The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  Jack looked depleted, almost as badly as he had on that lonely mountain pass where the two of them had traveled the stars and awakened Lanciar’s latent talent. Jack ran a shaking hand across his eyes and then dropped onto the stool in the corner of the room.

  “There’s an army on its way here,” Lanciar blurted out.

  “How far?”

  “I don’t know. But I sensed them during the spell. They ride hard, have ridden hard for a time.”

  “We’d best make plans.”

  “I’m best qualified to do that.”

  Jack nodded. “We still have to settle the matter of the gold. We have to have a plan before we go into battle.

  Lanciar nodded. His mind quickly reviewed the layout of the monastery and their limited weapons.

  “Marcus and Robb found it. They should determine who deserves it, if anyone. But only after they remove the curse. If they are able to do so.”

  “I’d like it to go to Queen Miranda. SeLenicca does not deserve what we did to it.” And if the approaching army came from SeLenicca the gold might appease their anger. They needed Miranda’s cooperation. “The people of SeLenicca are arrogant, determined to remain superior and separate from the rest of the world. But most of them are innocent of the evil the coven brought there. We need to help them rebuild.”

  “Somehow, I didn’t expect that from you, Lanciar,” Jack said after a long moment of silence. “I have to admit I half-hoped you’d try to lie and I could watch you die. For both our sakes, I’m glad you told the truth. Now I know why Katrina is so frightened of me. I scare myself sometimes. You can get up whenever you feel strong enough.”

  Lanciar wiggled his toes and rotated his hands. A bit of chafing remained. “Where’d you get the manacles, Jack?”

  “Left over from my days as King Darville’s bodyguard.”

  “We might need them on Rejiia.” She could complicate the battle plan taking shape in his head.

  “I doubt they’d hold long. She has one formidable talent.”

  “What are we going to do with her? Now that she knows the transport spell, she can’t be kept out of Coronnan.”

  “I have some ideas. But they are dangerous. Thanks to her, we all have a very big problem.”

  “On top of many other problems. Perhaps the combined might of the Rovers will hold her until Marcus returns with some answers—if he gets back in time. Your Rover blood will allow you to join with them. Maija assures me that once she and I are married, I will be able to join her clan in their mind-to-mind link.”

  “I’ve resisted that link,” Jack replied, staring blankly at the floor. “I worked too hard to find out who I was and what was important to me to risk losing myself in the clan. I’ll work with Andrall and Laislac as we plan a defense. You can work with Zolltarn.”

  “I look forward to losing myself in the clan rather than in the bottom of a mug of ale. I’ll need a clear head to get through the next battle.”

  Chapter 38

  “Where are you going Lord Andrall?” Ariiell asked in panic.

  How could she have been so stupid as to reveal her connections to the coven? Something about the sight of all that gold in the hands of filthy Rovers. Something compelling. The gold was enchanted. That was the answer. She had to possess it, learn its secrets. Then she could use it to buy influence, bribe and coerce the rest of the coven to give her the center position of power.

  For now, she sat huddled before a small fire burning in the hearth against the outside wall of the scriptorium of this ancient and chill monastery. She didn’t believe for a moment that some enchantment trapped her here. She could overcome any curse laid upon her. Her magic was strong and growing stronger because the baby anchored her more firmly to Kardia.

  She shivered despite the heat thrown out by the fire she augmented with magic. These old stone walls held the chill of the ages, a chill that burned all the way to her soul. She had to get out of here, quickly, before the ancient cold hurt the baby.

  But everyone—her parents, Mardall, his parents, and all of their retainers—watched her with suspicion and fear.

  “I am going to consult with the resident magicians. King Darville must be informed of these latest developments,” Andrall stated coldly. “He may have exiled me because of your behavior, Ariiell, but I still support him as my king, my wife’s nephew, and . . . and my friend.” He rose from his camp stool and walked resolutely to the door.

  “You intend to rob me and my child of our rightful place in the succession,” she accused bitterly.

