The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  “When we marry, you may hold him all you wish. Until then, he belongs to the wet nurse.”

  “I’ll get my own ale. And lots of it.”

  Jaranda fretted and cried. Her face flushed with fever. Her mother held her on her shoulder, gently rubbing the child’s back.

  “Hush, baby. Hush,” she murmured over and over.

  Jaranda pouted and stuck her thumb into her mouth.

  “Zebbiah, she’s feverish,” Miranda called to her traveling companion. “We have to find someplace warm and dry. My baby needs rest and nourishing broths. We have to stop!”

  Zebbiah frowned, looking up and down the line of march. “We need to stay with the caravan. These parts aren’t safe,” he said quietly. “Look, she’s fallen asleep. I’ll carry her for a while. She’s just not used to traveling.”

  “It’s more than that, Zebbiah. I remember a time of great sickness the winter she was born. I remember the funeral pyres—the terrible smell. Most of all I remember the fear every time someone spiked a fever in a matter of moments. I will not let my baby die because you refuse to leave the dubious safety of these thieves and vagabonds.”

  “Lady, if I take you to a place where you can rest, will you make lace for me to sell?” Zebbiah asked in a whisper.

  “Travel dust kept me from working the pillow by the campfire. These thieves and vagabonds have already tried to steal the lace. They’d steal the glass beads, silk threads, and bag of lace for the price of a meal. If you find me a quiet place with a roof and a fire pit and proper food, I’ll gladly sit and make lace every day as long as the light allows.” Until she remembered everything.

  She’d gladly separate from this caravan to get away from their fellow travelers. None of them had spoken civilly to her since they’d ousted the leader. And they kept their distance, making sure each evening to light their fires well away from Miranda, Zebbiah, and Jaranda.

  She had pieces of her memory, her name and that of her husband, flashes of faces from the past, but little else.

  “Lady, where I plan to take you, I’ll have access to witchlight come winter. You’ll be able to make lace in the darkest corner in quiet privacy.”

  “Witchlight?” she gasped, frightened and exhilarated by the danger of sorcery. Often enough on this long trek through the mountains she’d seen the other travelers make the ward against witchcraft and evil whenever Zebbiah passed. She knew the motion of crossed wrists, right over left, and then flapping hands from a deep memory that seemed a part of her from her very beginnings. She wished she knew the origin of the gesture. Then perhaps she could understand the nature of the magic it warded against.

  Something flapping, like a bird’s wings . . .

  She yanked her mind back to the immediate problem. Letting herself drift with minor remembrance often led to a true memory. But she didn’t have time for that now.

  “Yes, take me to this place, and I will make lace for you to sell while my baby recovers. Turn the place into a home, and I might stay there forever, content to make lace and raise my child in peace.” Easier than returning to SeLenicca to take up the reins of government.

  “Peace I cannot guarantee for long. But not many people know of this abandoned monastery. Most who know of it shun it because it is haunted. I have yet to meet a ghost there. It is not far from here, a day at most. We will break away from the caravan at the first bird chirp.”

  Jaranda stirred in Zebbiah’s arms, snuggling close to him. She slept peacefully, thumb slipping free of her mouth. Something solid and honest about the man soothed her more than her mother’s presence.

  “We leave before dawn,” the woman agreed.

  “Take your baby now. I will make sure we camp close to the hidden path within the hour. I don’t want to have to backtrack. Not on the open road. These vagabonds and thieves might well follow and attack us as soon as we are out of sight. I need to make plans to divert them.”

  Chapter 28

  “We’ve only the one room above, the rest of you must take pallets in the great room—or the stable. Take your pick,” the innkeeper announced. “Caravan came through from the pass yesterday and ain’t left yet.” She stood with fists atop her broad hips and a frown making deep creases in her heavy jowls. A thick wooden rolling pin with numerous dents sprouted from one of his fists. She looked as if she’d used it often to keep order in her tavern.

  “I will have the private room to myself!” Ariiell stated firmly.

