The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  Yaakke had failed, having gone missing some three years ago.

  Now he and Marcus must remain missing in this hazy gloaming indefinitely.

  Didn’t that half-haze ever dissipate from the sky? He kicked the stone wall of the tower in his frustration. All he wanted right now was to see honest sunshine reflecting off Margit’s blonde braids.

  In the center of the courtyard Marcus arranged the kindling and wood into an efficient campfire. He snapped his fingers and brought a flamelet of witchfire to his fingertip. It leaped from his hand into the kindling, chewing hungrily at the fuel.

  They were ready to try a summons spell again, in broad daylight, when they had a better chance of someone being awake at the University to respond. Possibly the containment spell around the monastery weakened the spell to the point a sleeping magician would not notice the faint hum in the recipient’s glass.

  Robb moved to Marcus’ side, staying slightly behind so he could feed the fire without distracting his friend from his spell.

  Marcus acknowledged him with a slight nod as he breathed deeply, in three counts, hold three, out three, hold three. His eyes glazed over, and he stared into the flames, seeing something far, far away. Slowly, deliberately, he brought his square of precious glass up to eye level and recited the ritual words that would summon Jaylor, Senior Magician of the Commune.

  Robb fought the urge to dive into his own trance and participate in the spell. If dragon magic were available, he could combine his own talent with Marcus’ and boost the power of the spell far beyond the sum of their two talents. Without dragons, he could only monitor his friend and keep the fire going for as long as the spell took to reach across Coronnan to the protected Clearing near the University.

  “Flame to flame, glass to glass, like seeking like,” Marcus chanted over and over again.

  Robb grew cramped sitting cross-legged on the hard-packed surface of the courtyard. He shifted uneasily and fed yet another log onto the fire. The sparks leaped high, greedy for more fuel.

  His back ached. He reached out with a tiny magical probe and checked Marcus’ pulse. He’d been in trance a long time. Surely Jaylor would answer the thrumming vibration of his glass no matter what time of the day or night. If he couldn’t, then an apprentice or another magician would intervene with his own glass and flame. He could not imagine a situation that would keep every magician in the Commune and University away from communication at the same time.

  The probe lost contact with Marcus’ pulse. Robb risked touching his friend. His skin was cool and had taken on the waxy pallor of exhaustion and hunger.

  “Wake up, Marcus. Return to your body and your thoughts. Come back slowly, easily.” Robb held his friend’s hand, infusing warmth and strength into the chill skin.

  Marcus slumped and sighed heavily. His eyelids fluttered. He looked up bleakly. “I couldn’t get through. I don’t think the spell climbed the walls any better than we did.”

  “My plan didn’t work.”

  CHAPTER 13

  “Did you feel that?” Margit asked Ferrdie and Mikkail. She touched the little shard of glass in her scrip. A moment ago it felt as if it vibrated with a summons. Now it lay quiet again.

  For years, during her time as Queen Rossemikka’s maid and Jaylor’s spy in the capital, the summons spell was the only bit of magic she could work. She had mastered all nuances of that spell very well and should know that characteristic thrumming in her glass.

  But now the sensation had dissipated like mist in a fog. A summons did not work that way. The glass should continue to vibrate until the one summoned found a flame and a bit of privacy to answer.

  She’d known a spell to linger in her glass for the best part of a day.

  “Feel what?” Mikkail returned. He looked up from the text he studied at the long library table. Darkness had driven them inside, otherwise Margit would have insisted they continue their reading beneath a tree in the fresh air. She had chosen a table beneath a shuttered window, which she opened to the night air.

  Ferrdie looked around anxiously as if expecting to be beaten for doing his homework.

  Since she’d adopted masculine clothing and hair-style, the boys in her class accepted her more readily, asked her to study and practice with them. WithyReed still did not call upon her in class, but the other masters took her more seriously. Almost as if a gown set up a barrier between them.

