The stub of his slightly-askew spiral forehead horn also glowed with the identifying color—the rarest of all dragons. That all-important horn might never grow to its full length the way Amaranth kept stumbling and falling on it.
Jack had tried to match the dye to Amaranth’s pinky-purple tipped wingtips, and talons. What had happened to the dye merchant?
He took a long deep breath, anticipating the dragon magic that would soon fill him, augmenting the power he drew from the ley lines that wove a lacy network beneath the kardia in Coronnan.
“Where did you come from, Amaranth? And where is your mama?” Jack asked aloud, reaching to touch the baby. He could communicate with this dragon mind-to-mind, but Katrina could not. He’d developed a premature rapport with Amaranth when he’d tried gathering dragon magic from him in order to heal the mother dragon’s injured wing. The spell had failed, but the bond with Amaranth was sealed long before the baby was mature enough to understand it or cope with the emotions evoked. He barely had the vocabulary to communicate more than his emotions—which he broadcast loudly in a wide band.
At the moment, happiness with a touch of mischief radiated from the baby dragon.
“You must not be seen here, Amaranth. While the Gnostic Utilitarians dominate the Council of Provinces, magic and dragons remain illegal.” Jack tried discouraging the dragon. Dragon safety had always come from their elusiveness and near invisibility. Amaranth had trouble understanding the concept of danger.
“Amaranth?” Katrina squealed in delight. She jumped away from Jack and hurried to the wall where she reached up to scratch the baby’s muzzle. He opened his mouth and drooled in ecstasy. His meat-ripping fangs bent slightly backward, curved over his lower jaw at a near useless angle—damaged from one too many stumbles while the teeth were forming and vulnerable. Amaranth hadn’t made much success as a dragon.
A dozen bricks from the top of Amaranth’s perch tumbled to the ground at Katrina’s feet. She dodged them neatly.
“Amaranth, where is Shayla, your mama?” Jack asked again, worried about the safety of the wall as well as the baby. More mortar broke away from the courtyard wall as he watched. Six bricks on the top tilted precariously, ready to fly in odd directions.
He placed his hands on the wall just beneath Amaranth. His fingertips touched the dragon’s talons; enough contact to allow the dragon energies to flood him. He used the magic to shore up the wall and replace the discarded bricks.
He hoped the legend that witch-sniffers had more difficulty detecting dragon magic than solitary powers was true.
The dragon nibbled delicately on Jack’s hair. At the brief contact more magic dusted him. But it would evaporate the moment Jack ceased touching the dragon.
Amaranth squeaked something in juvenile dragon talk. Jack interpreted his emotions rather than the scattered images. He caught a glimpse of Shayla soaring over the Bay on a never-ending hunt to feed her twelve voracious babies. Amaranth had seen his mother’s absence as permission to find Jack for a romp in the Bay. And he’d only fallen on his nose twice trying to launch into flight.
“No swimming today, Amaranth.” Jack joined Katrina in scratching the dragonet. The magic filled his being. As long as he touched a purple-tipped dragon, he could use the power that traditional magicians gathered from the air. His inability to gather dragon magic in the normal way would always isolate him from his fellow magicians, despite his master status and membership in the Commune.
The flood of magic allowed him to find another weak spot in the wall. He used some of the power to strengthen more of the stressed mortar and bricks.
The magic and contact with Amaranth also told him how much the bruised horn hurt. He wanted to reach up and soothe it, find a way to straighten and restore it to normal size. But the dragon had to learn from his mistakes or he would not survive long.
Jack feared that his friend would not survive at all. According to dragon lore, only one purple-tipped dragon could live at any one time, and they were always born twins. Iianthe, Amaranth’s twin, exhibited a great deal more grace, caution, and intelligence than this enthusiastic toddler.
But Jack loved this baby and hated the idea of him being sacrificed merely to satisfy dragon tradition. If only there was some way to adopt this baby, to take him to SeLenicca along with Katrina . . .
