Now he wondered what he had done to anger a dragon.
But he wouldn’t have awakened from a dragon-dream.
Still shivering with memories of arrows and boiling oil, he called a ball of witchlight to hand and stumbled to the latrine. Best way to banish a nightmare.
Three spiders as large as the largest gold coin crunched under his boots between his cell and the corner latrine. He relished the squishy sound of their deaths. This, he could control.
But when he climbed beneath the blankets again, the dream returned. He forced himself awake and counted the stones in each wall, the floor, and ceiling for the rest of the night.
‘I don’t love you anymore, Margit,” Marcus stated boldly.
The tall blonde stood before him, hands on hips, feet spread, mouth agape. The setting sun backlit her flowing tresses into a wild halo of indignation. And then she started throwing spells, fire, water, wind, dirt clods.
Marcus ducked, holding up his arms to shield his face. He tried to erect a barrier between himself and Margit’s fury. Magic dribbled from his fingers like the last dregs of old ale from the bottom of the barrel.
“Let me explain, Margit.” When magic deserted him, he always had words. He could charm the surliest of beldames into giving him a night’s shelter, a meal, or a tumble in the hay. “We’ve had some good times together. We’ve shared the secrets of magicians spying upon politicos and fanatic Gnuls. I was the liaison between you and Jaylor at the Commune of Magicians. But that wasn’t true love. You don’t truly love me any more than I love you.”
“Explain!” Margit hurled rocks with fists and magic. Only one landed at his feet. The others found her targets, his shoulders, his gut, his head. She’d had a lot of practice warding off ravens and jackdaws from her mother’s bakery cart in the market square. “Explain! You call that an explanation? What have you found this time? A more beautiful woman, a wealthier woman, a willing woman on the long, lonely nights in the middle of nowhere? I’ve heard all of your excuses before, Marcus. But this is the last one. I’ll kill you before I let another woman have you.”
From empty air she conjured metal throwing stars. She aimed their sharp points at his eyes.
His luck had definitely run out. No more could he count on Margit’s love and loyalty waiting for him in the capital when he returned.
Fierce, hot pain in his eyes and head jolted Marcus awake. Darkness surrounded him. Had Margit’s aim been true and blinded him? Sweat poured down his face and back. He rubbed at the biting pain in his temple and eye. Insect bites.
Gradually, the faint starlight filtered through the high window of his monastery cell. As his eyes adjusted to the dim light, he remembered where he was. He sighed heavily and brought a ball of cold witchlight to his hand.
“Just a nightmare. I still have my magic and my luck.” He rolled over and curled into his bedroll, seeking to warm the chill of sweat drying on his skin.
Images of Margit’s fury superimposed themselves on his mind every time he closed his eyes.
“I don’t love Margit. ’Tis Vareena who has captured my heart.” He tried to conjure her image before him, starting with her cloud of fair curls surrounding delicate features, frail frame, and serene demeanor.
Margit’s laugh and well-muscled strength kept trying to mask the pictures he held in his mind’s eye.
“I love Vareena. Tomorrow I’ll find a way out of here so that we can be together. Forever,” he repeated over and over again, until exhausted sleep finally claimed him.
Chapter 9
“Marcus, we’ve tried this before.” Robb sighed heavily. “But we haven’t tried it this way,” Marcus replied. Eagerly he placed his right foot into a crevice in the outer wall. Then he reached for the first secure handhold with a show of confidence he didn’t really feel. They’d been trying to escape the old monastery all morning with no luck.
No luck. The words rang ominously around his head. He gritted his teeth and hauled himself up to find the next toehold. The chipped crevice he sought eluded him. As his balance teetered and his arms threatened to give way from the strain of holding his weight so precariously, he pressed his back against the gatehouse tower and wedged his body in the tight corner between it and the main curtain wall.
