“If this doesn’t work, I’ll try probing the walls.”
He took another three breaths for courage. “Like seeking like, flame to flame, glass to glass, my mind to a receptive mind. Heed my call of distress. Hear my plea for release.” The rhythmic words poured from his mouth and his mind through the glass into the flame.
Reluctantly the flame pried itself loose from the candle and soared upward, much diminished in size and intensity. It flew beyond the walls, beyond the spell that bound it to Robb. It arced high and wide, flying on and on until Robb lost all trace of it in his glass and in his mind.
The candle guttered. The glass fell from his nerveless hands. He collapsed in a heap upon the stones, utterly exhausted.
The chill of morning dew awoke him. Automatically, he reached for the precious piece of glass. Pain slashed across his fingers. He yelped and jerked his hand away from the glass, sucking on the bloody cut. His glass had shattered when he dropped it.
His glass. The very symbol of his magical talent. His most precious tool along with his staff. A part of him. Broken. Shattered into six fragments too small to use for even the simplest of spells.
“S’murghit!” he yelled at the top of his lungs. “Bloody, tartarian Simurgh!” He threw the largest piece as far and high as he could, then the next shard and the next. When he still needed to release more energy, he grabbed the piece of gold in his pocket and threw it.
The world shattered. Light blazed. The stones at his feet tilted and whirled. Two heartbeats later his senses righted and he looked out at the world with a new clarity.
The gloaming retreated downward, leaving him above the haze.
“What the . . .” He retreated cautiously back down the staircase to the ground level. The coin glinted at him from the vicinity of the gate, enticing him to return it to his pocket where it belonged.
Robb raced down the stairs to retrieve the coin before he lost it. He paused in the arched entryway of the stairs. No one yet stirred in the monastery. He could retrieve the coin without observation.
He took fifty silent paces across the courtyard. Then stooped, about to place the little bit of treasure in his pocket—protected, out of sight. Hoarded.
The rising sun glinting through the crack in the sagging gate caught his attention.
“Just once more. I’ll try the gate just once more.” Holding his breath he pushed against the heavy panels. They creaked open.
Hastily, he looked over his shoulder to check if Marcus or Vareena came to investigate. The courtyard remained empty.
One more deep breath for courage and he—
Stepped through the gateway into the outside world.
Astonishment kept him pressed against the gate, afraid to step away lest his knees give out.
“I’m free?” he whispered to the winds. Two steps away from the stout walls confirmed it. He could walk away from here. Send help back for Marcus and Vareena. He could tap the formerly crazy ley lines that now ran straight and thick. He could . . .
He had to go back.
Marcus would disintegrate, physically and emotionally without him. He owed it to Marcus to go back.
The coin greeted him upon his return.
“So you are the culprit.” He gritted his teeth and picked up the shiny piece of gold. “And my guess is your original owner was a miser. A miser who refused his next existence rather than give you up.”
Once more the world tilted and light flashed, momentarily blinding him. When he opened his eyes again, a misty veil lay over everything.
“Coronnan has waited years for the return of the dragons. A few more weeks will not make so much difference.”
“Robb, is everything all right?” Marcus appeared at the doorway to his cell, running his fingers through his tangled hair and blinking sleepily.
“Yeah, Marcus, everything’s going to be fine.” If I can figure this out, so can you. You need the success to bolster your luck more than I do. I’ll wait until things get really desperate to show you the truth—if you haven’t figured it out by then.
* * *
“Get that cat away from me!” Margit screamed as she jumped away from Amaranth for the fifth time.
“What a sweet creature,” Katrina gathered Amaranth into her lap. “Such a big cat. Did you truly fly here or did you just jump from the rocks above us?” She petted him with enthusiasm.
“He’s with me,” Jack said quietly as he scrambled down the last of the rocks. He had to work hard to retain his balance, never quite certain which image was real and which a ghost.
