Lace! Her world revolved around lace.
But not a scrap of it graced her night robe, shift, or the tops of her slippers. If she did not wear lace, she must be a worker rather than a noble designer or teacher. She reached up her hand to her silvery blond hair. Her fingers drifted through the long tresses without resistance. She wore no cap, nor had she braided her hair properly.
“I must find the workroom,” she resolved. “After I find something to eat and wash. Then I must plait my hair.” Two gathered braids from temple to nape that broke free until they reached the center of her back then joined into a single thick rope. That was the proper number for a worker.
“Not two plaits. Three at least.” Three plaits belonged to the nobility, and four were reserved for the queen. So if she deserved three plaits, why did she not wear any of the precious lace fabric?
“Three plaits,” she repeated. That did not settle in her brain as correct, but better than two plaits or . . . shudder . . . must she revert to the single plait of a peasant or lace factory worker until she knew the truth of her identity?
“Three plaits,” she insisted. “But first I must wash and eat.”
Her feet automatically headed down three flights of stairs to the long, long dining hall. The central table stretched out with places for fifty people. Remnants of food lay scattered about the table and floor where rodents and other scavengers had left it.
Impatiently, she grabbed one of the discarded serviettes and brushed a place clear for herself. She sat down on the tapestried armchair at the head of the table. The large chair was too large. But she knew this to be her place. The view of the room was correct, but the chair did not fit her.
Why? Why didn’t it fit? And why had she presided at the head of the table in this magnificent—but crumbling—palace.
While she puzzled out the problem of where to sit, a series of small crashes brought her awareness back to the palace. Brickwork loosened by the kardiaquake fell throughout the building. Perhaps the impromptu remodeling would allow more light to penetrate the workrooms. She smiled again. An act of nature had defied the pompous king and given her the one thing she wanted most—light to work by.
Well, almost the thing she wanted most. Knowing who she was and why she wandered the palace alone might be useful. But knowledge would come, once she returned to her lace.
More richly colored tapestries hung on the high walls of the hall, from just below the narrow windows near the ceiling, to the top of the sideboards. The one depicting the signing of a long-ago wedding agreement sagged, along with the wall and ceiling. A long rent in the fabric separated the politicians from the bride and groom.
A second tear pushed the couples representing the parents even farther away from the two centers of action.
She almost giggled at the subtle irony created by the rips.
Her stomach growled again. She needed to eat. But . . . but the servants had fled the kardiaquakes. No one would bring her soup and bread. No one remained in the palace but herself. Why had she been left behind in the exodus?
Sitting here would not help. She had to find food. A niggle of pride followed her determination to do something for herself. She’d like to see the politicians in the tapestry fetching anything without help.
Servants always entered through that door to her left and food had always been hot. Therefore the kitchen must be nearby.
Cautiously, she traced the route. Footprints in the dust told her that someone else had passed this way, several times in recent days. She placed her right foot delicately into one of them. For a moment the frayed toes of her embroidered slipper fascinated her. She shook off the thrall of following the patterns of the stitches. Her foot fit perfectly into the indentation in the dust.
A quick scan of the array of prints indicated she had passed this way at least four times in recent days.
Scattered prints next to the wall looked tiny. The impression of heavy toes and light heels indicated someone moved furtively along. A small person. Perhaps a child.
She hastened her steps, suddenly afraid of what she might find.
The end of the passage—longer than she thought necessary to ensure hot food in the dining hall—opened into the cavernous kitchen. A hearth opened from each end of the room. Each fireplace could roast an entire beast. A tall man could stand within without getting soot in his hair.
But no fire burned there now, nor had for some time. Cold ashes, mixed with fallen plaster and bricks from the chimneys, littered the floor before both hearths. Scraps of bone and desiccated meat protruded from the layers of debris. A hole in the exterior wall let in a lot of light. Too much light. She examined the jagged hole, not big enough to crawl through and too many loose bricks to be safe. The kitchen had not fared as well as the rest of the palace.
