The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  An older man whose broad shoulders suggested an earlier athletic build gone to waste screamed, tearing his mask away. He gasped for air. More air. Never enough air. His eyes bulged. Blood seeped from his mouth, nose, and ears. His limbs convulsed. He thrashed at all who came within reach. The pulse in his throat raced until it could beat no more.

  Everyone, including the wobbling woman and the man with the sick child, ran away from the hideous sight of the dying man.

  Katie wept, burying her face against her husband’s shoulder.

  Nimbulan reached for the ailing man, needing to help him, offer him whatever healing and comfort he could. He would never reach the phantom man who no longer existed except in Katie’s memory. Nimbulan looked for Myrilandel to lend her magic to the healing effort. She couldn’t follow him into the dragon vision and didn’t see death all around her.

  Shayla noted with gratitude that Myrilandel’s daughter Amaranth also seemed immune to the dragon dream.

  Nimbulan beat his fists against the ground in frustration. He didn’t realize he touched the clean grass and dirt of Kardia Hodos rather than the smooth, poured-stone surface on the strange and dangerous world of the dragon dream.

  Quinnault held Katie back from the vision, needing to shelter her from these unknown dangers. Their daughter slept, dreaming her own dreams, too young to recognize the images.

  The fledgling magician backed away from the illusory dying man in horror but couldn’t escape the dragon dream. He ran away from the images. His instincts took him toward Yaala, though he could not see her through the dream. Shayla pressed the dream deeper into his mind so that he would never forget and would instantly be aware of the cause of this man’s death. He needed every detail imprinted on his mind so that he could relate it accurately to Yaala who stood numbly by his side, clutching his hand.

  At last, when the dead man ceased twitching, a machine looking like a giant square spider emerged from a glass doorway, gliding several talon lengths above the ground. It hummed to itself as it flashed several different colored lights over the victim. Beeping noises followed the lights. One slender arm, clawed like the giant pincer of a bay crawler, poked the man.

  The dead man could no longer respond to the probe. Then two metal arms slid out from the machine’s belly, scooped him up, and the machine glided off to an unknown destination. A second machine emerged, very similar to the first, but smaller. It sprayed the ground where the dead man had been with a foul-smelling liquid.

  Some of the deadly humors that had killed the man died in the obnoxious substance. Most. Not all. Shayla and Katie both knew now that nothing, not even all elixir distilled from the Tambootie tree could kill all of that plague.

  “Someone has brought the seeds of this plague to Coronnan,” Katie announced.

  And Shayla knew that she and the other dragons would have to break a centuries-old taboo to prevent the spread of the plague. A member of the dragon nimbus would have to go to Hanassa, the home of the renegade dragon, where the seeds of the plague lay dormant, waiting for a catalyst to bring them to life.

  Chapter 1

  Early afternoon of Saawheen, outside the meeting chamber of the Council of Provinces, Palace Reveta Tristile, Coronnan City

  Journeyman Magician Bessel skidded to a halt outside the door to the chamber where the Council of Provinces met in urgent session. He took a moment to steady his ragged breath and straighten his hastily donned formal blue robes. A gravy stain in the middle of his chest refused to stay hidden among the folds. He hadn’t worn the robe in moons. Master Scarface, head of the Commune of Magicians, usually excluded his Senior Journeyman from every meeting.

  “S’murghit! I have the right to stand behind Master Magician Scarface’s left shoulder, observing, advising,” he muttered angrily. Master Nimbulan had never treated his assistants and students as if they did not exist.

  Then Bessel straightened his shoulders. “I have to make a good impression on the master today. I can’t give him reason to exclude me anymore,” he stated firmly as he adjusted the folds one more time, trying to cover the stain. It defied concealment.

  He grounded his staff and channeled a touch of magic through it to the stain. His eyes blurred as he found the greasy molecules and loosened their hold on the fabric. In a moment brown flecks dropped to the stone floor.