Margit jumped again, startled. “You’re supposed to let your armor down when approaching the camp of a magician. I could have blasted you with . . . with . . .”
“With what, Margit? What spell could you devise that would catch me off guard?” Jack smiled, trying hard to keep any sense of triumph out of his voice. From what he’d seen, Margit would make a competent journeywoman someday. Master status would elude her talents.
“I—I’d have thought of some—something.” Margit worked her nose and mouth in peculiar gyrations.
“Jack,” Katrina said quietly, still stroking Amaranth.
“Ahhhchooo!” Margit sneezed strongly enough to nearly extinguish the fire. “Get that cat away from me.”
“Katrina,” Jack acknowledged the woman he loved, ignoring Margit completely.
“I suppose you’ve come to take me back,” Katrina said quietly, burying her face in Amaranth’s blacker than black fur.
Did she sound accepting or defiant? Jack couldn’t tell while Margit continued to sneeze her head off right next to him.
“No, Katrina, I’ve come to join you, keep you safe on this journey you’ve chosen.”
“I thought that was Margit’s job.”
The apprentice magician sneezed again, three times in quick succession.
Katrina shifted to a rock on the far side of the fire, taking Amaranth with her. She looked up at Jack with hopeful eyes.
Margit continued to sneeze.
“I hope you will welcome my company,” Jack said tersely.
Katrina looked up at him without answering, eyes huge in the firelight.
“Something is different about you, Jack. You are . . . almost vulnerable. Like you were when I first met you.”
“Lonely. Missing you as I would miss my breath or the beat of my heart.”
Her chin quivered slightly. She bit her lip.
Jack waited a moment, hoping she’d say something, anything to reassure him. “I’ll not press you to marry me, Katrina. I know you fear it. But I need to know you are safe. I need to be close to you, look at you, touch you.” He stroked her long, silky plaits.
Margit might not have been there except for her sneezes. Which tapered off as Jack moved away from her.
The funny feeling churned in his gut again, and his tail-bone needed to twitch. He knew a sudden compulsion to wash his hands and face—especially behind his ears—in the nearby creek.
“And who is this new companion of yours, Jack? I know you miss Corby, but I never thought I’d see you with a cat,” Katrina continued, as if their future together did not lie between them like an open wound.
“That is Amaranth.” Silently, Jack sent the flywacket an image of rubbing his black fur against Margit’s trews.
“Amaranth?” Katrina looked up at him, love and trust shining in her eyes. Could this be just another ordinary conversation catching up on the news?
“The redundant purple dragon has taken a new form. He’s truly my familiar now.” Jack perched on a rock next to Katrina; close enough to reach out and hold her hand, but not so close as to threaten her.
“It’s as if he now absorbs all of the light he used to reflect.” She tried to stop the black cat from hopping off her lap, but he wriggled free of her grasp and slunk over to Margit. She had her back to the fire and for a moment her sneezes had abated.
“Amaranth,” Katrina called him back.
Under Jack’s prodding th
e flywacket circled Margit three times, each circuit bringing him closer to her until he rubbed his face against her boots and then her knees.
“Get away, you awful creature.” Margit hopped and jumped farther away from the fire. But she did not sneeze.
Jack sent Amaranth another mental command to return to Katrina and stay with her. Amaranth arched his back and stretched, leaning first backward, tail up, front legs extended. Then he leaned forward, stretching his back legs one at a time. At last he shook himself and leaped over the fire, extending only the tips of his wings for balance. He landed next to Katrina and sat. He accepted a few ear scratches, then began to lave his front paws.
Jack wanted to fish the soap out of his pack and join his familiar in the cleansing ritual.
Margit whirled to face him, eyes huge, hands fishing within her scrip. “Did you feel that? You must have. It was stronger this time, more urgent.”
Then Jack put aside his own horrible fears and opened his awareness. His glass thrummed, very lightly; almost as if he had already answered the summons that had brought it to life.
“What?”