  “If necessary.” He stalked out of the large room without bothering to bow to anyone.

  “You owe me respect. I carry the heir to the throne. I carry your grandchild!” Rage propelled her off her own uncomfortable camp stool—all their luggage could provide. She kicked the offensive piece of furniture into the fire. This Simurgh-cursed place did not have so much as a chair to ease the pain in her back.

  “My husband owes you nothing, slut,” Lady Lynnetta sneered. “You seduced my boy. You brought this exile upon us. And now you profess loyalty to the coven. You will never hold power within Coronnan. I hope the Stargods punish you appropriately.”

  Lady Lynnetta’s reputation for sweetness might have won her the respect of the court, but Ariiell suspected no one had ever heard her speak with so much malice.

  The idiot continued to smile and laugh and drool, taking pleasure from helping the servants unpack.

  Ariiell marched to the door in Andrall’s wake. She refused to remain in this room any longer.

  She’d keep Andrall from contacting King Darville. She had the magic at her fingertips. And when all was in place, she would release Rejiia from her prison in the small tower across the compound. Rejiia would be so grateful she’d give up her position in the center of the coven rituals.

  “Are you forgetting, Lord Andrall, that magic and magicians are still illegal in Coronnan? If you deliberately use magic to contact our king, you violate numerous laws and put King Darville in jeopardy of losing his crown,” she whispered to him in a malicious hiss at the foot of the tower stairs. She knew her words would carry up the stairwell to any of the avid listeners in their party.

  “By your own admission of ties to the coven, you make yourself and your child illegal as well.” Lord Andrall looked down his long patrician nose at her.

  “Have you ever seen me throw a spell, Lord Andrall? Do you have any evidence that I belong to the coven? Perhaps I merely used their name to invoke fear and obedience in a woman of an inferior race,” Ariiell replied sweetly. She hated following on his heels, pressing her arguments. He should stand respectfully still and hear her out.

  “The chaos your accusations cause cannot help anyone but the Gnostic Utilitarian cult. And they will hunt you down and torture you without mercy. You and any other followers of the coven they find.” Andrall turned his back on her again and proceeded into the courtyard.

  Ariiell refused to admit defeat. She stamped her foot angrily and followed closely.

  The magician named Robb and the older woman who seemed to be in charge stood by the wall conversing. Their rapidly waving hands and slightly hunched posture broadcast their anxiety.

  A veil of mist made them look like ghosts. Who was alive and who dead in this place? Another reason to leave as soon as possible.

  Ariiell studied them closely as she and Andrall came closer to them. She’d be able to think more clearly if this s’murghin’ mist didn’t cover everything.

  How could she use their upset to her own advantage? Robb was certainly ripe for loss of concentration if he tried a summons. And just who would receive the summons? Who in the king’s court had enough magic to be in constant communication with the Commune of Magicians?

  She intended to eavesdrop and find out. The Gnuls would pay handsomely for that information. The coven would also receive the news with delight. She must escape this horrible place—alone—before Andrall’s overblown sense of morality revealed her untimely a
dmission. News of a magician in close contact with the king would set the Council of Provinces to depose Darville and put her child on the throne. Possibly before the birth!

  Lord Andrall stopped short, staring at the older woman beside Robb. She was handsome in an aging sort of way, but not worth this mouth-agape stare. Ariiell alone in this hodgepodge of captives should have invited such open admiration.

  Ariiell stamped her foot in frustration. Lord Andrall continued to utter incomprehensible choking sounds rather than come to the point of his mission. Ariiell needed Lord Andrall and Robb to discuss a summons to Darville so she could learn the name of the king’s magical confidant.

  “Wh . . . where . . . who . . . that amulet . . .” At last Andrall pointed to the rather clumsy and ugly jumble of silver and amethyst hanging around the woman’s neck.

  “This is mine.” Vareena immediately clasped the jewelry defensively.

  Robb put an arm around her shoulders in a touching display of affection. Disgusting!