She seemed to remember a number of passages throughout the palace blocked by collapsed ceilings and bulging walls.
How long before the entire building fell on top of her?
“M’ma!” a tiny voice squealed as a grimy form flung itself at her from the depths of one of the hearths.
She looked carefully at the sobbing bundle of mismatched clothing, dirt, and cobwebs.
“M’ma, you found me. They said you died. They said I’d never see you again. They said . . .” the child sobbed into her skirts, clutching her knees so tightly she thought she’d tumble forward and crush her baby.
“M’ma? Am I truly your M’ma?” she asked in wonder. She wasn’t alone. Someone remembered her.
Then concern for her child overtook her joy. She stooped down to study her baby at eye level. Bright blue eyes looked back at her from a smudged face, still round with baby fat. Probably about three. That number felt right. Three years. Three plaits. Silvery-blond hair scraggled out of three plaits that had started out gathered tightly against the child’s head. The end of one plait was still held almost in place by a frayed pink ribbon that clashed with her red hair. The second plait had come undone and hopelessly tangled. The center plait wobbled back and forth as if the little girl had tried to fix it herself and failed.
“Are you hurt, baby?” she asked, soothing tangles away from her child’s face. The name eluded her. But that didn’t matter. They were together.
“I’m hungry.” The little girl pouted.
“What have you eaten these past few days?”
“Some of the roast. I found a turnip!” The child’s face brightened as she held up half of a withered root vegetable. Tiny teeth marks showed around the edges. She didn’t lisp around missing teeth, so she must still be very young. The number three settled in the woman’s mind more firmly.
“What a clever girl you are. Where did you find the turnip?” Her own hunger began to plague her insistently.
“Down there.” The child pouted as she glanced at a trapdoor and then back to her mother’s skirts. A cellar or pantry. More food, assuming the place had not been looted when the kardiaquakes sent everyone in flight from the city.
“You were very brave to climb down there. Will you come with me as we look for more turnips and things?”
“A rat scared me.” An almost clean thumb crept toward the little girl’s mouth.
The woman allowed the child to find what little comfort she could from sucking. Stargods knew when they’d live a normal life, in a normal home, with a normal schedule again.
Schedules.
The concept of following a routine determined by others sounded oddly comforting and right.
She stood and held her hand for the child. “We’ll protect each other from the rat, baby. You and I can do anything together.”
“I’m Jaranda. Not a baby anymore.” The baby rewarded her with a bright smile and clutched her fingers.
“Of course, Jaranda. How could I forget? You are a big girl now. Big enough to hold the door open for me while I climb down. Be sure you stand so you don’t block the light.”
“Yes, M’ma.” Jaranda stood a little straighter and took her finger out of
her mouth.
“I don’t suppose you remember my name, Jaranda?” she asked her daughter.
“M’ma,” Jaranda replied importantly.
“Somehow I thought you’d say that.”
Chapter 4
“Where have you hidden my son, Rejiia?” Lanciar asked the bottom of his ale mug. He didn’t really expect an answer. The steed-piss ale of Hanassa didn’t even quench his thirst, let alone show him any truths.
Briefly, he longed for a simpler time when King Simeon still lived to rule SeLenicca and Lanciar had only a minor magical talent. He didn’t have to think or make decisions. He only had to obey Simeon, and all the wonders of the coven surrounded him with sex and power and influence. He could love Rejiia in secret and experience the thrill of fathering a son on her while Simeon believed the child his own.
But then Simeon had sent him to seek out the man who wielded enough power within the mines to threaten the coven.
Lanciar had discovered Jack. The young magician was just beginning to recover his memory and his talent after some adolescent trauma.
