Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III

by Irene Radford

  Katie shrugged off the compliment. She had work to do.

  Much to her surprise, the journeyman healer maintained his vigil over the simmering digitalis in the kitchen.

  “You didn’t succumb to Scarface’s compulsion!” She stopped dead in the kitchen doorway.

  “Your orders seemed more important. Besides, I’m only a journeyman. The call went out to masters. Some of the apprentices obeyed because they don’t know better. I do.” The young man shrugged and continued his chores.

  “What is your name?” Katie asked. She moved to the open hearth to inspect his procedure.

  “Luucian, Your Grace. Journeyman Healer Luucian, at your service.” He bowed slightly, then returned to his remedy.

  “Journeyman Luucian, you just became the king’s personal healer. And I’ll do my best to elevate you to Master Healer before the night is finished.”

  “Thank you, Your Grace, but only the Commune of Magicians can grant me master status.” His face fell a little in disappointment.

  “By dawn the Commune may undergo a major restructuring. Right now, His Grace, the king, and Master Nimbulan need people around them who are not influenced by a power-mad crusader.” Katie ladled a bit of the raw drug into a clay mug. “It’s ready. Take this to Master Nimbulan and make certain he takes all of it, even if you have to pinch his nose to make him swallow it.”

  “Me? You want me to command Master Nimbulan?” Luucian almost stuttered in his awe.

  “Yes. That is your job as his healer. When you have seen to his medication, we’ll have a job for you to do. We are all going to be very tired by the time this night is through. But you must make certain Nimbulan only supervises. I don’t want him lifting anything.”

  “I’ll take the medicine to Lan,” Myri said from the doorway. “Shayla just requested a healer. Powwell and Yaala have rescued Rollett and King Kinnsell from Hanassa. They need a healer. Luucian here seems the only one available.”

  “Me?” Luucian squeaked again.

  “What in bloody blazes was my father doing in Hanassa?” Katie asked in bewilderment. Myri had said “rescued.” They needed a healer. Her father was alive. She still had a chance to . . . to . . . She didn’t know what she needed to do to him, or for him. She was just very grateful he lived.

  “Rouussin is waiting for you on Sacred Isle, Luucian,” Myri said. “He’ll take you to Shayla’s lair and your patients. Gather a little of the Tambootie on the island to take with you. I’ll dose my husband and make certain he takes all of his medicine.” A look of determination settled over her features. She looked very much like Quinnault when he put on his stubborn face.

  “How will I get past the mercenaries out the back door?” Luucian asked as he gathered up his black satchel.

  “Nimbulan said you should wrap yourself in shadows and divert their attention with a suggestion implanted in their minds.” Myri shrugged and returned to the front of the house with the precious dose of digitalis.

  “I’ll do my best, Your Grace. Do you have any messages for King Kinnsell and the others?”

  “What I have to say to my father, I will say in person. He has a lot to answer for.”

  Luucian bowed to her again and exited, just one more shadow in a sheltered alley.

  Shouting from outside drew Katie back to Quinnault and the mercenaries. Her husband stood with his short sword drawn and a phalanx of uniformed guards around him.

  Chapter 46

  Late afternoon, Shayla’s lair, deep in the Southern Mountains

  Powwell opened his eyes to find an unrecognizable face pressed close to his own. His eyes crossed as he tried to focus. His vision swam, and he lost all definition to the pale blob pierced by two bright blue eyes.

  “Who?” he asked through dry and cracked lips. He couldn’t move anything more than his mouth. His entire body felt as if his joints had been dislocated one by one and put back together wrong.

  “I’m Luucian,” the face said. The eyes twinkled momentarily and then relaxed, almost glazed over as if they were the center of the man’s exhaustion. “Do you remember me, Powwell?”

  “Healer?” Powwell couldn’t manage more than a single word at a time. His mouth tasted as if he’d eaten sand. Where had a healer come from? Especially one with a bright blue healing aura?

  “Yes, I apprenticed to the healers in Nimbulan’s battle enclave about a year before you joined him. We met a few times at the University.”

