Chapter 10
Lanciar tried hard to think in convoluted circles like a Rover. The more he drank, the straighter the path his mind followed. In the end, logic prevailed. Lanciar left Hanassa by the same dizzyingly steep path he had entered the haven for outlaws—on foot.
Zolltarn could not have transported his entire clan and all of their goods far. That much magic was unprecedented, even if the entire Rover clan joined the spell. Logic also told Lanciar that the Rovers must head for Coronnan and the Commune of Magicians. No one else would value the statue of Lord Krej. And no Rover would steal something unless it held value to someone. Besides, Zolltarn had deserted the coven for the Commune three years ago.
Was the entire adventure merely a ploy to lead Rejiia to the Commune? If so, then he had a better chance of claiming his son by following the Rovers into Coronnan than treading in Rejiia’s footsteps.
Rumors claimed the dragons had returned to the Commune. Neither Rejiia, nor the entire coven—especially with its depleted numbers—could stand against a Commune united by dragon magic. Dragon magic had its limits when wielded by a single magician. But unlike the coven’s blood rituals that enhanced power, or the Rovers’ secret ceremonies, dragon magic allowed talented men to join their talents, augmenting the strength of every spell by orders of magnitude. With this united power they could impose laws, ethics, and honor upon their members, and overcome all those who opposed them.
Fortunately for the Rovers, the coven, and solitary magicians, their honor and ethics kept them from going to war against their own people to wrest political power from the Gnostic Utilitarian cult.
Once more he wondered if his old adversary Jack had managed to return the dragons to Coronnan or if he had died beneath the rubble of Queen’s City. “We’ll have to see if Jack awakened the ability to gather dragon magic as well as my other magical powers,” Lanciar mused.
If it would help regain his son, Lanciar would join the Commune and submit to the limitations and laws of dragon magic in order to negate the power of Rejiia and the coven and the Gnuls.
Once outside the volcanic crater of Hanassa, Lanciar found a thin ley line deep within the surface of the kardia. He drew its meager energies into him. Weak power infiltrated his blood. He needed to get farther away from the mountain fastness before he’d have access to more power.
Three deep breaths triggered his light trance. He used his power to levitate himself down the zigzag path of stairs cut into the steep cliff’s side. He kept his eyes firmly on the steps rather than evaluate the deadly drop-off into the ravine below. One false step would send him careening down the mountain. Levitation—exhausting though it was—was less daunting than walking.
A simple thing like looking down this near vertical cliff should not make his stomach queasy and detach his head from his shoulders. He’d spent most of his life training to be a soldier. He should be able to tackle any physical challenge. He’d faced death in battle many times. He’d killed men before, in battle and in magical sacrifice. Still his head reeled if he looked beyond the path.
At the bottom of the cliff, some three hundred feet below Hanassa’s plateau, the land leveled out and showed signs of a little more rainfall than on the desert plateau. Scrawny shrubs and a few fistfuls of grass clung to precious bits of dirt beside the path. Indeed, the path became a road broad enough for men to walk two and three abreast with pack steeds. Two miles farther on, an inn perched precariously atop another cliff beside a thundering waterfall. Caravans and their beasts camped across the river from the inn. A wobbly bridge strung together with odd bits of rope and mismatched planks spanned the rushing stream.
Lanciar’s head spun at the thought of crashing through the bridge into the river and then plummeting over the cataract onto the broken rocks one hundred feet below. He gulped and turned his eyes and attention away from such thoughts.
Three pairs of men wrestled in the inn’s forecourt, exchanging blows. The pointless brawl spread to several of the spectators. Lanciar spat in the dust in disgust. “Waste of energy and discipline. If you were part of my army, I’d have all of you flogged.”
Rejiia might aspire to the title of Kaalipha of Hanassa, but she didn’t have the discipline to organize the city, only to terrorize it. Lanciar could do it. If he wanted to. The people of Coronnan, SeLenicca, and Rossemeyer would rise up in rebellion against her tyranny. She’d not last long as queen of any place. Lanciar had to retrieve his son before Rejiia put the boy in the way of vengeful assassins.
