steed.
The rider hauled back on the reins. The beast reared. Iron-shod hooves lashed out.
Katrina dove for Jack, rolling with him out of harm’s way. “Idiot. You’ll be killed. You can’t make it alone.”
“Got to.” He heaved himself upright again and pushed his way to the edge of the mob.
Katrina clutched his hand rather than be separated from him. “A piece of lace isn’t important enough to risk your life. We’ll come back when this is over.”
As if to emphasize her words, the Kardia shook again. The roof of the manor they had just left collapsed, taking the walls with it.
“My life isn’t important anymore. The dragons are. I’ve got to send the wing patch to Shayla now. Before Simeon can get to her again.”
Fear tugged Katrina back into the crowd and the path to safety. But something more bound her to Jack and his cause. He was right. Their lives meant nothing if they allowed Simeon to continue in his insane path. The sorcerer had to be stopped. The only way to do that was to remove his dragon from SeLenicca.
“This way. I know a shortcut back to the river. If the flood hasn’t destroyed the building. If Simeon hasn’t found the stash of lace already. If we aren’t killed along the way . . .”
All is undone. The land rebels against Simeon. His insane obsession with the lace shawl prevents him from stopping the earthquakes. The shawl he stole did not contain the runic message he fears will prove him a bastard—not even a royal bastard. While he screams and strikes out at all near him, the walls crumble. He has drained SeLenicca and its people of life. They can no longer serve him.
I would abandon him and this cursed land, but I still need him. He can gather dragon magic in great quantities. I cannot. His dragon magic must be turned back upon its source to destroy the dragons once and for all. Only then will I feel safe enough to return to Coronnan and demand my rights as blood heir to Darville.
Chapter 36
Jack endured the trek back to the lace factory in a haze of pain, eased only slightly by Katrina’s unfailing support. Broken cobblestones tore his feet. Panicked citizens jostled his smashed ribs. Each collapse of an old ley line stabbed through his magic into his heart. He lost all sense of direction and time. Purpose alone carried him to the edge of the river.
He wished he dared summon a purple dragon. But the collapsing city and frightened citizens would be a greater danger to Amaranth than they were to Jack.
“We’ll have to use the warehouse door,” Jack grumbled as he eyed the rubble, including half of a wall from a neighboring factory, piled against the once proudly clean front door of Brunix’s factory.
Inside, all was confusion. Laborers looted the crates of lace intended for export. Barter goods against hard times to come. Two stories up in the workroom, lacemakers rushed about, packing their pillows, bobbins, and patterns—the most precious possessions they could claim. With lace equipment and patterns, they could earn a living in any city in the world.
“Brunix cheated me time and aga
in, snipping off arm-lengths of lace and not counting it in my wages,” one woman screamed. “I claim the velvet pillow and bobbins in his flat!” She dashed up the last flight of stairs.
“The outland bastard demanded I sleep with him time and again without extra pay. The law says he had to pay me extra. I claim the patterns he hides up there!” another woman said as she, too, headed up the stairs.
“No.” Katrina protested. “They’ll find the stash of Tambrin lace!” She abandoned Jack to race after her rivals.
Just then, another tremor rocked the city. The staircase shook and the railing split. The lacemaker highest on the flight clutched at the cracked wood for balance. Her weight broke the remnants of the railing. She flailed her arms and crashed to the landing by the workroom.
Katrina and the second lacemaker stopped dead in their tracks. With the railing gone, neither dared test the stairs for stability.
Jack limped over to the fallen women. He didn’t need to test her pulse to see if she lived. The awkward angle of her neck and the blankly staring eyes pronounced her dead.
“Katrina, I need the lace shawl made of Tambrin. We’ve risked our lives to get here for it. Where is it hidden?” he asked in the mildest voice he could muster. She couldn’t freeze in panic now. They had to finish this.
She looked at him with wide anxious eyes. “Up there.” Her head gestured slightly toward the apartment that covered the entire top story of the building.
One more flight of stairs, broken in places but passable, if one avoided the splintered railing. Surely he could manage one more. To free Shayla he had to endure one more flight of stairs. “I’ll get it. Meet me in the workroom.”
Lift one foot, put it down. Lift the other a little higher, put it down. He kept one hand against the wall, the other outstretched for balance. The world narrowed to the staircase and the pain in his side.
Two steps. Then three more. He collapsed, nearly blind with dizziness. A broken rib had moved and pierced his lung. He could hardly breathe.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Page 99