  “Water.” That seemed more important than the identity of the face. Powwell closed his eyes again; the light around him pierced his vision painfully.

  Someone pressed a cup to his mouth and dribbled a few drops of blessedly sweet water onto his tongue. He gulped it greedily. No trace of sulfur marred the taste, so they couldn’t be in Hanassa. But then, his mouth was so dry even that rancid water would taste sweet.

  “More,” he demanded.

  “Just a few drops at a time, Powwell. You’ve had a very high fever. Your system is still in shock from it,” Luucian replied. “But you’ll recover rapidly once you start moving around again. Nothing like a little extra Tambootie in your system to restore your internal balance.”

  Powwell drank a little bit more this time; enough to roll around his mouth before he swallowed. The muscles in his throat ached and didn’t want to work. He tried again and managed to get the water down.

  “Thorny?”

  “Your familiar is distraught, but still with you.” Someone guided his hand until it rested upon Thorny’s relaxed spines. The little hedgehog didn’t hunch and bristle at his touch. Something must be wrong with him.

  Powwell tried to open his eyes again and sit up. He had to take care of Thorny.

  “Rest, Powwell. Thorny is fine. He’s as worried about you as we are,” Yaala said. Her cool hand touched his cheek.

  He relaxed a little, but kept one hand on Thorny. A sense of well-being thrummed through his system from his point of contact with his familiar.

  “Where?”

  “We are in Shayla’s lair,” Yaala reassured him. “The dragons brought a healer to you from the capital. You are going to be fine.”

  “Hanassa?” he asked on a cough. Yaala pressed the cup to his mouth again. He took a big swallow but rolled it around his mouth, relieving parched tissue while he allowed only a little to trickle down his throat at a time.

  “We escaped,” Rollett said. His voice grew distant and loud as if he paced away and then turned back.

  Powwell risked opening his eyes again. Sure enough, Rollett paced in front of the source of light—a cave opening? Only his silhouette was visible. Was that boulder by the entrance really a baby dragon watching Rollett?

  “And the plague?” Powwell’s mouth and throat eased enough to allow three words instead of one. He wanted more water, but Luucian held the cup back.

  “You gave Kinnsell enough healing and strength to survive. He still needs some rest and recovery, but he’ll live long enough to explain himself to his very irate daughter,” Luucian told him. “I doused Yaala with the Tambootie. We don’t know if her dragon heritage makes her immune or not. Lyman and Rollett seem to be fine.”

  When he finished speaking, he lifted the cup to Powwell’s mouth again. “Not too much at once. You might bolt it.”

  Sure enough, the next swallow hit Powwell’s stomach like an explosion and threatened to come back up again.

  “Did I get the plague?”

  “A mild case that I was able to cure,” Luucian said. “You went through the trial by Tambootie smoke last winter, and you’d had a few doses of the raw leaves before Nimbulan discovered dragon magic. There must have been enough of the tree of magic still in your system to keep you alive and to heal King Kinnsell, but since you started as an apprentice after magicians gave up heavy doses of Tambootie, you still succumbed to the disease, probably because you passed so much of your natural immunity to King Kinnsell. It’s a nasty one, spreads very rapidly. If Rouussin hadn’t brought me here to Shayla’s lair w
hen he did, you would have died, Powwell.”

  Powwell smiled at the thought of Rouussin, the elderly red-tipped dragon who viewed humans as willful children who must be indulged.

  He looked around the huge cave a moment. Sure enough a dozen baby dragons perched on various rocks and overhangs. A huge nest of sheep’s wool, feathers, and moss dominated a slightly raised section toward the back. If Shayla was around, he couldn’t see her.

  “The plague in Hanassa? Maia?” he asked.

  “We don’t know yet. The dragons will scout the area and drop supplies, including some Tambootie wood for fires and timboor to add to their food. We have other issues to settle before we send investigators,” Rollett answered, still pacing.

  “Actually, the population as a whole is not threatened by the plague,” Kinnsell added. He was behind Powwell and out of sight.

  “Explain?” Luucian looked up. Curiosity overshadowed his fatigue.