  Or a challenge. Dressed as a boy, she did not threaten their preconceived ideas about females and magic. She wondered briefly how Brevelan, the wife of the Senior Magician, coped with the archaic attitude.

  In asking the question, she knew the answer. Brevelan ignored the masters who treated her as subhuman. That irritated the masters immensely because their lofty opinions meant nothing to the wife of their Senior Magician.

  Briefly, Margit explained the strange half-sensation that her glass had interrupted a summons to someone else. Both boys touched their glasses within their scrips. Both shook their heads. Mikkail shrugged his shoulders and returned to the treatise written by the ancient magician named Scarface.

  “What’s this word, Margit?” He turned the scroll so she could see it.

  “Complementary,” she replied.

  “So the elements of Fire and Air are ‘com-ple-men-tar-y’.” He sounded each syllable carefully as Margit had taught him, so he’d remember the word next time he saw it.

  “And Kardia and Water are complementary. I wonder if one could negate a spell by invoking opposing elements?” she mused.

  “An interesting theory you may explore as part of your next advancement test, Margit,” Jaylor said from the doorway.

  All three apprentices jumped to their feet in respect for the Senior Magician.

  “Sit, sit, return to your studies.” He waved them back to their stools and their books. He carried his younger son under one arm and a cat on his other shoulder. Lately, he was rarely seen without at least one of his two sons and some of the overflow of animals attracted to the shelter of Brevelan’s Clearing. The first Senior Magician in many generations to have a family, he took his duties as a father very seriously—especially now that his wife Brevelan was heavily pregnant again. She needed a break from the excessive energy of her two sons and husband.

  “Have any of you seen Master Librarian Lyman?” Jaylor asked, looking about the jumbled shelves of the library. They’d lost a number of books in their years of running from refuge to refuge before building a new University in exile. But they’d retrieved many more books from unexpected sources as silent sympathizers found circuitous ways to send the treasures. Not everyone was willing to consign books to Gnul bonfires. Lyman, the ancient librarian, hadn’t managed to sort and shelve them all properly. Nor had he appointed an assistant to help him.

  Perhaps Ferrdie? Margit thought the job perfect for her meek friend.

  “Dozing in the corner,” Margit whispered to Jaylor.

  “I’ll not wake him then. He needs his rest.” Jaylor started to back out of the room.

  “Master Jaylor?” Margit stopped him. “Did you just sense a summons gone astray?” Her hand automatically went to her scrip, testing the glass again for residual vibrations.

  “Did you?” Jaylor’s eyebrows rose nearly to his dark auburn hair.

  “Aye, sir. But it . . . evaporated. I’ve never had anything like that come through my glass before.”

  “Neither have I. Keep alert, Margit. And work on the paper about opposing elements to negate a spell. You’ll find some preliminary explorations on the subject over by the last window on the right. Don’t wake Master Lyman. He’s getting old and needs his rest.” Jaylor quietly left the library.

  “Master Lyman was born old,” Mikkail muttered.

  “I heard he doesn’t eat. He just inhales the dust from the books,” Ferrdie offered.

  Margit had to smile. The boy just might break away from the trap of his fears if he could repeat a joke that had followed apprentices for—forever.

  �
�No, I don’t breathe book dust, little boy, I eat apprentices who disturb my nap!” Lyman called from the corner. His wrinkled skin and wispy silver hair almost blended into the shadows as if he were as invisible as a dragon.

  Ferrdie cowered behind his book.

  “And I was born older than I am now. I don’t age, I young,” Lyman tugged his beard and winked at Margit. “Now, come along, Margit. Get the study on your topic. Only way you’ll make journeyman in time to answer that distress summons you intercepted is to get the paper written and impress the masters that you aren’t just a girl.”

  “Distress summons?” Margit’s voice came out on a squeak. The only person she knew who might send a distress summons that would reach her but not Jaylor was Marcus.

  Once again she knew a stab of hot fear that her love had been lost and out of communication for many moons.