  “I am the lord of this province, daughter. I shall have the room, with my wife, of course.” Laislac glared at her with equal stubbornness. His face darkened. He’d explode with flying fists in a moment.

  “I am a new bride and I carry the heir to the throne of all Coronnan. I believe I take precedence here.”

  Mardall giggled beside her. A bit of drool escaped his lips. His mother gently wiped it away with a lace-edged handkerchief.

  “Protocol is useless in a situation like this.” Andrall shouldered his way between Laislac and Ariiell. “If truth be told, Lady Lynnetta is senior in nobility to all of us. She is the daughter of one king, sister to another, and aunt to the current one. The only sensible thing to do is for all six of us to share the room above. Our retainers will bed down here and in the stable.”

  “Oh, why couldn’t we have waited to leave Coronnan City? Then we could have traveled by our usual route, taking hospitality from minor lords who treat us as we deserve. Instead we have stayed with ungrateful merchants. Now we must spend tonight in this foul inn that breeds disease and crime,” Lady Laislac wailed and sobbed into her own handkerchief—not nearly as fine as Lady Lynnetta’s.

  The innkeeper frowned more deeply. She looked as if she’d gladly throw them all out to fend for themselves in the nightly drizzle.

  “We left in midafternoon because the king commanded it,” Andrall reminded them all. “If we had gone to my own castle at Nunio, we’d be there by now. ’Twould be more seemly for the child to be born in his father’s ancestral home.”

  “I want my daughter comfortable, in familiar surroundings, where I can protect her and the babe.” Laislac faced his new great-brother, his face darkening further. “You know the threats by the Gnuls. They want Darville to die heirless so the kingdom will fall into chaos. My daughter and her child will be safe in Laislac. Nunio is too close to the capital and the Gnuls.”

  “The Gnuls are everywhere, even in Laislac. Ariiell and the child would be safer in Nunio where I can protect them,” Andrall returned. “I, at least, have some battle experience.”

  Ariiell motioned her maid to take her bag up the rickety staircase to the attic room. She slipped away, leaving her elders to their arguments.

  Once inside the drafty space between the main floor and the roof, she dismissed her servant—a spy for her stepmother and probably the king as well—and locked the door. She shoved a table and chair in front of it for good measure.

  “Alone at last!” She dug a small candle and piece of glass out of her personal bag of toiletries. The wick burst into flame with a thought. Then she settled down to summon her mentor. Rejiia would find a way to force Darville into recalling her to court. The mission of the coven was at stake.

  “Flame to flame, like seeking like,” she intoned the ritual phrases as she breathed deeply. The flickering green bit of fire drew her focus deep within the many layers of color, so like an aura, but more primitive and pure. She was content to sit there staring at the light magnified by her bit of glass.

  A hazy yellow/green/blue glow rippled across the clear surface, vibrating slightly with the thrumming magic she had channeled through it.

  Her spell must be weak and diffuse because she did not know where Rejiia hid. An answer might take a long time in coming . . .

  “What!” Rejiia’s explosive reply burst through the glass before her image solidified. Anger and impatience blazed in her midnight-blue eyes. Her black hair crackled about her puffy face in wild disarray. Dark shadows ringed her eyes.

 
Ariiell had never seen her in such disorder. She could almost smell the Tambootie leaves on Rejiia’s breath. The drugs within the tree sap might enhance magical power, but also led to certain insanity.

  “Rejiia, I need your help . . .” she began.

  “Of course you do, you inept little . . .” Rejiia clamped her mouth shut and closed her eyes for a brief moment. When she returned her attention to Ariiell, she appeared calm, gentle, patient, and wise. Her eyes were clear and the familiar lean planes had returned to her cheeks and chin. A demeanor befitting the Center of the coven, a position Rejiia guarded jealously. Even though pregnancy should allow Ariiell to anchor the eight-pointed star rituals, Rejiia had not relinquished her place since her own pregnancy had ousted the late King Simeon from the center.

  “What troubles you, child?” Rejiia asked. An aura of love and forgiveness flowed through the glass. But her hair still needed a good brushing.