  “In my world, a haze of pollution alters the light patterns from the sun.” He hesitated as if seeking the proper words. “Our bodies adapt to the changes in light. The poisons in the pollution build up in our bodies, triggering more changes. It is these changes along with the toxins in our bodies that allow the plague to attack us. You don’t have the pollution, so only the weak and vulnerable—the old, the very young, and pregnant women—catch the disease. Miners might have a problem from coal dust, but the rest of you should be okay. Powwell caught it because of the direct blood contact. My blood in his system carried food for the plague.”

  “Interesting. I’ll relay that information to the queen,” Luucian replied.

  “Why did Scarface send a journeyman?” Something nagged at Powwell’s mind and wouldn’t let him take the rest he so sorely needed.

  “Scarface didn’t send me. Myrilandel did. The dragons have withdrawn from Scarface and his followers.”

  Silence followed Luucian’s words. Rollett and Yaala stared at him in surprise. Powwell did, too. They all waited for an explanation of this dire situation.

  “The dragons have been staying away from the capital for weeks now. But today they have withdrawn their magic entirely from the Commune. Now that I know you and King Kinnsell will recover—he took to the Tambootie as well as any solitary magician I’ve ever met—I must return to the capital.” Luucian stood up and dusted the knees of his trews. “Nimbulan and King Quinnault need me.”

  “What did Scarface do to earn the wrath of the dragons?” Rollett grabbed Luucian’s sleeve, swinging the healer around to face him.

  “Scarface wants to burn all of the books that mention anything about solitary magic.” Luucian kept his eyes on his knees. “He has compelled all of the Commune to agree with him.”

  “I knew it! I knew he’d go too far in his need to control everyone and everything around him. But this goes beyond all reason, all rationale.” Rollett shook his fists in the direction of the capital city.

  “He can’t burn the books!” Powwell protested. He remembered the precious information about blood magic he’d gleaned from an ancient text. He’d also learned about Rovers, their mind-to-mind magic and ways to avoid being pulled into their traps. Without those books, he’d never have found access to the dragongate. Never have reached Hanassa. . . .

  Oh, Kalen, I’ve failed you once again.

  “Nimbulan has a plan, but he needs help,” Luucian replied as he stooped to pick up his healer’s satchel.

  “Scarface must intend to challenge King Quinnault for more than just those books,” Rollett mused. “He wants control. Control over every life he touches, not just the Commune. I’ve got to go back. We can’t let him continue his tyranny over the Commune or anyone else.”

  “Your help is welcome. The plan requires some interesting magic as well as manual labor. Bessel and I are the only magicians who have resisted Scarface’s compulsion that we can be sure of, but Bessel is acting strangely and I’m not certain how valuable he will be. Powwell will be all right with Yaala to nurse him for a few days,” Luucian replied.

  “I’m not leaving without them.” Rollett glanced at Yaala. His eyes caressed her. Yaala returned his gaze frankly. An energy nearly crackled between them. “We’ve been through a lot together. We stay together until we are all safe back home.”

  “I’ll be all right alone,” Powwell insisted. He couldn’t stand between Yaala and a man who could love her. A part of Powwell would always separate him from Yaala, the part that belonged to Kalen. Dead Kalen.

  He gulped back a sob. “The dragons will take care of me.”

  “I hate the idea of leaving you alone, Powwell, but we’re needed in the capital.” Yaala looked truly torn between Rollett and her friendship with Powwell.

  “I’ll stay with the boy. I can’t say I’m looking forward to my daughter’s tirade. Though I’d like to retrieve my granddaughter from Lord Balthazaan’s custody before Katie tears the kingdom apart looking for her,” Kinnsell said from the dim interior of the cave.

  “Princess Marilell is safe,” Luucian replied. His mouth worked as if he choked back a laugh. “The kidnapping attempt failed. Queen Katie and King Quinnault keep the child very close now.”

  “You bushies aren’t as ignorant and helpless as I first imagined.” Kinnsell chuckled. “I owe it to the boy to take care of him until you return. Can’t say I want to stay here with these monsters, though. Are you sure they won’t eat me for lunch?”