  “Then . . . then that amulet can only be yours because you stole it,” Andrall spluttered. “What have you done to my brother? He would not have parted with that symbol of inheritance while he lived!” He reached to tear the amulet from her neck.

  Magical power tingled through Ariiell. Yes! This is what the coven had tried in vain to teach her. She could feed off strong emotions, drain people of power by absorbing all of their energy. She longed to let a spell, any spell, fly from her fingertips before it dissipated. But what? What could she do that would not get her into more trouble?

  She wiggled her fingers and the knot in the leather thong that held Vareena’s amulet loosened. The thing dropped into Andrall’s outstretched hand.

  “Farrell gave that to me on his deathbed. I nursed him for two years while he resided here in this monastery. With the amulet comes a bequest of acres in the Province of Nunio,” Vareena replied proudly. Her spine looked like it was lashed to a broom handle or her magician lover’s staff.

  “Farrell? So that’s the name he gave you,” Andrall mused, tracing the silverwork on the amulet lovingly with his fingertip. “Farrell. He always wanted to be a hero. But poor Iiann never had the courage to do anything but run away.” The lord closed his eyes and grimaced as if in great pain.

  Ariiell had heard that he had suffered from a weak heart recently, that he’d kept to his home more frequently because of it. What would happen to her plans if she encouraged his heart to fail?

  Without his accusations, she had a better chance of gaining the crown for her child. Without his testimony, no one else would have the courage to remember her untimely confession to membership in the coven.

  “She murdered your brother for the land,” Ariiell whispered into his ear. She used the last of the magic from his anger to fuel her words with compulsion. He had to believe her. He had to condemn this spinster on the spot. And then she’d feed off his pain and give him more.

  “Your bother died of the effects of age and loneliness and grief that he could not return home one last time.” Vareena reached a placating hand toward Andrall and the amulet.

  “Where is he buried? I’d like to pay my respects.”

  “No!” Ariiel bit her tongue to keep from saying more out loud. She raised her hand to push some of her own outrage into Andrall, to keep his anger at a fever pitch.

  Red trails of magic compulsion dribbled from her fingers, dissipating uselessly in the dust.

  Robb finger-combed his beard. Laughter sparkled in his eyes.

  “How dare you laugh at me!” she hissed at him.

  He merely raised his eyebrows and pointed to his chest in mock surprise.

  Ariiel suppressed a snarl.

  “Over there,” Vareena pointed to the far corner of the herb garden, ignoring Ariiel. How dare she! “He’s with the other ghosts who have perished in this cursed place. The foundations of the old temple seemed appropriate for their last resting place.”

  “Don’t believe her!” Ariiell had no more magic to push Andrall into drastic action. If only the coven had taught her to tap a ley line. But her fellows did not believe the ley lines worth bothering with. They relied on rituals filled with music, dance, nudity, and sexual perversion to enhance their powers. Ariiell had no power to tap unless she could push these strangely placid people into violent emotions again.

  “My lord,” Robb interrupted, “I was with your brother in his last moments. He died peacefully, anxious for his next existence. Will you honor his bequest to Vareena?”

  “Of course.”

  “No, you can’t! You have to condemn her for murder right here and now!”

  “Oh, shut up, Ariiell. Go back to the room and behave like the lady you want to be.” Andrall dismissed her with a bored wave of his hand.

  The trio ignored her as they approached the graves in the corner by the wall.

  “You can’t do this to me,” she murmured quietly. “I still have the book of poisons. I can still take control.” A nice little demon let loose within these walls ought to liven things up. Rejiia would know how to conjure one.

  “Stay with me, Zebbiah,” Miranda called anxiously to her friend. His face faded into mist and then reformed in this reality followed by his body. Twice now, he’d drifted off into the strange haze with the rest of his clan. Both times she’d been able to call him back. But this time he seemed to have difficulty getting all of him to step free of the engulfing mist.