Amaranth lowered his head for attention to his itchy horn.
“Yes, I see how big the horn grows,” Jack cooed. Though it looked more swollen than growing. “But you can’t stay here, Amaranth. You need to go home until your mama brings you to the city. You could get hurt if one of the Gnuls sees you.”
The Gnuls used the same tactics of fear as the coven to gain followers.
His years of slavery in King Simeon’s mines had taught him that violence only begets more violence and the innocent are the ones who are hurt the most. Innocents like the dye merchant and Katrina.
The next squeak from Amaranth sounded like a pout.
“I have work to do for King Darville, Amaranth,” Jack apologized to the dragonet for not joining his games in the Bay. “Katrina has lace to make. We can’t play today. I’ll come to the lair soon and we’ll spend some time together.”
(Lace?) The human word formed decisively in Jack’s mind. A picture of the lace shawl that Katrina had used to patch Shayla’s wing after Jack’s healing spell had failed followed. Though Shayla’s magically damaged wing had grown back whole and strong, the lace bandage had left its imprint permanently in the membrane.
(Make lace for my wings?) The dragonet spread and flapped his stubby wings. (Make my wings pretty with lace?)
Jack translated for the dragonet.
“Your wings are beautiful as they are, Amaranth,” Katrina reassured the baby. “You don’t need lace. Though I wish I could find a dye to match you for my newest lace pattern. For now, you just need to grow big and strong like your mama, safely back in your own lair.”
Another pout.
“Where’s your twin brother, Amaranth? Iianthe must be lonely without you.” Jack tried to persuade the dragonet to leave.
(Don’t want Iianthe. Want Jack.)
Already the twins must sense the separation soon to come.
An idea hit Jack like one of the dislodged bricks from the wall.
A grin spread across his face and lightened his soul. Some of his problems crumbled like the wall where Amaranth perched.
“Amaranth, there is one way you can stay and play with me forever.”
The dragonet and Katrina cocked their heads in curiously similar gestures of acute listening. Jack’s heart swelled with possibilities and love for them both.
He smiled fondly at them and the image they presented. Family. His family.
“As a purple dragon, a very rare and special being, either you or Iianthe must give up your dragon form soon.”
The dragon nodded sagely, suddenly more mature and experienced than any two-year-old had a right to be.
“If you transform into a catlike creature, you can help me entice Rosie the cat out of Queen Mikka. Then you can stay with me forever as my familiar. As a dragon, you must make a lair of your own and live alone.”
Perhaps, as a cat, Amaranth would lose a little of his awkwardness. Jack had never known a clumsy cat.
“This is a really important task, Amaranth. I really need your help.”
As long as Rosie remained joined to Rossemikka, the queen’s body would be unbalanced and she could not produce the heir that the country needed so badly for stability. The Gnuls preyed on that instability to spread their litany of fear.
(An elegant solution to our problems, Jack,) Shayla said from a great distance.
Jack sensed her presence, high above the city as she soared on a thermal. He knew she would not be too far away while one of her brood explored the world.
“You agree with the plan?” he asked.
Katrina struck an acute listening pose as well. Ever since she had bandaged Shayla’s wing with the unique
lace shawl woven of Tambrin thread spun from the Tambootie trees, she had shared a rapport with the dragon.
(How did you know that one of the two forms a redundant purple dragon may take is the flywacket?)
“Flywacket? What’s a flywacket?”
(A creature that has not been seen in this land in many generations of humans, but thanks to you, one will once again grace us with its wisdom and life force.)
Somehow grace and wisdom did not fit Amaranth.
“Flywacket, huh? If everyone agrees, we can try it tonight.”
“So soon?” Katrina’s eyes grew wide with just a touch of panic.
“Tonight! In the central grove on Sacred Isle. There should be enough space there for Shayla and Amaranth and everyone else.”
