His body recoiled in fatigue. He’d held the delusion spell too long, then wasted more energy with his useless map.
The cloying clay mud thickened and threatened to solidify around his worn boots like fire-case pottery.
His brow and chest were clammy with cold sweat. He forced his mind into a meditative trance. Breathe in three counts, hold three, out three. Breathe in. His mind stilled. The fog appeared distant and unreal through his refocused eyes.
With a dragon-sized effort he pulled one foot free, then the other, shattering the images that bound him. One foot in front of the other, he measured his paces on the muddy road to the southern mountain pass.
One step farther away from the evil that followed him. One step farther on his quest. One step closer to his master’s cloak of deep blue wool with the silver markings of the Stargods on the collar.
Jaylor quickened his pace.
Baamin gathered his bright magician’s robes tightly around his rotund figure as he squeezed through the side door of the University to welcome the king. ’Twas the study hour. The time when the senior magician and his king took advantage of the quiet to engage in a brisk game of piquet.
But King Darcine hadn’t been well enough to venture out of the palace for many, many moons.
Leave it to his rather perverse king to prefer a quiet entrance through this little-used passage rather than at the wide front door. As if his arrival in a steed-drawn litter with a full military escort could be kept quiet.
The soldiers ringed the courtyard. Baamin noticed that many of the men were developing a bit of a paunch. They didn’t have enough to do.
“Have you heard anything about my son yet, Baamin?” The slight frame of the king trembled as he wheezed the words.
Baamin paused to allow his friend and ruler to catch up. The pace the monarch set these days was still woefully slow. It was a miracle he’d survived the miserable winter.
Perhaps he had some good news for King Darcine after all. “Last night I had a vision in the glass. The dragon Shayla has bred.” The ruling monarch of Coronnan was magically linked to the nimbus of dragons. In return, the people of Coronnan were pledged to plant and maintain enough Tambootie trees to feed the dragons’ needs and to provide a tithe of livestock. Shayla’s vitality should impart some strength to this ailing king.
But the peasantry rebelled against obligations they no longer understood. Precious few of the magic trees, and fewer dragons, were left these days. It would take more than one litter of dragonets to restore Darcine’s damaged lungs and weak heart.
“As for your son, the glass is clouded,” he whispered. So far they had managed to keep the prince’s disappearance a secret.
Darcine’s tall shadow wavered against the stone walls of the little used passage. In his youth, the king had been as tall and as strong as any warrior in the kingdom. But his illness had wasted muscle and mind. A strong gust of wind, or the loss of one more dragon. . . .
“The men you sent on quest, do they know they are looking for the errant crown prince?” The king coughed.
Baamin placed a chubby hand on Darcine’s shoulder. He could feel the king’s bones sharply defined beneath the layers of rich fabric. King Darcine wouldn’t notice the small strengthening spell he added to the touch.
“Each journeyman’s task is designed to teach him the full use of his talents, and to overcome his weaknesses.” As any quest should. “I was careful to word each assignment so my students would cover the entire kingdom while they seek new recruits and the source of distrust of magic.” Baamin didn’t add the report that yet another healer magician had been stoned out of a village when he failed to save the last of the dairy herd from a mysterious wasting disease. It was the third such incident in Lord Krej’s province of Faciar this winter.
“My students will also cover the hunting grounds of every dragon left in the nimbus. The beasts will instinctively protect the prince.”
“You’re certain, then, that my son was kidnapped by magic. He isn’t on some wild caper with Jaylor and his hooligans? He used to take great joy in slipping away from the palace when I needed him most, to indulge in mischief with his common friends. I thought he outgrew his base preferences. Perhaps my son has just wandered into the mountains following a dragon dream.”
“Others might wander aimlessly while in dragon-thrall; wander until they starved to death or broke their necks. But a true dragon of the king would never harm one of the royal family,” Baamin asserted. “We are certain of the kidnap, Your Grace. The glass tells us he is alive, but we cannot be sure where. His face, figure, and location are lost in a mist of colored magic. All we can see is the essence of his soul. We can’t even pin down the color of the mist and thereby identify the magician,” Baamin sighed. “But I do know Jaylor’s magic isn’t sophisticated enough to blur the glass so well.”
He hoped. Jaylor’s talent was so unpredictable he might be throwing delusions while he and the prince devised some practical joke.
“Do the people really believe my son is at a monastery reconsidering an inappropriate dalliance?”
“Of course.” Baamin smiled reassuringly. “Each of the Twelve thinks the prince will eventually marry one of his daughters. So, naturally, they believe you disapprove of every other romantic entanglement.” And there were many, if rumors were to be believed. Baamin didn’t believe in rumors. He knew the truth behind the numerous ladies who claimed to have bedded the prince. Most of them lied.
The official pretense for the prince’s absence must end soon. Some of the Twelve were grumbling about his lack of leadership. The crown prince should be leading an army to control raiders on the disintegrating western border.
“How many journeymen did you send?” The king seemed slightly recovered as they proceeded down the dark corridor to the main hallway.