And then the day came when a deep kardiaquake had collapsed the mine. Jack’s newly awakened senses had alerted him to the coming disaster. He, with Lanciar’s help, had rescued an entire team of slaves. But Simeon’s guards and administrators were caught up in the chaos; the entire complex had to be abandoned. All who survived ran for their lives. Lanciar had attached himself to Jack and his friend as ordered.
On the trail out of the mine Jack had drawn Lanciar deep into a questing spell, seeking the dragon that Simeon had magically wounded and imprisoned. During that long night on a lonely mountain pass, Lanciar’s full talent had awakened.
Now he was a master magician having to think and make his own decisions in order to survive, and able to see Rejiia for a selfish, power-hungry bitch who used everyone she came in contact with to augment her own illusion of greatness. Lanciar had to rescue his son from Rejiia’s ungentle clutches.
The kardia rolled beneath his feet. He braced himself against the exterior wall of the tavern, momentarily reliving the terror of being trapped underground in the mine with tons of kardia pouring down upon him. He owed Jack his life as well as his respect—probably the only truly honest man he had ever met.
But it was a little quake this time and did not deserve his fear. Almost a daily occurrence here in Hanassa, the city of outlaws. None of the ragged denizens of the city seemed to notice the disruption.
Satisfied that the ground beneath his feet was solid once more, he stared into the last few drops of liquid in his cup. Not enough to scry a vision of Rejiia or the child she had stolen from him. The horrible ale served here was too thick to see through anyway.
Should he drink another? Yes. The dry air within this ancient volcanic caldera that housed the dregs of the world left a constant sour taste in the back of his throat.
“Let’s try the next tavern,” he suggested to the mug. “Maybe someone there has seen Rejiia with a child. Maybe their ale tastes better.”
He strolled casually toward the next outcropping of ramshackle buildings. While he wove a slightly drunken path, he kept his eyes moving, taking in every detail of life among the outlaws, mercenaries, rogue magicians, and criminals. No innocents here, and precious few children.
Where would Rejiia have taken her baby if she didn’t keep him with her?
That was a sobering thought. What if she had fostered the child elsewhere? How would Lanciar ever find his son if she had?
A party of richly clad magicians strolled past Lanciar. He knew their profession because they all carried long staffs, some topped with intricate carvings or natural crystals, and they all wore flowing robes embroidered or painted with arcane sigils. At the center of the group strode Rejiia, daughter of the late unlamented Lord Krej, and cousin to King Darville of Coronnan. Under other circumstances, she would be the heir to Darville’s dragon throne. But her magic, her illicit alliance with Simeon, the murdered sorcerer-king of SeLenicca, and her own murderous proclivities made her an exile from her native country.
Her father’s treason against King Darville didn’t help her status either. Lord Krej had thrown one too many illegal spells in a desperate attempt to usurp power in Coronnan. His last piece of magic had been intended to turn Darville into a statue of whatever creature reflected his personality—probably a golden wolf. But the new king had worn his enchanted crown that protected him from all magic. Krej’s spell had backlashed into his own eyes, transforming him into a tin weasel with flaking gilt paint.
Rejiia had rescued the statue of her father from Darville’s dungeon on the king’s coronation day. Simeon had had custody of the tin weasel for a time. But when Jack and his companion from the mines—what was his name?—had murdered the King of SeLenicca a few weeks ago, Rejiia had grabbed the statue and taken it with her in a desperate attempt to murder Jack before he could reunite the dragons with the Commune of Magicians.
She’d failed to do more than enhance Jack’s status as a master magician in full command of his powers as she fled that battle scene in disgrace. But she’d managed to keep Krej with her during her escape.
No one knew for sure if Krej lived within the tin casing or not. No one dared probe it lest they be drawn into the statue as well.
As Rejiia toured Hanassa, she levitated the tin weasel behind her in a subservient position, much as Krej had done to her in her youth. Lanciar knew how much humiliation she had suffered under her father. Now she took her revenge.
