The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  A measure of hope warmed her heart. She clamped down on it, afraid to allow it to grow and be drowned later.

  “I have duties here, Farrell. My family, the village, this monastery. I do not think I will be allowed to leave.” She hung her head, refusing to meet his gaze.

  “They feed off your generosity, Vareena. They need to fend for themselves. You must leave this place. As you have so often dreamed.”

  “But . . .” He was right of course.

  “For the friendship we have shared these past two years,” Farrell pleaded, “promise me that you will leave this place before it curses you, as it has cursed me and countless other men over the centuries. Leave and follow your heart, Vareena.”

  “My brothers . . . They need me to care for them as my mother did before her untimely death. The villagers . . . I am their only healer.”

  “They can all tend to themselves if forced to. You do not belong here, Vareena. Your spirit is too bright and loving to be swallowed whole by your family’s selfishness. You’ve given them twenty years since your mama died. Ten of those years ago, you should have married and started a family of your own.”

  This time she could not avoid his stern gaze. His brown eyes seemed to blaze through the ghostly mist like two dark coals, lit by his fervor. Or his fever.

  She sighed a moment in regret. She’d like a family of her own. But none of the men in this village trusted her or honored her because she could see the ghosts and was destined to care for them. None of them had offered for her hand despite her handsome dowry of two cows and three chickens.

  “I promise, Farrell. When you pass fully into the void, I will take your amulet and claim the three acres of land in the province of Nunio.”

  “Good. Now another game, perhaps. With different stakes. I have won your dowry too many times to make it worth anything. Why don’t we play for the pile of gold in the library of this place?”

  Vareena shuffled the stack of wooden cartes, each one lovingly engraved with a different image and then painted red, black, green, or yellow. “The trick to winning that particular pot is the courage to enter the library to claim the gold. Neither of us will be lucky enough to lose this pot.”

  “Ah, but what need have I of gold? I am dying, and you will need much money to buy more land in Nunio. Three acres is a fine dowry but not enough to support you.”

  “Then I will bet a chicken stew, made with the pickled beets that you love so well.”

  “Not made from your three chickens. Those you must preserve as part of your dowry.”

  “Those three chickens are sacrosanct. They know it. Even my brothers know it. They refuse to gather eggs lest those haughty ladies peck their eyes out.”

  “From what I know of your brothers, they deserve whatever fate your chickens hand out.”

  “Why do you think I always send Yeenos to the coop when his temper is particularly vile?” They both laughed at the image of her tall and lanky brother fighting off the aggressive hens, feathers flying in all directions, squawks and squeals setting the entire coop aflurry.

  “I hope Yeenos takes the younger three boys with him as well. They deserve some lessons in humility,” Farrell finally said, breaking off his weakening laughter.

  In the distance a temple bell tolled twice, long and loud.

  “That is the priest calling the shepherds in from the hills for supper. I must go now, Farrell. I’ll return in the morning with your breakfast.”

  “Don’t bother, Vareena. There is more than enough stew left. Rest yourself and do something that you never allow yourself the time for.”

  “I could wash my hair.” She smiled, anticipating the luxury of a private bath beneath the waterfall half a league below the village. The cold mountain stream was warmed slightly at the base of the fall by hot springs. All the women of the village went there for bathing and laundry, but never first thing in the morning.

  “Use the violet-scented soap. I love the smell of violets on you.” Farrell lay back on his cot, one arm thrown across his eyes. “I remember the scent of violets in the spring, how the cows would trample them and the smell would fill the valley.” He drifted off into a light doze.

  Vareena packed up her mother’s precious cartes and tiptoed out of her ghost’s cell. He had chosen one in the middle of the southern wing of the old monastery. The rooms were larger here, originally intended for retired magicians and priests rather than novices and journeymen. The south-facing exterior wall warmed the room better than the small rooms of the chill north wing. As she threw her shawl about her shoulders against the spring chill of early evening, something heavy and awkward tangled in her hair.

  She batted at the offending thing and danced about, first on one foot then the other, half panicked. Her heart raced in fear of the giant spiders that hid in the dark recesses of this ancient building.

  “S’murghit!” she let loose with an unladylike curse as sharp metal stabbed at her fingers. She examined the offended digit for any trace of a spider bite. Satisfied that one of the critters hadn’t landed on her, she sucked the tiny cut until the worst of the sting eased.

  Only then did she take the time to comb her fingers through the mass of tight blond coils that never stayed in place long, no matter how many pins she used or how tightly she braided it.

  At last she freed the long piece of leather that supported a curiously fashioned piece of silver. From the center of the amulet, a bright amethyst winked at her in the setting sun.

  “You can’t get rid of me so easily, Farrell. I won’t leave you until you finally break free of the curse that traps you between this plane of existence and the void. Why is it that only the women of my family can see and care for the ghosts who need us? And there is almost always a ghost here who needs us.”

  An ill wind blows this way. Does it come from our old enemies in SeLenicca? Partly. I sense chill blasts from Hanassa as well as the capital. My easy life of observation and contemplation is in jeopardy. I must stir myself and resurrect powers I have not used in a very long time.