Lanciar walked a little way past the inn. He paused, drinking in the colors of the place and the clean smell of the air. Green grass beside the river, red tile roof, bright yellow mud walls, a shrub or two, and bright tents in a variety of colors—red, purple, green, and blue. But mostly the tents were the red and purple with black trim of Zolltarn’s clan. A dozen or more dark-haired men and women, dressed in the same colors as the tents, worked hard to rig the tents and start cooking fires.
Indeed, the Rovers had not gone far.
How to approach them undetected? And how to find his son among the numerous babies he’d seen in packs on the backs of the clan women?
He went into the inn and ordered an ale. The first one slid down his throat in welcome relief. He needed to replenish his bodily reserves after the long levitation down the mountain with only a faint and spindly ley line to fuel his talent. Another ale and a meal sent the magic humming through his body once more.
He took his third ale outside while he watched the Rover camp. A pleasant buzz accompanied him. A placid smile spread through him as he sought a place to sit.
“This is too nice a day to do more than watch other people work.” He settled onto a bench at the back of the inn beside the corral, beneath a spreading hardwood tree. He didn’t know the variety and frankly did not care since it bore plain blue/green leaves rather than the pink-veined, thick and oily foliage of a Tambootie tree.
He could eat a few leaves of the Tambootie to enhance his magic. No. He wasn’t that desperate yet. King Simeon’s insanity near the end had been caused by addiction to the leaves. He suspected Rejiia’s instability stemmed from an overuse of Tambootie as well.
But where the Tambootie grew, dragons flew. Tambootie provided essential nutrients to the huge, winged beasts. Those nutrients allowed them to emit magical energy magicians could gather.
Lanciar opened himself to the air, as if drinking in the power contained within the ley lines that crisscrossed the planet. Nothing.
He’d try again later, deeper into Coronnan where dragons might fly once more.
At first the tents and activity across the rapid stream seemed all a jumble. He might have dozed a bit, lulled by the buzz of insects, the warm air, and the ale. Bright colors flowed behind his closed eyes like the umbilicals of life one saw in the void between the planes of existence.
Travel in the void was dangerous, both physically and mentally. He’d known fledgling magicians who went insane and killed themselves after viewing unspeakable truths about themselves in the void.
He jerked awake and saw anew the arrangement of tents. The black, brown, and dusty green shelters clustered together with their backs to the more garish Rover tents. As in the rest of life, ordinary travelers had turned their backs on the Rovers.
The Rovers gathered their tents and sledges in a large circle around a common cook fire with smaller campfires before each flapping opening. A few of the round huts atop the sledges—bardos, he’d heard them called—had been pressed into service as small dwellings to complete the circle.
Lanciar smiled to himself. Zolltarn must reside in the largest purple tent with red-and-black trim.
Lanciar hunted for some sign of the statue of Krej in the vicinity of that tent. Surely Zolltarn would want to display his trophy.
The tin weasel with flaking gilt paint remained elusive.
A middle-aged woman with streaks of gray in her hair directed a myriad of younger women who scurried about the big tent. She could o
nly be the wife of the chieftain.
Three of the five young women—two still teenagers—bore the signs of pregnancy; one barely showing, one about midway along, the third about to pop. Zolltarn’s wives or daughters? The other two girls remained youthfully slim and unburdened with children.
“I doubt I’ll find my boy there.” He turned his attention to the next tent in line. Three women, three infants. His eyes focused more closely on this campfire. All three infants bore the dark hair common to Rovers—but then so did Rejiia. He dared not hope any child of his union with the witch would result in a blue-eyed blond of the true-blood of SeLenicca. Two of the infants toddled out of their mothers’ laps to play in the dirt. The third appeared the size of a child somewhere between three and six moons old. The proper age for Lanciar’s son.
He sent a tendril of silvery magic across the bridge and into the Rover encampment.
At that moment Rejiia walked through his magical thread, breaking the connection. She paused before the woman cradling the infant.
Lanciar cursed and tried again to listen to the conversation. He caught only a few words.