  “What do I need other than strength to travel with you? I can eat and drink now, and that will restore a lot of my energy.” Powwell struggled to raise himself on his elbows. If he stayed here, he’d wallow in his aching grief and never recover. Nimbulan needed him, needed his magic. He couldn’t help Kalen anymore. He might as well give his all to the only man Kalen ever respected.

  Suddenly his life had purpose. Kalen had spent her life running away from those who had tried to control her and her magnificent talent. He would honor her memory by challenging all those who would victimize other children before they’d had the chance to learn to control their own destinies.

  He’d start with Scarface.

  Late afternoon, Coronnan City

  Bessel crossed two bridges and threaded through a number of streets before he slipped into another alley. He faced the wall of a smithy as he removed Mopsie and the blanket from their hiding places.

  The little dog yipped his gratitude and squirmed within Bessel’s arms, tired of being confined. He licked Bessel’s face before jumping to the ground and running three joyous circles around his ankles.

  “Yes, yes, I know you are happy, Mopsie, but we have to keep moving. We have to get to the docks before the tide turns and the barge sails. We have to make sure that by the time Raanald gets the barge to the port, he’ll mistrust the depth finder so much he’ll destroy it himself.” He patted his familiar and set about arranging a new disguise.

  After removing the dress and kerchief, he folded them into the blanket lengthwise and slung the bundle across his back and over one shoulder. He tucked the loose ends into his belt. Then he snapped his fingers and transported his staff and a metal bowl from his room inside Myrilandel’s house. The spell was illegal. Dragon magic only allowed levitation, not transportation. But the men of Rossemeyer would have seen the staff floating through the air and followed it.

  King Quinnault had told him to use whatever means possible to destroy the depth finder and create chaos on the docks.

  Lastly he smeared dirt on his cheeks and chin in imitation of two days’ growth of beard.

  With bowl in one hand, held out in a classic beggar’s stance, and leaning heavily on the staff, he shuffled out of the alley, just another beggar displaced by the wars.

  He progressed to the docks unmolested and richer by seven dragini.

  “Dinner,” he promised Mopsie as he slipped the coins inside his belt pouch. He tucked the bowl into his makeshift bedroll and wound his way through the confusing array of docks and warehouses under construction.

  The el
aborate passenger barge he had ridden on—was it just two days ago?—rested against a clean ramp. No one bothered to sweep and scrub the more commercial docks. But this one catered to wealthy and elite passengers. A bevy of colorful canopies and padded benches provided those passengers with a place to await the tide and the whim of the pilot.

  If he’d worn his magician’s robes, Bessel could have walked directly up to the barge and demanded passage free of charge. Dressed as an ordinary fisherman, accompanied by a scruffy dog—who had gotten very dirty again crossing the city—the stewards and crew wouldn’t allow him beyond the velvet ropes that separated the passenger area from the common dockside traffic.

  He needed another disguise.

  What would get him aboard the ship without question and without having to pay an enormous fee? He couldn’t board as an ordinary dockhand, and the uniforms of the Guild of Bay Pilots were custom-made for each individual— no extras. Besides, every man in the Guild knew every other man in the guild.

  He’d have to board as a magician needing free passage so he could fulfill some unnamed errand for the Commune. No longer concerned about performing rogue magic, he snapped his fingers again. His formal robe and his best boots from his room in Myrilandel’s house landed in a heap at his feet. He ducked behind a pile of crates and rope coils to rearrange himself. The robe covered his ordinary fisherman’s clothing. But his bedroll and Mopsie needed a more discreet covering.

  He checked the pockets of the robe for his normal assortment of essential equipment. Everything seemed in place.

  “With permission to use rogue magic, I can hide the bedroll here and retrieve it later,” he whispered to himself and Mopsie. He also needed to change his appearance a little. He didn’t want Raanald, the pilot during yesterday’s disaster, or any of his crew recognizing him. With just a little magic he made himself appear taller and thinner. The dirt on his face took on a heavier appearance, more like a true beard and mustache.