  I do not like change. Yet I must change in order to bring my world back to the way it was before. My safety and the preservation of my power depend upon it. Someone will die. Perhaps many someones. I care not. I must ensure my safety. For the heritage I leave my son and daughter and their descendants, I must ensure my safety.

  * * *

  “Who among you miserable excuses for apprentices can tell me which elements must be invoked in order to divert water from a free-flowing creek into an irrigation ditch? And which elements must therefore be excluded from the spell?” Master Magician WithyReed intoned to the class.

  The short and rotund magician paced in front of his students. He looked the exact opposite of what his working name suggested—as was often the case since most of the nicknames came to magicians while still apprentices.

  Of the dozen students gathered on the grassy forecourt of the University, Margit alone raised her hand. She knew the answer. She’d known the answer for weeks. Only if WithyReed offered her the opportunity to answer would she advance through the ranks to journeyman.

  Until she passed all of the tests and endured the trial by Tambootie smoke, she was stuck here in the mountain fastness where the University hid from the prying eyes of the rest of Coronnan, and the spies of the Gnuls in particular. Since she had left Queen Rossemikka’s employ as a maid, she had no other place to go.

  She wondered if WithyReed would pay more attention to her if she and Marcus had announced their betrothal before he disappeared into the wilds of the border country. No one had heard from him or from his partner Robb since . . . since before the dragons came back with Jack.

  A stab of fear to the depths of her soul for the man she loved almost shook the answer to WithyReed’s question out of her mind. Marcus and Robb often went moons without contacting her. But they always stayed within reach of a summons spell with Senior Magician Jaylor. What kind of trouble had they gotten into this time? She couldn’t even ho
pe to chase after them with half-formed plans of rescue until she became a journeyman—journeywoman—magician.

  She couldn’t became a journeywoman unless she passed the tests set before her by the master magicians. WithyReed refused to so much as let her answer a question let alone take a test.

  “Ferrdie?” Master Magician WithyReed called upon a young boy to Margit’s right. Ferrdie had been an apprentice for three years now and not passed a single test. But he, too, had nowhere else to go, having been banished from the family homestead by his father because he was left-handed and therefore must be a magician.

  “Is . . . is the answer Fire?” Ferrdie stammered. Never once did he lift his eyes to the master.

  Margit kept her hand up and tried to capture WithyReed’s gaze.

  “Incorrect.” The master magician scanned the rest of the class. “Have any of you studied the treatise written by Master Scarface some three hundred years ago when dragon magic was first discovered and implemented to save Coronnan from three generations of civil war?”

  Margit kept her hand up patiently. Learning to read had been difficult for her at the late age of seventeen. But she had mastered the arcane skill and studied all of her assignments thoroughly.

  Again WithyReed’s challenging stare slid right past Margit and alighted on a moderately talented boy in the back of the group of students seated cross-legged on the grass. “Mikkail?”

  “Air!” the boy replied with confidence.

  “Such incompetence. I expected better of you. All of you.”

  “I know the answer, Master WithyReed,” Margit said. She thrust out her chin, determined to make the man acknowledge her.

  “Since none of you can give me the proper answer, I will give you a hint. Air and Fire are linked as elements. Since the dragons fly through the air and shoot flames to cook their meat and defend themselves—not that anything on Kardia Hodos remains that is big enough to be a danger to a dragon—when a magician gathers dragon magic, he throws spells most closely linked with those two elements.”

  Margit stood up in the center of the gathering of two dozen students and faced the master. “I know the answer, sir, and the theory behind it.”

  “When a magician is forced to draw magical energy from the kardia, as we had to do until recently, then our spells must be rooted in the kardia. Now what element is left that would be linked to the kardia?” WithyReed continued to ignore Margit.

  Anger boiled in Margit’s stomach and heated her face and hands. “Kardia and Water are linked and therefore an irrigation spell must be rooted in the kardia to draw the water from its natural flow in the creek or river to the unnatural channel dug for irrigation.” She clenched her fists until her fingernails drew blood from her palms.

  “Ferrdie, have you figured it out yet?” Withy Reed acted as if Margit had not spoken at all.

  “Why do you ignore me, sir?” she blurted out, thrusting herself directly in front of him. She topped him in height by at least two finger-lengths. He could not ignore her now.

  “Sit down, girl. You are here to listen only. Females cannot gather dragon magic, so your presence in the University is temporary. Speak up, Ferrdie, I need you to answer the question.”

  Margit gritted her teeth and clenched her hands. Oh! to slam one of her fists into the pompous little magician’s face. Before she could follow through with her desires, she whipped around and marched out of the forecourt, spine stiff, hands clenched and tears pricking her eyes.

  I will not run. I will not give him the satisfaction of running from him.

  She met no one between the forecourt and the girl’s dormitory on the north side of the quadrangle of timbered buildings. Girls represented over half the apprentices. Females young and old were the most common victims of Gnul persecution. In the last three years, Marcus and Robb had brought more girls here for refuge than boys. WithyReed and the other masters had no right to pretend female magicians would evaporate and never bother them again. She fully intended to achieve journeyman status. Only as a journeyman—or journeywoman—could she even hope to accompany Marcus on his treks from one end of the country to the other. Maybe even—she dared hope—they could travel to exotic locations on other continents.