“I seek . . . wet nurse . . . Kestra. . . . told to ask . . . claim my son,” Rejiia commanded. She stood straight and tall, as regal as the queen she claimed to be.
The Rover woman laughed out loud. Lanciar heard her all the way across the rushing stream without magic. “Kestra, first daughter of Zolltarn, disappeared nearly twenty years ago. Have you not heard the legend of the missing girl and her miracle child? Rovers still seek them.”
“Simurgh shit on you! Where is my son?” Rejiia screamed and stamped her foot. Enough magic compulsion accompanied her words to threaten a kardiaquake.
Lanciar braced himself, but the land absorbed Rejiia’s frustration.
“If you gave us a child, Lady Sorcerer, then the child is ours. Now go back to your schemes and your politics. As for the child, if he did not die of disease or malnutrition or was not stoned by fearful gadjé, then he is lost to you forever.” The woman continued to smile, but her eyes narrowed and her muscles tightened in defense.
“Take me to Zolltarn! He cannot steal from me. I’ll have the statue of my father from him, now. And my son. The time has come to find a new wet nurse. Zolltarn owes me for his betrayal of the coven. He must not refuse. If he does, he will suffer the wrath of the coven!”
“Zolltarn can refuse anyone. Rovers have no fear of your coven. Zolltarn owes what he chooses to owe. Our debts are not always honored as gadjé sluts would. Go away, Lady Sorcerer. Run back to your broken coven.”
Bloody Simurgh’s hell! thought Lanciar. Rejiia had alerted the Rovers to her pursuit. They’d hide the baby as well as the statue of Krej where no one without Rover blood could find them. Lanciar would never get close enough to separate his son from all of the other children running around the camp.
He’d not take just any child. He wanted his own son, blood of his blood.
Blood.
The boy’s blood would shine through his life force when viewed from the void.
Simurgh take them all, I’ll have to go into the void by myself, without an anchor to this world. I never thought I’d want to see you again, Jack. But I could use your help right now.
“S’murghit, I think I need another drink of this steed-piss ale.”
Chapter 11
From Aquilla’s boat, Jack hastened back to the palace. He trusted the Bay Pilot to pick out one passenger with cool clammy skin and wobbling balance from sea sickness—there was always at least one even in the calmest of seas—and proclaim him ill from some exotic plague. Aquilla had the authority to quarantine all of the passengers. By sunset, the entire load of witch-sniffers would be back aboard their boat and headed out to sea flying a yellow flag of quarantine.
Jack did not trust the witch-sniffers already in the city to cease their torment of innocents. Katrina, his betrothed, was a prime target for Gnul persecution because she hailed from a foreign land and had no legal spouse to protect her.
Once changed into a decent uniform, he sneaked through the palace toward the inner courtyard that caught and held the sunlight. It was there Katrina chose to work at her lace pillow.
He couldn’t allow her to delay their marriage any longer.
“Name the day, Katrina.” Jack kissed his love on the forehead. He brushed his fingers along the long plaits of silver-gilt hair. She dropped her head onto his chest, hiding her face. He tugged on the plaits where they joined into a single thick rope below her nape, bringing her eyes up to meet his again.
Fear of the witch-sniffers made him jumpy. He had to keep a calm face and manner so Katrina would not panic.
The drone of bees flitting from flower to flower in this private courtyard within the palace sounded loud in his ears, but not as loudly as the pounding of his heart.
“Just tell me when, and I will meet you in any temple in Coronnan City to say my vows to any priest. Just name the day,” he pleaded. Once they were married, he might convince King Darville to hasten his promised appointment as ambassador to SeLenicca. Then he could leave the witch-sniffers and their rabid accusations behind before they threatened Katrina.
“I . . . I . . . Jack, I’m afraid,” she replied as she turned pale blue eyes up to him.
He wanted nothing more than to wrap his arms around her and protect her from her inner demons as well as from the Gnuls for the rest of their lives.
Since the death of his familiar—a cranky jackdaw with tufts of white feathers over his eyes that looked like Old Baamin’s bushy white eyebrows—he’d been empty, emotionally lost. Only Katrina made him feel whole again. With her beside him, he might not need another familiar.