“A distress call. From that direction.” She pointed. “West by southwest.”
“I barely felt it before it was gone.”
“That’s the nature of a distress call, sent out to any magician who might intercept it.”
Jack looked at her quizzically.
“That’s what Lyman says. And I’m betting it’s Marcus. I’m following it. Now.” She stooped to pick up her pack at her feet. “You two don’t need me anymore.”
“Wait, Margit. You can’t go now. It’s dark. The road is uncertain, and we’re very near the border. Who knows what kinds of bandits lurk in the foothills.” Jack gritted his teeth and grabbed Margit’s arm to detain her. His insides coiled in mistrust and an urge to flee.
The moment he touched her shoulder, Margit sneezed three more times in rapid succession.
He whirled quickly and sought Amaranth’s aura, clearly outlined in the firelight. Only the pale purple signature color outlined his black body with energy. Jack sought Katrina’s single aura of crystal and white, like her lace. Margit shone three shades of yellow between sneezes that shifted all her energy to orange while she purged himself of some foreign humor in the air.
Then Jack took a deep breath and sought the first stages of a trance. He stared at the silvery umbilical of life that trailed from his body.
Very few master magicians could see their umbilical anywhere but in the void. Fewer still ever had a glimpse of their true signature colors in the umbilical.
Along with Jack’s signature silver and purple—darker than Amaranth’s—he saw a strange coil of life entwined with his own. Red, black, yellow, brown, and a touch of white.
The same colors he’d sensed around Queen Mikka. The same colors as the cat she had lost when she absorbed her pet’s spirit.
“Ladies, I think I have a problem.”
Chapter 27
Lanciar shifted the bundle of kindling under his arm for better balance. Satisfied that he’d not drop the load of small sticks and dried grasses, he swung his free arm jauntily and whistled a gay tune as he strolled through the line of trees bordering a chuckling creek. This simple life of trekking across the countryside with the Rovers appealed to him. Almost like being back in the army without the worry and responsibility of seeing to the discipline and well-being of a thousand men under his command.
Indeed, discipline never seemed to be a problem with the Rovers. Their mind-to-mind links with Zolltarn gave them a sense of unity and purpose he’d never achieved in the army.
For a moment he felt very alone and left out of the clan. The whistling tune died in his throat. Alone. As he had always been alone except for those few brief hours when he and Jack had sat on a cold mountain trail while they traversed the void together seeking a way to center and awaken Lanciar’s magical talent. Linked to Jack by mind and magic, he had known a short time of belonging with the universe at large and with one other person.
The next morning he and Jack had parted with hostility. And then, because of his misguided loyalty to the coven, Lanciar had betrayed Jack. Lanciar had never heard if the young magician had survived. He hoped so, even though they belonged to opposing forces on both the magic and mundane planes. Jack’s honesty and unwavering loyalty deserved better than Rejiia had given him.
Guilt made him long for a tall mug of Maija’s ale.
“What troubles you, spy?” Maija asked from directly behind him.
Lanciar gasped and whirled, ready to defend himself with his staff and magic. He’d never get used to the Rover’s ability to creep up on him unannounced. Inanely, he was still clutching the kindling, recognizing its importance to the camp as a whole.
“What do you want?” he asked rather curtly. His irritation at his own failings suddenly became her fault.
“I thought you might like to meet your son, spy.”
“I am not a spy. I have a s’murghin’ name.” He couldn’t allow hope to overshadow his caution.
“Watch your language,” she replied curtly. “Until you are one of us, we do not acknowledge your name. When you join us, we will give you a name worthy of our clan.”
“When will I join you—if I decide to join your clan?”
“When you and I are married. When you and I soar through the heavens on a cloud of bliss on our wedding night. Then you will know the ecstasy of belonging to a clan.” She moved closer. Her scent—soap, berries, and feminine allure—filled Lanciar’s senses with longing.
Lanciar swallowed against a suddenly dry mouth.