“Every journeyman who was anywhere near ready.” Seven young men. Every journeyman in residence. There should have been a hundred.
“Including Jaylor?”
“Even Jaylor.”
“Was that wise?”
“He never got the hang of why a spell works. At best I hope he’ll stir something into action so that a more accomplished magician can follow through. I had no choice but to send him. I don’t have enough journeymen to cover the entire kingdom otherwise.” The boy was creative and powerful, but there was no proof his methods would ever be reliable or repeatable. And his magic tended to slip beyond the control of the Commune of Magicians.
“Did Jaylor pass any of his exams?” They moved beyond the main hallway and into the residential wing. Baamin’s private study was just around the next corner.
“A few. Master Maarklin devised a test that allowed Jaylor to qualify for his quest. But we of the Commune cannot accept that he is master material.” But we’ll use his strange talent for our own purposes, Baamin thought.
“I’ve heard Jaylor was drunk much of the last two years. The families of his friends complained constantly that he was corrupting their sons.” The king dodged a book that came flying down the corridor from library to dormitory.
“Your Grace, you and I both know there is only one way for a journeyman to get drunk.” Baamin pointed to a mug gliding slowly toward them. Its progress was steady, about a finger’s length above the stone floor and very close to the left-hand wall.
“Someone is making progress.” The first day of class new apprentices were invited to drink their fill of the fine wine in the cellars. The catch to this license was the magically sealed door. The wine cups could pass through the seal, apprentices could not. When the students could levitate a full cup of wine from the cellar to their rooms, without spilling any, they could drink all they wanted. By the time they figured out how to do that, they were usually ready to become journeymen. “Have you had to change the spell on the door to the wine cellar yet?”
Baamin chuckled. “Not since Jaylor left. He managed to break it with little or no effort. But then he didn’t need to.”
&
nbsp; “He kept your potter working overtime for several weeks at first.” King Darcine seemed to find the antics of the apprentices amusing. When he was well, everything in life was amusing to him.
“Only until he discovered he could make the cup appear in his hand.” Another example of his imagery becoming magic. “Then he smashed the spell on the lock of the cellar door so his classmates could share his celebration. But since he couldn’t tell his master how he had accomplished the feat, he was denied promotion.”
“At least he didn’t teach his classmates how he performed that little trick.”
“I heard he tried. They were smart enough not to listen to him. Jaylor’s magic is too unorthodox for anyone else to follow.” And without being able to keep his spells within traditional parameters, Jaylor was of no use to the Commune.
“Shall we follow the cup to your next prodigy?” King Darcine smiled at the wobbling cup as it slowly neared the dormitory wing. It was a weak smile that appeared more like a grimace on his gaunt face.
“Perhaps we should. I need to know who will have a hangover come morning.” They watched a moment as the traveling cup connected with the floor while the unknown apprentice rested. He was a smart one. Most boys thought their levitations at eye level where a mishap resulted in shattering the mug and splashing the wine. On the other hand, cups traveling as close to the ground as the one they followed ran the risk of being kicked. Whoever moved this cup had solved the problem by keeping it close to the wall and out of the way.
The cup paused again by a closed door. It settled to the floor while the door was opened for it.
“He hasn’t figured out how to suspend it while he performs another task, or to open the door before he begins the spell. Still, he shows caution,” Baamin whispered to his companion.
The cup rose a few inches and slid through the opening. There was the ominous thud of pottery hitting the floor and shattering, followed by a string of curses. “S’murgh you, Marcus! You broke my concentration,” an apprentice yelled to his roommate.
Baamin sighed with relief. “That’s one promotion I don’t need to worry about. Yet.” Baamin reached into one of his deep pockets for an ever-present flask. He downed a swig and grimaced.
“Tsk, tsk, Baamin. You know you shouldn’t drink so much of your cordial.” King Darcine shook his head.
“My sacroiliac is killing me today.” Baamin deliberately screwed the cap back onto the flask and repocketed it. In almost the same gesture he popped a mint into his mouth to disguise the telltale odor of his medicine.
“I have put a terrible burden on you, my friend.” The king looked contrite. “You have enough worries keeping the University under control.”
“I am Senior Magician, Your Grace. It is my place to help you in this dire adversity.”
“I sincerely regret that you are the only person I can fully trust. No one but you is in a position to coordinate the search for the prince in secret.” Darcine slammed his fist into his open palm. “S’murgh it, Baamin, I need my son here to negotiate the new treaty with Rossemeyer. The palace budget has become a mess since he’s been gone, and the servants have become lazy.”
Baamin touched his king’s arm, feeding him strength once more. Stargods, he wished he could give his king health and determination as well. He didn’t need the healing talent to know Darcine was dying, along with the dragon nimbus. Shayla was the only breeding female left, and her lair was kept secret even from the king. Baamin hoped Jaylor wouldn’t be the journeyman to find her. Who knew what kind of trouble he’d stir up if he did.
“Why do we have to be so devious? Why was my boy kidnapped in the first place?” Darcine moaned.
Baamin wouldn’t tell him the reasons. The crown prince had already proved he would rule with strength and wisdom.