He remembered with joy the day he had found his magician’s staff within one of the sacred oaks there. Performing the greatest spell of his life should take place in the same sacred grove. A few weeks ago he thought bringing the dragons home and defeating Rejiia should have been the magical achievement of a lifetime. What awaited him after this?
“Why wait another day? Queen Mikka has been waiting three years to be rid of that cat. Tonight I perform the spell. Tomorrow we will marry. The day after we journey to SeLenicca.” He kissed Katrina soundly, wanting to linger. But the logistics of the magic pulled at his concentration. “I have to leave now, love. A spell of this magnitude requires a lot of preparation.”
Amaranth squealed in delight. His dragon language rose shrill and piercing. Jack and Katrina both covered their ears rather than linger with another kiss.
“Uh, Shayla, will you call your dragonet? He’s making a shambles of this wall and our eardrums.”
A dragonlike chuckle sounded in the back of Jack’s head. A moment later Amaranth cocked his head and obediently, but clumsily, flapped his ungainly wings for a launch. The dragonet tilted dangerously forward, nearly brushing his nose against a prickly rosebush.
Jack dashed forward to make sure the dragonet didn’t bump his muzzle and sensitive horn bud—again—when he crashed into the paving.
At the last minute, Amaranth got enough air under his wings and cleared the courtyard by a talon length. Moments later he disappeared into the air, one more silvery distortion of light on this bright spring day.
“Tonight, my love. I’ll do the spell tonight. Trust me, everything will be all right. Then we’ll go home to SeLenicca.” Jack promised.
“I trusted you with my life when all of SeLenicca conspired against me,” she replied, looking at her threads rather than him.
“Tomorrow we will wed.” He kissed her again, cherishing the warmth of her body in his arms. “Trust me. We will be happy together. I’ll never hurt you. Ever.”
Chapter 12
Vareena opened the sagging gates of the monastery. She must remember to send Yeenos with a work party to repair the hinges.
The villagers grumbled about the extra—and to them unnecessary—work of keeping the old site in good repair. Some, led by Yeenos himself, had refused outright when she’d requested repairs to the broken gutters last moon. She wondered how many more times she could command them.
If the orders had come from Lord Laislac, they would obey without question. But since they came from her, a spinster no man wanted, they questioned their duty constantly.
Did her mother and grandmother have the same trouble with recalcitrant villagers?
What she really needed right now was a bolt of lightning, judiciously aimed at a few reluctant backsides.
Instead, she had two new ghosts to cater to, just when she thought she’d get a rest from her duties and a chance to escape.
The silver-and-amethyst amulet weighed heavily against her neck. It seemed to taunt her with broken promises of freedom; from her duties, from the scorn of the villagers, from her brothers.
She kept the amulet hidden beneath her shift lest her family steal it from her.
Early sunshine barely penetrated to the monastery courtyard through the ever-present haze. The mist seemed thicker today. “Good morning!” she called cheerfully. In all this haze she’d not see her ghosts easily. They’d have to come to her today. With direct light or within the building, she could see them quite easily as misty outlines with hints of color in their clothing. Hair and eye color tended to bleach out with only vague suggestions of fair or dark. Out here, with the light scattering in all directions and lingering nowhere, even those brief hints of their presence evaporated.
If she couldn’t see them, could she pretend they did not exist and make her escape to the promised acres in Nunio?
No. These two new ghosts had only recently passed into their amorphous existence. They needed her.
She took a moment to stand beside the fresh grave among the foundation stones of the original temple in the southeast corner. When the magicians and priests abandoned this place, they had dismantled the house of worship to prevent desecration. “Stargods, watch over your servant Farrell as he passes to his next existence. Guide him with your wisdom. And grant his family peace in accepting his death though they have heard nothing from him in over two years.”
Silence hung so heavy in this corner that she wondered if her prayer had escaped any better than any of her ghosts.