  “Nothing to worry about just yet. He’s safe for the moment. But you must push forward to be ready when you need to be.”

  “How did you know it was a distress summons, Master Lyman?”

  “Because I’m older than the oldest dragon, and I’ve seen it all,” the frail old man retorted. “A distress summons that is interrupted is the only summons that hits more than one person like a stab in the side and then evaporates into mist. The sender is lucky someone caught it and is willing to prepare for it. Now, research and write that paper. You don’t have enough knowledge and talent to plan ahead as Robb does or to trust in your luck like Marcus does.”

  “Then I’ll have to improvise.” She flashed the old man an impish grin.

  These intruders have one hundred days. That is all. One hundred days and they die. They will not figure out how to steal my power in that time.

  “Tell me a story, M’ma,” Jaranda demanded. The regal, imperious tone of the three-year-old lost a lot in translation around the thumb she sucked. Her eyelids drooped.

  Mother and daughter had consumed every scrap of food they could scrounge from the kitchen and pantry. For the moment they were replete and happy.

  What about tomorrow?

  All around them, they heard small crashes and groans as weakened walls and ceilings gave way. How much longer could they safely stay here? With atavistic fear, she resisted going forth into the city.

  “Come sit in my lap, baby. I’ll tell you a story.” She opened her arms where they sat on the floor of the workroom. Round bolster pillows spilled yards of soft lace around them. Straight-backed chairs by the pillow stands offered the only seating in the room. So she and Jaranda sat on the floor where they could be together. They had found elegant withdrawing rooms with comfortable furniture, bedrooms with lace curtains, and little private salons all over the palace. All of them had breaches in the walls or ceilings and offered little protection. The workroom remained intact and felt like home. How long? What about food tomorrow?

  “Once upon a time, in a country far, far away . . .” she began the story.

  “How far away?” Jaranda asked as she snuggled her head into her mother’s lap. She sucked her thumb again.

  Part of the woman knew she should do her best to discourage the little girl from the baby behavior, but with life so unsettled, their future so uncertain, she allowed Jaranda whatever comfort she could find.

  “Many days’ travel by barge up the river, farther away than you or I have ever been. Farther away than either of us would want to travel.”

  “Hmm,” Jaranda agreed.

  “In this far, far country, there lived a . . . a princess who made lace. And her name was . . . Jaranda.”

  “That’s me,” the little girl sighed and shifted deeper into her mother’s lap.

  “And she lived in a crumbling palace that had been deserted by one and all when an evil sorcerer with dark eyes and hair made the land tremble and the skies shoot flame. Everyone was very afraid. Everyone except the princess. She knew that the only defense against the evil sorcerer was to make enough lace to cover the walls of the palace and heal them. The little princess searched the palace high and low for all of the Tambrin thread she could find. For Tambrin has special magic spun into it . . .”

  Jaranda drifted into sleep, a smile on her face.

  The woman looked around the workroom with new hope. Tambrin.

  If she could find some of the silky thread spun from the fibers of immature Tambootie trees, perhaps she could heal herself, remember her name. Maybe then she would know where to look for family or friends to shelter and feed her and her daughter.

  Without disturbing Jaranda, she reached to the nearest strand of lace dangling from a work table. She fingered the fine threads woven into an airy pattern.

  Silk. Lovely. But not Tambrin.

  She reached a little farther to the table behind her. Linen. The finest spun linen in the world, but still not Tambrin.

  She reached again, across her to the left. The lace eluded her. She stretched farther and touched—a hand!

  A scream lodged deep in her throat. She wanted to scream, needed to shout her fear to the rooftops.

  But that would awaken the baby.

  “Nice story, Lady. Tambrin lace is worth six times its weight in gold in Coronnan right now.” The man’s deep voice flowed around her in soothing tones. “Show me which of these is Tambrin, and I’ll show you a safe place to stay in the city.”

  Just then the floor rippled beneath them, and the ceiling dropped chunks of plaster on top of her head.