  “While I’m at it, might as well get rid of the wrinkles.” A little more magic added crispness to the folds and straightened the line of the robe. But he didn’t have time to add fibers to the shoulder seams and neckline to cover the weight he’d gained since he’d worn the robe last. He looked as respectable as possible on such short notice.

  Taking one last deep breath that sounded more like a sigh, Bessel calmly opened the door of the large chamber to find all twelve lords, their magician advisers, King Quinnault and Queen Maarie Kaathliin with Scarface as their adviser, seated at the round table in the center of the chamber.

  Bessel looked at the forest of magician’s staffs standing at regular intervals throughout the room. My staff will never have those distinguishing twists and whorls within the wood grain, he moaned to himself. No matter how much magic he channeled through his tool, it remained straight and smooth. How can I ever fit in, truly belong, if I can’t make my own staff behave? Maybe if I search the library again, I can find a trick to get the twisting started. He sighed longingly as he looked at Scarface’s elaborately knotted staff.

  Nimbulan and his wife Myrilandel stood against the wall adjacent to the door with Powwell, their adopted son. Those three looked grim, almost frightened. So did the king and queen. Myrilandel, ambassador from the dragon nimbus, should be seated next to her brother, King Quinnault, not standing in near exile against the wall.

  But she was the only ambassador present. Whatever had triggered this urgent meeting involved internal matters.

  All of the most powerful people in the kingdom had gathered in one room at the same time. That didn’t happen often. Bessell couldn’t remember it happening since King Quinnault’s coronation nearly two years ago, not even his wedding a little over a year ago had brought every lord and magician to the capital city. For both events every ambassador had been present. Now only Myrilandel. Why?

  The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the rare glass windows in the chamber. In a few hours, when the last of the light left this bright autumn day of Saawheen, the Holy Day of Remembrance would begin. All of these people should be at home with their families or preparing for solemn religious rituals. Instead, they crowded into this room, whispering quietly among themselves.

  Bessel strained his listening senses to pick up the conversations, but he could not catch more than an occasional word unless he dipped into the speakers’ minds. He’d wait for official announcements rather than violate another’s privacy.

  He took one step to the right, toward Master Scarface. Powwell snagged his sleeve and shook his head slightly. So slightly, Bessel doubted anyone else in the room noticed.

  Then Bessel took one look at the Senior Magician’s scowl and decided to stand next to Powwell, well away from Scarface. The Senior Magician looked furious even before he noticed Bessel’s late entrance. The scar that gave him his nickname stretched whitely from temple to temple across the bridge of his nose; a sure sign of deep concentration or distress. He kept his eyes half closed as if in great pain.

  If I had a place to hide where HE couldn’t find me, I think I would, Bessel sent to Powwell on a tight telepathic signal so that none of the magicians in the room could overhear—especially Scarface.

  So would we. I wonder who is going to end up with kitchen duty for two moons when this is done? Powwell returned on an equally tight line. His eyes looked more haunted than usual and his hollow cheeks seemed almost gaunt with strain. He carried his hedgehog familiar in his hand rather than hidden in his pocket, a sure sign of disquiet. Since having to leave his sister Kalen behind in Hanassa last year, the familiar seemed the only being capable of giving Powwell comf
ort. Even his friendship with Yaala sometimes failed to help him.

  Bessel understood Powwell’s sense of emptiness at the loss of his only family.

  Kitchen duty is preferable to being thrown out of here with no place to go and no other magician allowed to take us in, Bessel returned, praying that he would not become the victim of Scarface’s wrath. Two senior apprentices had lost their place in the University of Magicians last moon for seemingly minor infractions. They’d been with the University almost as long as Bessel, having started under Nimbulan’s tutelage.

  Where is Yaala? he asked, noting the absence of Powwell’s dear friend, the exiled Princess of Hanassa. She should be sitting next to Queen Maarie Kaathliin. The royal couple had practically adopted Yaala as a foster sister and kept her close to them on all official occasions.

  Powwell shrugged as if he did not know, but he clenched his fist around his hedgehog familiar, allowing the sharp quills to prick his skin until a drop of bright blood seeped through his fingers.