This would be easier if he’d slept better last night. Even after he’d banished the nightmare of Margit trying to kill him, he had not slept. Every time he’d turned over on the stone bench of a bed, the bed itself had seemed to roll and reshape itself to be more uncomfortable. Good fortune would never return until he escaped this cursed monastery.
From the looks of the deep shadows beneath Robb’s eyes, he hadn’t slept any better.
They had to set out of here. Today. Now.
“Your theory is flawed, Marcus. Whatever magical barrier holds us here is most thorough. Even the scattered ley lines within the courtyard do not reach the wall. They end abruptly and never do they cross. Our summons spell to Jaylor last night did not leave this complex. I think the thick cloud cover kept it within the walls. The confinement spell must have been constructed to surround the entire wall, not just the obvious exits and easily climbed points. Actually from the way you are bracing yourself there, I believe this to be the most obvious place for a climber to escape.” Robb droned on with his logical assessment of their predicament. He held his grounded staff so that the top made little circles at the end of each sentence.
“But Vareena comes and goes with her brother. Why them and not us?” Marcus returned. “She brought us food and blankets this morning. She talks to us. She sees us. But her brother doesn’t. Not once could I make eye contact with him while we dug Farrell’s grave. Why can Vareena and her brother leave and we can’t?” He didn’t add that he wanted to follow the lovely blonde. He’d follow her to the ends of the kardia if he had to, giving up his dreams of a snug cottage and never wandering more than a few leagues from there ever again.
Margit’s image reared up before him. She’d never forgive him for deserting her. She’d hunt him down and kill him . . . No that was the nightmare. Margit might make life miserable for him, but she’d never . . . or would she?
He had a nagging feeling that his infamous good luck wouldn’t solve this problem for him.
But he had to have Vareena—He caressed the name in his mind as he climbed. Vareena needed his protection. She stood barely as tall as his shoulder. Her willowy figure looked too fragile to withstand a light breeze, let alone stand up to her strapping brother. And yet, from their conversations, Marcus gathered that the entire family of strong brothers and an implacable father listened and obeyed her. She’d remained a spinster to care for them.
“Perhaps Vareena and her brother have the freedom to leave because they are mundane,” Robb mused. He stroked his dark beard, eyes crossing in thought. In another time and place, Marcus might expect a spell to bounce from the end of his staff. But those ley lines curved and twisted away from each other as if repelled. Neither he nor Robb had been able to tap into their energy for more than the most rudimentary spells.
The summons spell had not exited the walls.
“What does talent or lack of it have to do with escape?” Marcus wormed his way up the wall a little higher. His right foot slipped just as he shifted his balance to move his other foot. Rough stone rasped his palms and cheek while he scrabbled for a better position. “S’murghit! That stings.” His breath whistled through his clenched teeth.
Time was, he could set his mind to any task, and luck would carry him through to the end. He always found a way to come through unscathed no matter how difficult or dangerous the chore.
Robb bore a number of scars from their adventures. They enhanced his rugged appeal. Marcus had no scars to blemish his fair skin and lithe body—yet.
Doggedly he climbed higher, doing his best to ignore the painful scrapes that made him want to curl his fingers tightly over the wounds.
“This would be a lot easier if the builders had put in a parapet and walkw
ay for guards or lookouts. This exterior wall must have been added for protection after the main building was constructed,” Marcus mused rather than think about his luck and his magic draining away.
“We must consider the possibility that this monastery was converted to a prison for rogue magicians at the end of the Great Wars of Disruption.” Robb continued his lecture. “If such were the case, then the Commune would need a powerful spell to keep the criminals in. Something in the nature of the magical border around Coronnan. Until recently it prevented enemies and undesirables from entering the country.”
“Flawed logic, Robb. The border broke down when the number of dragons that supplied our magic decreased. When Shayla flew away and took her mates with her, the border dissolved completely. Why didn’t this spell?” He didn’t want to think what kind of sorcery kept the dragons in SeLenicca. Who could be stronger than a dragon?