  “I think I’d rather take one of these pillows to Coronnan and make my fortune there,” she replied.

  Only then did she look at the intruder. Tall, black-haired, with eyes as deeply dark as a well, he smiled at her with a mouth full of gleaming teeth. A small pack steed stood patiently behind him. Not a true pack steed. One of those odd little creatures from the mountains of Jehab with exceedingly long ears and shaggy coat. It opened its mouth and brayed long and loud as if it laughed at her, at him, at the world. It displayed an amazing number of oversized square teeth—a lot like its master.

  His clothing certainly deserved a smile, black trews and shirt brightened by a garish vest of purple with red trim and silver embroidery. His fringed sash of bright blue hung nearly to his dusty black boots. A dozen or more coins hung from the sash at his waist, from rings in his ears, and dangling from his purple, billed cap set at rakish angle.

  Something in the back of her mind whispered “Exotic, interesting.” She thought perhaps it should have shouted “Dangerous!” But it didn’t.

  “I should fear you, but I don’t.”

  “Prejudices have to be learned. Not much to fear from me. I’m just a simple trader trying to make a living. You and a lace pillow filled with Tambrin lace could set us up in a nice palace all our own in Coronnan. No kardiaquakes in Coronnan.” A mischievous twinkle in his eyes made his offer nearly as attractive as the man.

  “I don’t suppose you know my name?”

  “Never met you before, Lady.” He shrugged, setting the coins to jingling. They formed an almost recognizable melody played on silver bells.

  “I suspected you’d say that.”

  CHAPTER 14

  “What was this room used for?” Marcus asked Vareena. They had reached the corner room beneath one of the two large watchtowers. Two smaller towers at the end of the residential wings of the monastery contained latrines and staircases but no observation platforms on their roofs. These corner towers were massive—larger than four of the individual rooms combined. They topped the courtyard walls by at least another story.

  Vareena paced the colonnade beside him, thrusting open doors as they passed. He wanted to hold her hand as they explored, but the barrier of energy repulsed him every time.

  Robb slunk along behind them, lost in his own grumbling. He’d sat by the well for hours shuffling the deck of cartes. But as soon as Marcus and Vareena neared the tower, he had joined them.

  “Looks like an office or study,” Vareena said, staring at the slanted writing desk, tall stool, stone visitor’s
bench, and rank of empty bookshelves along one wall. The desktop and the shelves held only dust.

  They explored a bed niche behind a half-wall at the back of the room. In the corner, steps spiraled up into the tower. Indentations in the shallow risers showed the wear of many feet climbing those stairs over the course of centuries of use.

  Robb stared at the stairs without mounting them. “Maybe the bathing chamber is up there. Haven’t seen any signs of a bath. How did they keep clean?” he muttered.

  “At least they have convenient privies in every corner and every level. They’re dry. No one has used them for centuries. Maybe we can crawl down one and out of the monastery.” Marcus began looking for the private closet that should be behind the stairs.

  “What if they drain directly into the river, or into a pit beneath the ground with no exit? Besides the holes are too small for either of us to squeeze through,” Robb reminded him.

  “We’ve found nothing. Nothing at all in this place.” Marcus slammed one fist into the other. He’d learned not to try putting it through the wall. He had several bruises and raw knuckles to remind him.

  “I have a vague recollection of Mam saying that when the numbers of priests and monks declined to only three men, they packed up everything, including the temple stones, and moved elsewhere,” Vareena continued. “But that was long, long ago. Before the first ghost came three hundred years ago.”

  “We need information,” Marcus interjected. He wanted to slam his fist into something in his frustration, again. Fear replaced his certainty that all would come out right.

  And he could not touch Vareena, the one person he longed to take comfort from.

  “Can you bring your mother here for us to talk to?” Robb looked up, hope shining in his eyes rather than his usual pessimism. “Always best to get information as close to the source as possible.”

  “No.” She stared off into the distance, refusing to look at them, all her friendliness and helpfulness faded.