None of the Twelve or the Commune would tolerate a strong king after years of noninterference. Especially Baamin.
Chapter 3
The journeyman knows nothing of real magic. He only plays with his spells. Still, he can be useful. I shall drive him forward, make him lead me to my dragon.
The witchwoman will help. Her wretched thirst for love will drive her to betray the dragon. My dragon. There is no lasting power in love. The love she relies on will drag her down. Maman taught me to purify my power with love for no one but myself and the power.
I am the only one who can save Coronnan. But to do it, I must keep those inferior lords and meddling magicians in their place. Their loyalty to Darcine and his son will be their undoing.
The day was late when Jaylor awoke from his nap under a sprawling oak tree. With an appeal for protection to the broom of mistletoe in its highest branches, he had decided to sleep off the effects of his magic duel in the village.
He also had to make up for his lack of sleep the night before. Even a league away in the hills he had heard the cries and shouts of festival ringing in his ears.
They’d called to him, urged him to join the revelry. The voices had torn at his sanity and swelled his body with desires he dared not explore.
He knew of ten young magicians who had lost their powers. All because they took a woman too early in their training. Jaylor wasn’t willing to risk his magic for the temporary pleasures of a woman.
In the fading light he stretched and pushed stiff muscles. A nearby stream enticed his parched throat. The skin of ale given to him in the village bumped against his side as he stood again. Ale would taste better than plain water. If ale was all the girl had put into the skin. He sniffed the ale cautiously. No obvious poison or spell.
Better to be safe. He drank deeply from the crystal stream and thought of the fine wines in the University cellars.
If he were still within the walls of the University, one quick image would place a cup in his hands. Mischief brightened his mind. What if he could bring wine from the University cellars to this forgotten corner of nowhere? Old Baamin wouldn’t miss one more cup. The current batch of apprentices was probably breaking several right now.
Magic wasn’t supposed to traverse such great distances. Still, he’d never allowed someone else’s limitations to stop him from trying—especially if his stunts would irk the drunken old coot at the head of the University. Eyes closed, with the magic already gathered in his body, he formed an image in his mind.
In the cellars, halfway across the kingdom, a cup slid off its shelf and glided to the barrel. The spigot turned. Wine flowed into the crude pottery. Dark red wine, full of fruit and light.
Jaylor’s mouth watered again. Using the magic that flowed through his being, he reformed the image of the now brimming cup. It appeared in his hand. He nearly dropped the cup in surprise, spilling some of the precious liquid.
His magic had crossed half the kingdom!
He took a gulp to soothe his confusion. Then he laughed out loud, long and hard. He couldn’t pass any of the Commune’s infernal exams, but he could transport a cup of wine across three rivers, two forests, and a small mountain, without spilling a drop.
He gulped again, then paused to savor the flavors. It was good wine. The University kept the best cellars as an incentive to the apprentices.
His second sip was more leisurely. Jumbled thoughts crowded his mind. He used the process of sip and taste to sort them, just as he had in his student days.
He knew his magic was different from the ritual sort prescribed by the Commune, stronger, too. When it worked. Time and again Jaylor had proved that magic didn’t have to be limited by convention and approved methods. He could accomplish any task the masters set for him, as long as he could work the spells his own way. It was only when they forced him to limit his work to traditional methods or join his magic to another’s that he faltered. Over the years he’d learned to fake traditional spells. Most of the time he got away with it. The times he was caught had cost him promotions and the right to pursue his master’s cloak.
But he was on quest now. All he had to do was figure out the riddle of Old Baamin’s command. His mast
er wouldn’t have given a single task, no matter how farfetched. Something else was cloaked in the wording.
“Go see a dragon.” A dragon was invisible, so he’d have to use his magic sight. What else was he supposed to see while looking for a dragon?
This quest was turning into one of those incredibly boring story problems that were cloaked in archaic symbolism. Jaylor hated those tests. He always failed because he couldn’t blend traditional spells with ancient language, or he looked at the problem from a twisted angle and saw too much.
The wine finished, he sent the cup back to the University. Not to the cellars. To the kitchen, where it could be washed and returned to its proper place.
He wished he could see the faces of the scullery drudges when the cup appeared on the counter. Would they tell Baamin? Serve the old wire-puller right if they did. Let him stew over the whereabouts of his least favorite student.
Jaylor stretched again. His leather journey clothes creaked with dirt and hard use.
The sun was still above the horizon, though the air was not truly warm this early in the season. The creek burbled happily, swollen with snow melt. Jaylor shivered in the light breeze. Just perhaps he could wash off some of the travel dirt from his shirt and body.
Another sip of wine, perhaps, to help him decide. Wine. If he could transport the wine why not a tub of hot water? He stirred his brain into trance mode.
No, he was still tired and drained. He might need some strength when he confronted the witchwoman and her familiar. Those old crones knew non-magical tricks that could fool some of the best master magicians.
Perhaps just a basin of hot water and some oil to condition his boots and trews. From Baamin’s private bathing chamber? The old man wouldn’t be there now in the middle of the afternoon. So why not?
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 3