  Ariiell didn’t trust that projected image any more than she trusted Rejiia to do anything except advance herself and the cause of the coven.

  “Darville has exiled my entire family from court, Lord Andrall and Lady Lynnetta as well.”

  “Did the marriage take place?” Rejiia asked anxiously.

  “Of course. Darville presided beside the priest. The entire ceremony was duly witnessed and recorded. The child is legitimate. But Rossemikka did not attend. ’Twas not a state event. I doubt anyone outside the family knows of it.” Ariiell allowed herself a small smile.

  “And the idiot?”

  “With us.”

  “Good. Keep him, close. Sleep with him if you must. We need him alive and well until the child is born.”

  “I must return to court, Rejiia. That is the plan. I must be there to poison Darville and his foreign queen as soon as my child is acknowledged the legitimate heir.”

  “Plans change. I leave the poisoning to your guardian who is still in the capital.” Rejiia lifted her hand in the gesture to end the summons.

  But Ariiell had the book of poisons. Her guardian—whatever his name and status in the coven might be—had asked for it several times. She smiled to herself.

  “The plan will not change. My son will rule Coronnan and I shall be regent. The coven will rule Coronnan through me,” Ariiell replied sternly.

  “Plans change,” Rejiia stated firmly. Her eyes narrowed with secrets.

  Suddenly Ariiell did not trust Rejiia to work in the coven’s best interests. She worked only for herself.

  “There may be another heir. I must investigate,” Rejiia continued. “I am needed elsewhere.”

  “The coven has decreed that I must remain at court. Now help me return there. Shall I summon the full coven in council?” Ariiell asserted her rights.

  “Very well, where are you?” Rejiia sighed and rolled her eyes upward. Dark shadows made her brilliantly blue eyes look as deep and fathomless as the Great Bay at midnight.

  Ariiell shuddered with a sudden chill. Rejiia’s anger could be formidable. She wasn’t certain her own magic was strong enough yet to challenge the black-haired, black-hearted woman for the Center of the coven.

  Quickly, Ariiell gave Rejiia a brief accounting of her location, still about five hours’ hard steed ride east and south of Castle Laislac, not too far from the small pass through the mountains into SeLenicca.

  “Really?” Rejiia’s smile brightened. She laughed loud and long. The echoes of her mirth rippled through the glass to bounce off the walls of the attic room. Rejiia might have been next door. “How interesting. At dawn, you must proceed south on the main road for approximately one league, then turn north by northwest on a drover’s track until you reach the small village perched on a rolling meadow by the river. Above the village at the top of a wooded hill is an abandoned monastery. Go there and wait for further instructions.”

  “But that is out of the way! What excuse can I use to separate myself from all these people? They guard me closely.” As they should, since she carried the heir.

  “You’ll think of something. Just get there before noon. The entire fate of the coven depends upon you arriving in time . . . Never mind what for. Just do it. You’ll know why when you arrive.” Rejiia ended the summons with a snap of her fingers.

  The glass turned cloudy with soot from the candle flame. It ceased vibrating with rippling colors and became once more inert.

  The sounds of Rejiia’s misplaced laughter still vibrated in Ariiell’s ears.

  Deflated by hunger and exhaustion from the spell, Ariiell fell back upon the single bed. Sleep wanted to claim her, but her mind spun with possibilities and plans.

  * * *

  “I don’t like the smell of this,” Zebbiah said quietly.

  Miranda started out of a drifting sleep at the pressure of his hand over her mouth. She nodded briefly to acknowledge her understanding of the need to say nothing. He removed his hand slowly. Reluctantly? Did his fingertips truly caress her cheek and mouth?

  “Our former caravan leader is scouting the perimeter of the camp. I don’t want him to see which way we travel.”

  “The pack beast?” Miranda mouthed the words.

  “Tethered away from the other animals.”

  “Will he protest?” They both grinned at the thought of the trouble the stubborn beast could cause them if he chose.

  “I know a few tricks.”