Robb made no reply. A quick glance over his shoulder told Marcus that his friend’s eyes crossed almost to opposite sockets as he stroked his beard.
“Another puzzle that I must think on,” Robb replied after several moments.
“If you don’t let your eyes straighten out, Robb, they will remain crossed forever,” he chided his friend.
Robb apparently didn’t hear him, but remained deep in contemplation.
Marcus reached higher. His shoulders and back ached and his face burned from the previous scrape. If he didn’t have an audience, he just might give up and go find a dark corner where he could vent his frustration by stomping a few of the monstrous spiders that thrived in this place. Then he’d nurse his hurts in private.
He edged closer to the top of the wall where it joined the taller gatehouse tower.
At last his left hand clutched the rounded top. Then he pushed high enough to fling his right arm over the top stone and brace his weight. A shout of triumph burst out of his laboring lungs.
It died before it passed his lips. Magical power jolted up his arm to his neck and head. His ears rang and a numbness grew in his head. The blankness spread and he lost his grip. He couldn’t find the other wall with his back. His feet went slack.
He knew he fell, but he couldn’t feel a thing.
He did hear Robb droning on about his theory of how one would create such an enduring protective spell that would not disintegrate with the loss of the dragons.
“That s’murghin’ containment spell is killing my luck,” Marcus cursed.
These men who seek to steal my power are either too stubborn for their own health or too stupid to survive. They have not responded to the dreams of portent I sent them, nor to the subtle persuasion of a kardiaquake. I must think anew. I have time. I am not going anywhere.
“Your Grace?” Jack hissed to King Darville and Queen Rossemikka from the cover of a flowering shrub in the queen’s private garden.
The king stopped quickly, gaze darting for the source the whisper. His hand reached for the ceremonial short sword he always wore on his right hip.
Queen Mikka’s fingers arched away from the arm of her husband that she had clung to as they walked. She opened her mouth in a silent hiss, revealing small pointed teeth. Her eyes narrowed, and the pupils showed as definite vertical slits. Jack suspected that her back arched as well and the hairs on her neck stood up. But her richly textured gown fell in wide folds all around her, disguising her posture.
The gown hung too heavily on her thin frame. Since her last miscarriage—a very dangerous one that had required Brevelan and Jaylor to transport to the capital to heal her—Mikka had been listless and pale with little appetite. If Jack did not succeed with his special project soon, she might die of a broken heart.
“Your Grace, it’s only me.” Jack half rose from his crouched position, then ducked quickly back within the broad leaves and abundant red blossoms. He wanted to sneeze away the heavy perfume of the flowers, but didn’t dare. Even here, guards trailed behind the royal couple. Two of them, Jack suspected of being at least spies for the Gnuls, if not actual witch-sniffers. And they closed in upon the royal couple, alerted by Darville’s startlement.
After his conversation with Aquilla, he suspected more people than he had this morning. He dared not use even the tiniest of spells as long as any of these men were present.
Darville soothed his wife with a gentle hand to her mane of multicolored hair. She leaned into his caress and kissed his palm.
“I need to speak with you privately, Your Grace.”
“My office. You are on duty later today.”
“This won’t wait, and there are too many curious people hanging around the barracks. I can’t get in there yet to change to a clean uniform,” Jack insisted. He’d dried his tunic and trews as best he could before Aquilla’s fire, but the uniform was crumpled and stained, not fit to be worn in the king’s presence.
“Your Grace, what do you fear?” Sergeant Fred asked. He held his functional battle sword at the ready while he scanned the bushes and tree branches for signs of an enemy. Equally alert, his five attending soldiers spread out in a wide circle.
Jack trusted Fred. The slightly older soldier had been with the king for a number of years as personal bodyguard and confidant. Of all the palace guard, only Fred knew Jack’s true reason for being in the capital disguised as another trusted soldier.
“Only a bird scuttling in the bushes after a worm, Sergeant,” Darville dismissed the six hovering attendants.
Fred gestured to the men to retreat the required ten paces to grant the king and queen an illusion of privacy.