Prayers complete, she searched for traces of Marcus’ magician-blue tunic, trews, and sash. She suspected the color matched his eyes exactly. Robb on the other hand, with dark, hooded eyes that brooded mysteriously, favored black for all but his identifying tunic and cloak.
She worried about him. He hadn’t accepted his transition to ghosthood with Marcus’ good humor and optimism.
“Over here, Vareena,” Marcus called to her.
Without seeing him, she sensed the smile behind his voice. Her own lips curved upward in response. He told wonderfully funny accounts of their journeys. He made her laugh when her life seemed so hopeless. She searched the curtain wall on the other side of the gatehouse tower for signs of his vague outline.
“No, I’m over here by the well,” Marcus called again.
Vareena turned toward the stone circle that enclosed the pool of water. It had once provided for over one hundred men. Now it served only two. She trusted Marcus to direct her correctly. She’d never had a ghost trick her. Or lie to her—unlike the people of her village.
“I brought you breakfast,” she said to the air, hoping she directed her words in the proper direction. She’d waited four days to come back. Ghosts never needed to eat more than once or twice a week.
“Thanks, I’m hungry.” The trencher of bread and cheese covered by a plain linen cloth floated from her hands. Ghosts could touch inanimate objects in this world, but not a living being. Life energies generated a barrier that repelled ghosts from humans and humans from ghosts.
“Did anyone ever tell you how beautiful you are, Vareena?” Marcus asked. “I would compose poetry to you, but you defy the limitation of words.”
She dismissed his admiration. Other ghosts had told her as much. They had no one else to speak to, share their thoughts with, or pass the idle hours. Of course they fell in love with her, or her mother before her, or her grandmother before that.
If she were as beautiful as they claimed, then some normal man would have claimed her as his wife by now.
Nothing could come of Marcus’ flirtations. These men were ghosts, after all. And she must cater to them until they died. Quite likely these two could last for the rest of her life rather than a bare two years.
“Step into shadows, so I can see you, please.” She continued to search the area around the well for some trace of distorted light or a wisp of mist.
There! The outline of Robb, the dark and brooding one, materialized on the far side of the well as he slumped to sit on the ground with his back against the stone circle.
“Why bother eating,” Robb grumbled. “We’re trapped here until we die. Might as well hasten the process and get on into our next existence.”
His dark eyes burned thr
ough the mist of the gloaming into her soul.
“I wish I could help you,” she murmured. Her entire body ached for him, trapped here with no hope.
And then she realized that she ached for herself as well.
“Coronnan is doomed. We’ll never find the dragons and return magic to the Commune. Without dragon magic and controls, the lords will tear the country apart. Three hundred years of peace will evaporate like mist in sunshine. I wonder if this gloom ever evaporates. Everything is lost because we sought shelter here during a storm.” Robb buried his face in his hands.
“Is he always so gloomy?” Vareena asked, wary of her own sensitivity to his emotions.
“No. I can usually persuade him to look on the bright side.” Marcus moved around the well until he crouched beside Robb. “We’ll find a way out of this, friend. We always do. My luck will return. It always does.”
“And if your good luck has deserted us permanently? As the dragons deserted Coronnan?” Robb thrust Marcus’ placating hand off his arm.
“Then you will develop a plan, like you always do.”
“I told you yesterday and the day before, and the day before that, your luck has run out and I never had any.”
“There has to be a way out of here. I don’t know how or why yet, but there has to be,” Vareena said. Did she truly believe that? She must, or she would not have said so.
Her mother had taught her that lies—even those said in comfort—served no purpose. Vareena had never knowingly lied before.
Tentatively, she reached to touch Robb’s shoulder, offering what comfort she could—as she would to any living person in the village. Her hand tingled as she neared him. Resolutely she pushed herself closer, resisting the urge to jerk her hand back. The strange sensation in her hand and arm did not really hurt. Felt more like the pinpricks when she lay too long with her weight on a hand or foot.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III Page 50