  Who are they waiting on? Bessel tried a different line of questioning. He counted heads.

  “Excuse my tardiness. I was detained with important communications,” King Kinnsell, the queen’s father, said. He stood squarely in the doorway, waiting for acknowledgment from every person in the room.

  That didn’t take long. The leader from the mysterious land of Terrania dominated any room he graced with his presence. His aura shimmered in tightly controlled layers of color that mimicked a rainbow. No one had that bright array in precisely measured sections. Not normally. Kinnsell used his aura to project authority when realistically he had none. Even the bright sunlight seemed to concentrate on him, making his expensive golden brocade tunic glow.

  What is he doing here? Bessel asked Powwell.

  The younger magician shrugged again.

  Kinnsell moved around the huge table to stand between King Quinnault and Scarface. His posture radiated confidence and authority. He held his right hand beside him as if he curved his fingers over the knob of a short walking stick. As he gazed about the room and nodded to several individuals, he brought his hand back slightly, adjusting the angle of the imaginary stick.

  Bessel shook his head at the curious gesture. He was used to watching magicians for a signature gesture to indicate deep thought or information gathering. This hand position was new to him.

  Scarface stooped to whisper something to King Quinnault. He had to lean awkwardly around King Kinnsell to do so. The Senior Magician’s scowl deepened.

  “Now that everyone is gathered, I have unsettling news to relate,” King Quinnault announced from his demi-throne.

  Queen Maarie Kaathliin touched her husband’s hand in silent reminder of something. They both searched the room with their eyes, finally resting their gazes on Nimbulan and Myrilandel.

  “Where is Yaala?” Quinnault asked. “She is part of this.”

  “I dismissed the woman,” Scarface said succinctly. “Her information is secondhand and therefore invalid. And so is Ambassador Myrilandel’s.”

  “My sister is ambassador for the dragons. Her presence is required!” Quinnault replied angrily.

  Both Myrilandel and Nimbulan remianed quiet, eyes averted from the lords and magicians who stared at her. Perhaps they did not see Quinnault’s gesture to make a place for them at his side.

  The queen opened her mouth to speak. Before she could utter a sound, King Kinnsell spoke again. “We have enough witnesses to proceed.” He smiled and wiggled his fingers as if tapping the imaginary stick.

  Who was running this meeting? Bessel tried hard to keep his face bland and unsurprised. He checked with his TrueSight to make sure Kinnsell did not hold an invisible magical tool. He didn’t.

  “Witnesses, Your Grace?” Lord Hanic asked of Kinnsell and not his king. An edge of defiance tinged his aura.

  Bessel didn’t expect anything else from the border lord who questioned everything and withheld his vote in Council until he knew which side would win. He sided with Lord Balthazaan against the king more often than not. Hanic’s magician, Red Beetle—because his red eyebrows formed an unbroken V on his brow like the beetle with similar markings—whispered encouragement to his lord.

  “The dragons have given us a dragon dream of great importance,” Quinnault replied, reasserting his authority in the room.

  A dragon dream! Bessel stood a little straighter, letting magic enhance all of his senses.

  Whispers broke out around the room. Very few humans experienced a dragon dream. Fewer still understood the visions that seemed so real the receiver believed he lived the images generated by a dragon’s mind.

  “We have decisions to make based on this dragon dream.” Quinnault raised his voice above the babble. The attention of those present returned to him. Silence prevailed once more.

  Then, slowly and in simple words, the king related how he and the queen had taken a picnic outside the city with their friends. Quinnault related the details of the dream in compelling and minute detail. The sounds of the machines chugging out the filth that provided a breeding ground for the plague dominated his tale. Looks of horror crossed the faces of lords and magicians alike. Bessel felt a tightness in his chest and a heaviness in his gut.

  What if that terrible plague came to Coronnan?

  “He forgot the smell,” Powwell whispered. The hedgehog wiggled his nose in its funny circular motion, emphasizing the unpleasantness of the scent. For the first time, Bessel noticed a rusty coloration on the tip of his spines. Almost like dried blood. He wondered if it were natural or a result of Powwell habitually squeezing his familiar so tightly that he bled onto the spines.