  Her lace pillow lay forgotten beside her. She dared not lose herself in the lace she loved. The entire purpose of their long journey had been for her to sit and make their fortune with her work. Zebbiah’s anchor to this reality was still too tenuous for her to concentrate on anything but him and her daughter.

  She rocked Jaranda gently in front of the little fire Zebbiah had built in one of the large second-story rooms. Possibly this had been a smaller scriptorium, possibly a classroom. It covered nearly half of one wing with an identical room adjoining it.

  The pack beast brayed obnoxiously and Zebbiah freed himself from the gloaming. He’d had a time coaxing the pack beast up the circular stairs, but he refused to be separated from it or the packs loaded on its back.

  “I never thought I wanted to sever my link to my clan before,” Zebbiah said, dropping his head into his hands. “Their blood calls to my blood. It is a comfort and an asset most of the time.”

  “Except when danger to them threatens you as well.” Miranda reached out and touched his hand.

  His expression brightened and the last little bit of mist around him seemed to evaporate.

  “In times of danger, the mind-to-mind link and access to magic helps the entire clan. Each of us has all the others to draw upon for help, for strength, for courage. This time, they draw upon me as an anchor to life outside this fog. They drain me.”

  “This . . . this link, does it allow all of you to participate in the . . . the activities of one of your numbers?” Katrina asked. She’d been pacing the room while she examined the lace and the pillows that Miranda had liberated from the palace. Her fingers constantly tangled the lengths of edgings and she nearly shredded one particularly fine cap while moving about the room. Curiously, she kept to the edges, looking out of the row of windows at every pass.

  “Sometimes. Why do you ask?” Zebbiah watched her carefully, as if he saw something more than a normal eye could discern. The strange mist started to gather around him again.

  Miranda grabbed his hand, and the mist went away. For a time. Fatigue clutched her heart. How long could she keep him here before he fully joined the others? She wished she could see them as easily as the magicians seemed to. If even a dim outline appeared to her, she’d feel more comfortable with their looming presence. As it was, she constantly looked to see if an unseen eavesdropper hovered nearby.

  Her back itched as if a thousand eyes watched her every breath, waiting, ready to attack her.

  “Was Neeles Brunix, the owner of a lace factory in Queen’s City, one your clan?” Katr
ina ceased her pacing for a moment at the cost of the linen lace doily that unraveled beneath her anxious fingers.

  “Brunix, bah!” Zebbiah spat the name. “His mother was of our clan. Technically that makes him one of ours. But his father’s people raised him to despise us. He took what he wanted of our rituals and customs and perverted them to suit his needs. We never admitted him to our special link.”

  “Yet you did business with him.” Katrina held up the remnants of the doily.

  “Rovers trade where the trade is best. Brunix provided us with the best lace. Brunix gave us many unique designs. The palace lacemakers had not enough imagination to try new things.” He grinned at Miranda in a sort of apology.

  “I designed this piece and several others in your pack. He stole the patterns from me during the three years he owned me. My lace.” Katrina nearly shook with the emotions that racked her.

  Miranda sympathized with her. Designing and working a pattern required a great deal of diligence, dedication, and devotion to the art. To have it stolen represented almost a sacrilege to a true lacemaker.

  Except that the women who designed lace for the palace workers had been locked into specific forms and techniques, never taking a chance on something new and different.

  Miranda wanted nothing more than to let the world pass her by while she made lace now. She wouldn’t even mind the invisible watching eyes as long as she had the bobbins in her hands and the rhythm of the pattern in her body and mind.

  “Whatever happened to you, the clan did not participate in, or sanction the actions of Brunix,” Zebbiah comforted Katrina. “Too often have our people been enslaved over the centuries by those who do not understand our ways, who fear anything they do not understand. We deny anyone the right to own another. All should be free to rove as they choose. As we choose.”

  “But your people steal. You hide behind half truths and you take children from their rightful parents!” Katrina resumed her pacing. Her words sounded more a recitation of oft told tales than an accusation.