Rossemikka bent to sniff at the red blossoms that concealed Jack from mundane eyes. Her fingers relaxed and when she blinked, her eyes had returned to a normal round pupil.
Darville rubbed the back of his wrist idly. Were the red weals beneath his fingertips cat scratches? The queen must be in a high state of agitation if she allowed the cat persona trapped within her to rise to the surface so readily. She hadn’t scratched her husband in weeks.
“Are you any closer to finding a cure for me?” the queen asked in her slightly accented voice. She hailed from the desert kingdom of Rossemeyer where the land was so harsh, the people traded for all of their food and most of their household goods with mercenaries and the fiery liquor called beta’arack. “I would be rid of this cat.”
“Alas, Your Grace, no. I wish I had found the proper spell. I came today to warn you both of extreme danger. A boatload of witch-sniffers arrived at the port islands this morning.” Three islands at the edge of deep water in the Great Bay marked the sailing limit for large vessels. Only shallow draft barges piloted by Guild of Bay Pilot members could negotiate the mudflats of the inner bay. “They await transport into the city. Another one hundred are due to arrive next week. Some of these foreign seekers are extremely sensitive. They may ‘smell’ the cat within you since it was put there by magic.”
Jack checked the position of the soldiers. The two he suspected had inched forward, right arms slightly extended and circling. They kept the signature gesture of a witch-sniffer subtle. But Jack knew they sought him.
Darville must have seen them as well. He shifted his position so that he stood between his beloved queen and the sniffers. Years ago, before he ascended to the throne, Darville had been kidnapped by his cousin, the rogue magician Krej, and ensorcelled into the body of a golden wolf. When Jaylor had rescued him and exposed the plot, Darville had fallen ill from the effects of too many spells being cast upon a mundane within too short a time. The illness had given the Council of Provinces reason to deny him the crown for many moons.
He could always claim that the sniffers smelled him and not his queen who did have magic in her blood even before the cat had joined her in that body.
“Why don’t you just dismiss those men?” Jack mused, not realizing he had spoken until he heard his words.
“Because the Gnuls control my council. Any retaliation against them brings worse reprisals against innocents. I am only the first among equals, not a tyrant. I must d
efer to the wishes of the lords who help me govern,” the king said sadly. “I thought I had pounded some sense into them, but apparently not.”
“What will we do, Darville?” Rossemikka turned wide, frightened eyes up to her husband. Her fingers curled again. The cat wanted dominance.
“What we always do. Dissemble, divert, claim they persecute us with unfounded accusations merely to overthrow me and claim the throne for themselves.”
“They can’t depose you, Your Grace. Your coronation was dragon-blessed. Thousands witnessed B—” he couldn’t say the true name of the blue-tipped dragon out loud. The secret of Baamin’s origins must remain secret a while longer. “They all saw the same thing I saw. The dragons blessed your crown and your queen.”
“But no one has seen a dragon since. Before and after my coronation, the dragon nimbus remained in exile. Baamin returned only long enough to show himself at the coronation.” The king grinned widely, letting Jack know that not much remained secret from him.
“Our enemies have grown in strength while the dragons remained in SeLenicca. They now discount the reality of the dragons you returned to Coronnan. The Gnuls will try to kill any dragons who show themselves, claiming them the spawn of Simurgh.”
“But what do you want me to do about the influx of witch-sniffers?”
“Can you whip up a storm that will strand them in the port for a time?”
“I don’t dare with those two watching everything in the palace so closely.”
“Then we must invent a disease that will close the port to all people, but not goods.”
“That I can do, Your Grace. I have a friend who will gladly dispense a convincing rumor.” Jack eased backward through the clump of bushes until he stood on a path well hidden from the view of the guards. Within moments he was running back to Aquilla, just like when he was nothing more than a scullery lad and wharf rat needing protection from bullies. Gnuls, bullies, what was the difference?
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III Page 48