  “What smell?” he asked, breathing heavily to shake off the fear of the plague and the smell of Powwell’s blood on the hedgehog’s spines. He should know if the plague had come to Coronnan. He was Senior Journeyman. He had access to information most mundanes couldn’t dream of, but this was the first he’d heard of disease run rampant.

  “The smell of the plague,” Powwell replied, still whispering. “Metallic, acidic, and yet syrupy sweet. Like nothing born on this world that I know of.” The hedgehog hunched and bristled its spines.

  “You mentioned glass, fortunes in glass windows,” Lord Balthazaan half stood, leaning closer to the king. “If Terrania is so rich and powerful to use glass so carelessly, why haven’t we used the queen’s connections to exploit their wealth?” He banged his heavy ring bearing the family crest upon the table for emphasis.

  Balthazaan’s magician adviser, Humpback, waggled his staff as if he used that medium to communicate with his lord. Then he leaned closer to Red Beetle while they consulted secretively.

  Bessel wished he could eavesdrop.

  Behind the king, Kinnsell smiled in satisfaction. He thrust his broad chest out a little, like a lumbird in a mating display. Bessel nearly forgot how short the man was compared to most of the lords and magicians. Every man in the room—lord and magician alike—kept looking toward King Kinnsell as if needing him to confirm every statement. He had become the natural focus in the room by standing above the royal couple, separating them from their chief adviser. Bessel almost believed the projected image of Kinnsell’s political power and importance to the entire kingdom.

  Then he remembered Queen Katie’s generous dowry. King Kinnsell had worked a miracle last year, creating a port city overnight out of four islands in the Great Bay; he had left Coronnan with a machine to help navigate the mudflats between Coronnan City and the port. Maritime trade in Coronnan had quadrupled since that time. How Terrania benefited from the gift had remained a closely guarded secret.

  Would that secret and the true bride price be jeopardized by the removal of that one precious machine from Coronnan?

  Get the conversation back to the plague. It’s more important than Terrania or glass, Bessel sent to Scarface.

  The Senior Magician reared his head back in surprise, glaring at Bessel angrily. Where did you come from? his startled thoughts leaked dir
ectly into Bessel’s mind. Then the Senior Magician calmly folded his hands in front of him, on the big table. You do not need to remind me of our priorities, young man. I am Senior Magician, you but my assistant.

  Scarface cleared his throat loudly, scanned the room to make certaiun he had everyone’s attention, and finally spoke. “Glass and wealth mean nothing if we all die of this mysterious disease.”

  Kinnsell pushed his hand forward, giving his imaginary stick a new angle as he frowned at Scarface for interrupting.

  “True,” Quinnault said on a sigh of relief. “We must send dispatches to all parts of Coronnan seeking information. Any unusual illnesses must be reported.”

  “And the presence of any foreign machines must also be reported,” Queen Maarie Kaathliin interjected. “Machines seem to make life easier. But one machine leads to another and another until we are slaves to them and their pollution taints all of our lives. The pollution is the food for the plague, and when it runs out of tainted air, it turns on people. We have loyal magicians who can help us better than any machine. We do not need technology to build a good life, a stable economy, and a healthy populace.”

  And as long as the magicians served a purpose in Coronnan, Bessel would have the Commune and access to their library. He didn’t want to think about a world where impersonal machines replaced a human magician.

  “Aren’t you overreacting, daughter?” Kinnsell rested a parental hand on her shoulder. His other hand pushed farther forward. The reprimand in his voice was unmistakable.

  Bessel needed to know the origin of Kinnsell’s gesture. How could he understand the man and his motives if he didn’t know why he held his hand that particular way?

  “No,” Queen Katie replied. “Our people have lived with the plague so long we no longer know the warning signs. Terrania has become so dependent upon technology her people don’t know how to, and don’t want to, live without it, even though the pollution generated by those machines causes many, many deaths,” she replied, shaking off his touch.