What he needed was to get her out of town.
“You led me across Queen’s City during a massive kardiaquake.” He brushed a light kiss across her brow. “You bandaged a dragon wing with a special piece of magic lace.” He kissed both of her cheeks. She started melting into him, losing the rigidity in her spine. “And you helped me battle the coven with tremendous courage, Katrina. What could you possibly fear after that?”
“I . . . I fear you, Jack.” She looked pointedly at his palace guard uniform. The uniform must remind her of the violence inflicted upon one and all by palace guards in Queen’s City. The inhabitants of her home tolerated, almost encouraged, that violence. They claimed it kept them safe from contamination by outlanders.
“I fear the intensity of your love for me,” Katrina admitted. “I’m not certain I can return it. After Brunix . . . You know what he did to me. How can I love any man after that?”
Jack held her face protectively against his chest rather than look at the tears in her eyes. Neeles Brunix, half-Rover, opportunist, and unscrupulous businessman, had owned Katrina and her lacemaking talent for three years. The coven had murdered Brunix and framed Jack for the crime.
“Brunix loved you, too, in his own twisted way,” Jack cajoled. “He loved his possessions because he owned them rather than owning them because he loved them. He did not touch you out of anger, Katrina. In time, the scars he left on your heart will fade. When you are ready, I will be waiting for you.”
“I fear you must wait a very long time. I can’t ask you to do that, Jack. I love you too much to keep you from finding someone who can return your love.” She broke away from his embrace and turned her back on him.
Suddenly the little courtyard where she had set up her lace bolster seemed too small to contain all of Jack’s panic. How could he get permission to take her away from here unless they were married?
“I’ll always love you.” He reached out for her but let his hand drop back to his side before he touched her. If she did not marry him, how could he protect her?
“Perhaps by the time you figure out how to separate the queen from the cat spirit that also inhabits her body, I will be ready to love you properly.” That project had occupied the finest magical minds for over three years without success.
She fingered
the wide piece of lace she had been working on when he sneaked into the courtyard.
“I’m nearly ready to try the spell, Katrina.” He had a few ideas but not yet enough to try the spell. Right now, though, he’d try anything to get Katrina out of the city. “As soon as we know the queen is back to being one person in one body, King Darville will dispatch me to SeLenicca as ambassador. I need you to come with me as my wife. Only together will we be able to help rebuild your country.”
She looked over her shoulder at him, a hopeful smile tugging at her lips. “Home.”
“Barely. SeLenicca is changed, torn apart by war and natural catastrophe. Your family is gone. The lacemaking industry is in tatters. Nothing will be as you remember. But it is your home. You belong there. Here you will always be a political refugee, no matter how much the queen favors you.” One foray into the marketplace could bring the witch-sniffers down on her as it had on the dye merchant.
“Will you be able to use your magic to revive Queen Miranda from her coma?” Katrina asked. Hope shone from her eyes for the first time since Jack had pressed her to marry him. “With our queen restored, SeLenicca will rebuild, stronger than ever before.” She rushed back into his arms. “On the day after you cure Queen Rossemikka of Coronnan, I will marry you. Then we will go home, together.”
Jack sealed her promise with a fierce kiss. His first assault on her mouth softened, explored possibilities, deepened to a mutual sharing. They were getting good at this. He kissed her again, pulling her tight against his chest.
She fit snugly against him, as if they were two halves of the same mold. A tremendous ache built within him. He deepened the kiss, needing more of her, all of her, forever.
“Home.” Katrina repeated when she came up for air. Then she renewed the kiss with vigor and promise.
A playful squeak in the back of Jack’s mind alerted him to new observers. He opened one eye and stared into the silvery muzzle of a baby dragon perched on the courtyard wall. Bricks sagged and mortar crumbled beneath his purplish talons. Jack’s ungainly tag-along might be only a baby—barely two full years old—but he already exceeded a pack steed in size and weight. He’d grown rapidly in the past months since Jack had first made contact with the dragons.
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III Page 49