  Miranda rose from her bedroll, careful not disturb her still sleeping daughter. Gently, she wrapped the baby in the covers and carried her to where Zebbiah indicated the pack beast waited.

  At first she couldn’t see the animal, only smell his dusty hide. Then, in the predawn stillness, she heard the click of teeth snapping at a tuft of grass just ahead of her, on the other side of the scraggly bush of d’vil’s weed. The thorny vines had a tendency to reach out and grab unwary passersby and cling, and twine, and choke, and infect. The stuff grew everywhere that men had not burned it out and poisoned the roots.

  How to get through the bush to the pack beast? Serve the obnoxious creature right for getting caught in the mass. It might starve before they could untwine all the branches and drop them in the campfire.

  A flash of eldritch blue fire brightened the entire sky to the south. Miranda ducked, putting her back between the fire and her baby. She tried to cover her head from the unholy beings that might swoop down on them out of that fire. She tried to make the cross of the Stargods, but found her movements hampered by her burden.

  Jaranda whimpered from being clutched so tightly.

  Miranda settled for flapping her crossed wrists, hoping the antique ward against evil was sufficient protection.

  The camp erupted in screams and flailing limbs. Men ran in opposing directions. Women crashed into each other as they tried to escape the eldritch light.

  The former leader stumbled into their midst thrashing his arms about, his back aglow with blue flames that did not consume his shirt or skin.

  Miranda wanted to run, too. Where? Masses of d’vil’s weed blocked her path. She could escape only into that terrible blueness.

  The Zebbiah was beside her. “Good girl. You didn’t panic.”

  Swallowing the lump in her throat, she glared at him. “Why didn’t you warn me this was but a Rover trick?”

  “Didn’t want to spoil the surprise.” He grinned, flashing his magnificent white teeth. “This way.” He waved toward the pernicious vines that grew thick between them and the pack steed.

  “How?”

  He grinned again and swept the vines aside with one arm. Strangely, they did not cling to his shirt or dig sharp spines into his flesh.

  “Another Rover trick?” She eyed the vines suspiciously.

  “Rover magic.”

  This time she did cross herself, no longer sure she could trust him. Or wanted to.

  Chapter 29

  “Do you think we should go back to the library and investigate?” Marcus asked Robb and Vareena. They were lounging around the well, listening to the bees feast on the bloss
oms of hundreds of overgrown herbs and flowers. No other sound penetrated the high walls. Marcus’ fingers itched to get in there and start pulling weeds, pruning, and thinning.

  He decided that when he had a place to call his own, he’d spend lots of time in an herb garden, meditating as he worked.

  Maybe his restlessness pushed him to work among the growing things. Maybe this half-death made him long for contact with living things.

  He needed to confront the ghost, throw the name of Ackerly at it, give it a chance to tell its story. But he also wanted Robb to be the one to find the answers. He deserved that. He’d been right. They had to make their own luck and opportunities.

  The villagers, led by Uustaas, had left them enough food for a week. They didn’t need extra blankets in the warmer weather, and the villagers had no reason to leave their work just to amuse two ghosts and their keeper. Vareena had turned her back to her brother and refused to speak to any who tried to break down her wall of silence.

  When the outsiders had left—most of them with unseemly haste—Marcus had seen tears in her eyes. He wanted to hold her in his arms and chase the tears away with kisses. But the barrier of energy had repulsed him quite effectively.

  Confronting the ghost seemed the only way to end this half-existence.

  “Promise me, Robb and Marcus, promise me, that when you find a way to break the spell that holds you here, you will take me with you.” Vareena seemed to be looking far beyond the restrictions of the monastery walls.

  Both magicians nodded mutely.

  “Have you noticed that the big spiders crawl everywhere but inside the library,” Marcus added as a challenge to his partner.

  Robb’s head came up abruptly. He stared at Marcus a moment, then grinned with half his mouth. He knew something.

  “Poking around the library has to be better than sitting out here doing nothing.” Robb heaved himself to his feet.

  Marcus followed suit, curious as to what Robb hid.

  “Have you figured out how to avoid the true ghost?” Vareena asked.