“Come with me now, spy, and I will introduce you to your son. For the sake of your son, you will marry me. For the sake of your son, you will moderate your language, you will join with us, strengthen our clan with your strength, with your weapons, with your magic.” She drifted closer yet. Her sweet breath fanned his cheek.
Slowly he shifted his mouth closer to hers. Closer until his lips brushed hers ever so lightly. Fire lit his veins and blanked his mind to all but Maija.
“Come,” she whispered, taking his hand and leading him back to the encampment.
Men and women alike erected the circle of tents and bardos with swift efficiency. Trained soldiers didn’t set up camp any better.
Still holding his hand, Maija led him to the small red tent with black trim beside Zolltarn’s huge purple one. Together they ducked inside the long strands of wooden beads that served as a curtain. The aromatic incense of Tambootie wood greeted him from the beads as well as the fire. His senses reeled under the onslaught of hypnotic humors.
Lanciar blinked rapidly for several heartbeats, waiting for his eyes to adjust to the gloom of the tent interior and for his senses to balance. Maija continued to hold his hand. A fine layer of sweat moistened his palms. His mouth continued to dry. He swallowed convulsively several times, wishing he had a mug of Maija’s very fine ale.
At last he spotted the curtained cradle swinging between two upright stands set beside the narrow pallet where Maija slept alone each night. A series of gurgles and coos came from the depths of the gauzy linen drapes over the peaked half roof of the cradle.
Lanciar dropped the bundle of kindling in his haste to reach his son. The Tambootie smoke had heightened his magical senses. One glimpse of the child’s aura told him that he had sired this fragile scrap of humanity. He slid to his knees beside the cradle, fumbling with the coverings. Desperate to see the boy, afraid that Maija would hide the baby again if Lanciar took too long, he ripped away the fine linen.
His son stopped wiggling and cooing for one long breathless moment while father and son studied each other. Then at last the boy smiled, revealing toothless gums. He drooled and waved his hands about, happy with his life, with his full tummy, and his clean diaper.
“He is the most beautiful baby in the world,” Lanciar gasped.
“Because he is your son.” Maija beamed at him.
“Have
you given him a name?” Lanciar spoke in hushed tones lest he startle the babe and set him crying. He offered the boy a finger to grasp.
A tiny fist wrapped around the digit with amazing strength and pulled it toward his mouth. Instantly, the baby began gnawing on it.
“Is he hungry?” Lanciar kept his finger where his son wanted it.
“No. He just needs to taste you in order to fix you in his tiny mind,” Maija replied. She continued smiling hugely. “He’s also beginning to grow teeth. His gums itch.”
Lanciar finally gathered enough of his wits to look the boy over. Fine black hair with just a hint of a curl in it. Pink skin, much fairer than the olive tones of the Rovers. And incredibly deep blue eyes, the color of midnight at the full moon.
Rejiia’s eyes.
Lanciar allowed his eyes to cross so he could study his son’s aura. Undistinguished layers of purple, blue, red, green, and yellow frothed about him. He hadn’t yet developed enough personality to push one color through to dominance.
“Marry me, and we will raise the boy together. You need never be separated from him again,” Maija said. She lifted the babe into her arms, one hand beneath his bottom, the other supporting his head as she held him close against her shoulder.
“And if I choose to take my son back to my own land?”
“You will never see him again,” she replied sternly.
“Then I will marry you.” He swallowed, trying to get rid of his increasingly dry throat.
And then he noticed, eyes still crossed, how Maija’s aura completely engulfed his son’s, replacing it with her own dark purple-and-red coloring, extensions of Zolltarn’s colors. The boy would never have an identity or personality of his own as long as he remained with the clan.
Lanciar had to get him away from here and soon.
“But first I need a drink. A very long and cold drink. Let me hold the boy while you fetch the ale.”
“I will take him with me to the wet nurse. He will be hungry again soon.”
“But . . .”
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III Page 62