But she needed Krej animate to fill in the missing ranks of the dispersing coven. Lanciar could stand in only one corner of the eight-pointed ritual star. He was supposed to be anchoring that corner in SeLenicca rather than here, searching for his son.
He no longer trusted Rejiia or any of the other members of the coven. He’d rather work as a solitary magician than ever work magic with Rejiia again.
Lanciar kept his face buried in his mug, pretending to be just another mercenary waiting for a war to break out until Rejiia passed. She shouldn’t recognize him with a full beard. He’d added layers of dirt to his hands and clothing to complete his disguise.
The tilt of her head, the sway of her hips, the way her black hair with a single white streak at her left temple fell in enticing waves, curling around her breasts, triggered memories of better times with her. Lanciar felt a stir of his old lust. Pregnancy and childbirth had filled out her breasts and hips without detracting from her long legs and slender waist. She ran long, elegant fingers through the white streak in her flowing mame. The eyes of every man in the vicinity followed the path of those fingers.
She didn’t need a staff to focus her magic. She had other tools.
Lanciar’s heart ached to hold her one more time. He had loved her once. But then she had tried to pass their infant son off as King Simeon’s bastard, possible blood heir to all three kingdoms on this continent. When she discovered that Simeon had been half brother to her father, Lord Krej, she had tried to tell the world that the brat died at birth.
Lanciar knew she lied. Lied more easily than she told the truth.
He hardened his heart against her, likening her to the empty mug in his hand.
Rejiia looked his way.
He raised the mug as if taking a long pull on the sour brew to hide his face from her view. He automatically armored his aura and magical signature and buried them deep inside his gut.
Rejiia and her entourage of magicians passed him by without a second glance. He saw no nannies or servants carrying her infant son. Where had she stashed the boy? Certainly not in the bottom of his mug where he looked for answers.
When he lifted his gaze once more, he noticed that Krej had dropped into the dust. The statue remained stubbornly still. Had the spirit of the man revived enough to try to defy Rejiia? Lanciar smiled at the thought of the inevitable battle of wills that would ensue.
A moment later, Rejiia paused and scowled at the statue. She sighed heavily and snapped her fingers
. The statue rose a hand’s span above the dirt and floated behind her once more.
How long before Rejiia turned her full attention to reversing the spell? Krej’s magic would give the coven a seventh magician—if Lanciar decided to remain one of them. They needed nine.
She probably would not attempt to revive Krej until she was ready to depose Darville of Coronnan and claim the Coraurlia—the magnificent dragon crown made of precious glass—for herself.
Then she’d set up Lanciar’s son as her heir.
Not as long as Lanciar lived. He planned on keeping his boy safe from the machinations of the coven.
He decided to search Rejiia’s quarters in the palace while she paraded around the city causing misery.
Rejiia’s not-so-dainty footprints showed clearly when he allowed his eyes to cross slightly. She carelessly left her magical signature of deep black and blood red in each of her footsteps. Easy enough to retrace her path. He placed his own foot atop her prints, allowing her magical signature to mask his own.
One hundred steps, and he faced the gaping cave mouth that served as entrance to the palace of Hanassa. A lazy guard propped up the wall while he cleaned his fingernails with his dagger.
He took one more step toward the cave mouth and halted in mid-stride. A band of Rover men emerged from the palace. Their leader, a middle-aged man with distinguished wings of gray in his thick black hair, followed the same footsteps Lanciar traced—but in reverse. The Rovers trailed Rejiia. Why? Up to mischief certainly.
Their leader grinned widely. Sunlight glinted off his teeth, his eyes twinkled and years of care fled his face. Zolltarn. The self-styled king of the Rovers had beguiled the hardest of hearts and wisest of mages with that smile.
Lanciar closed his eyes and still saw that smile though the image of the man behind it faded from memory.
What plot drove Zolltarn to follow Rejiia?
Lanciar’s mouth turned dry, and he wished for another drink.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III Page 44