  She stepped into the room she shared with Annyia. The dark-haired child/woman had been savagely beaten and raped by her stepbrothers in an attempt to kill the magical talent they thought she possessed. They probably succeeded. The ignorant fools believed the myth that only virgins could work magic. WithyReed and his antique prejudice that demanded male magicians remain celibate until they became masters didn’t help the situation.

  Jaylor had placed Margit in the same room with Annyia, hoping some of the older girl’s confidence and determination would help Annyia break away from her guilt and depression. Margit had little patience with her roommate’s tears and frantic starts at every sharp noise.

  “WithyReed ignores me because I am female. But if I look like a boy . . . Maybe he’d forget his prejudices for a moment. Just one short moment until he realizes I know what I’m doing.”

  She marched to the little chest at the foot of her cot where she kept her few personal possessions. The blue tunic and brown trews she had worn on the trek to the University from the capital were on the bottom, cleaned and mended. Beneath them she found her dagger, the one she had used to defend herself in the market square before Jaylor recruited her as his spy.

  For a moment her memory put her back in the crowded market square on King Darville’s coronation day. She had been selling her mother’s baked goods to the hungry throngs waiting for the grand procession after the ceremony. When a foreign spy had threatened her because he did not like the spices in the sausage roll she sold him, Jack had come to her rescue. She’d been more than willing to defend herself with her knife, but Jack had diffused the anger of the crowd and discovered a dangerous plot against the king’s life at the same time.

  Later that day, as she packed up the last of the unsold food—not much, for the capital citizens and visitors had all been hungry and jovial, quite willing to send money on such an auspicious occasion—Jaylor had come to her, wrapped in an enveloping cloak of magic. She’d seen through his delusion and known him for the head of the now exiled Commune of Magicians. He’d asked her to spy for him and offered to begin training her as a magician in return.

  Apparently Jack had noticed something important about her when she stood up to the foreign spy.

  Margit appreciated the irony of the Council of Provinces trying to outlaw magic in Coronnan when their king’s best friend from childhood led the most powerful group of magicians in all of Kardia Hodos.

  Margit’s mother had threatened to lock Margit in the pantry with a cat when she announced that she would give up selling meat rolls, pasties, and baked sweets in the market in favor of serving as the new queen’s personal maid. Her mother didn’t know that Margit had learned to open every lock in the city years ago. She had only just learned that magic had enhanced her senses to allow her to do that.

  Thank the Stargods her three years as Queen Rossemikka’s maid had ended. She couldn’t stand being cooped up in the palace any longer. She had trouble breathing indoors, especially in the queen’s apartments which always smelled of cat.

  “Time to improvise.” With three swift slashes of the dagger, she cut her blond locks level with her shoulders. Then she bound her hair back into a masculine queue with a bit of blue string. She couldn’t get her clumsy gown and shift off fast enough.

  “Finding and rescuing Marcus will be much easier if I’m disguised as a boy. I certainly won’t remain here any longer than I have to. And I certainly won’t babysit any more apprentices.”

  Chapter 3

  A low rumbling ripple along the floor and walls shattered the veil of forgetfulness that encased the woman’s mind. She braced herself instinctively against the waving motion and counted to ten. At four, the quake drifted away to a memory. Her mind told her that this was not the first kardiaqua
ke that had rocked Queen’s City. Nor would it be the last. Some instinct she did not have the strength to comprehend told her that the intensity had lessened. But she could not remember how or why she knew that.

  How long had she been wandering the halls of this damaged palace without being aware of herself?

  Her stomach growled. When had she eaten last?

  She remembered nothing: not why she wandered these once-magnificent halls; nor why she haunted this huge building like a ghost, alone and lost to everything and everyone she held dear.

  Somehow that aloneness seemed almost . . . not quite, but almost . . . right.

  She imagined what the passageways must have been like when they were filled with courtiers and politicians, ladies and gentlemen who spent their days—and nights—pretending to agree with the king’s demands. Then she imagined herself, a wispy ghost, drifting behind them, eavesdropping, laughing at the truths they would never admit to themselves. The king listened to no one and those who agreed with him, more often than not, met with disfavor.

  They were all small dogs chasing their own tails in a fruitless race. But she was not part of that and never would be.

  How did she know that?

  A brilliantly colored tapestry on the wall caught her attention. Women sitting at lace bolsters concentrated deeply on their bobbins and the yards and yards of floating thread-work. The scene seemed familiar. She reached out to caress the woven picture. Her broken fingernails snagged a thread. Immediately she halted her quest to touch some part of her past through the picture and worked the jagged edge of her nail free without pulling the entire thread loose.

  Something was wrong. She stared at the dirt encrusted in the cuticle and beneath the nail. Never before had she allowed her hands to become so filthy. No lacemaker did.

  Lace.

  Her hands curved as if lifting two pairs of bobbins for an intricate stitch. The sensuous feel of carved bone and wood crawled through her. Deep satisfaction at the creation of delicate and airy fabric expanded in her lungs and gave her a sense of lightness.