Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “It is still there.” She eluded his grasp. The haven of her hut beckoned.

  “No, it isn’t. I tried a simple thing—twice. Nothing happened.” There was panic in his eyes. “No wonder there are no women at the University. All I did was dream of you. I never saw or touched your body outside my imagination. And still you have robbed me of my powers.” His hands shook. He placed them in his pockets to still the jittering.

  “This clearing is mine.” The ground beneath her feet tingled in response to her words.

  “Yours? How? No woman owns anything.”

  “No. They are owned. But this place is mine. I control it. Everything in it obeys me.” Except for the time when Jaylor had broken the magic barriers and found her.

  Had she really invited him by singing a song to which he could harmonize?

  “Not me. I obey only the guide within me that forms my magic. I don’t even obey my master all the time. So how can I . . . Why am I . . . ?” His voice rose. He swallowed deeply. “Don’t you understand I am nothing without my magic?”

  “I understand that you are a man who would bend me to your will, rob me of myself.”

  “You robbed me of my magic. I see that as a fair trade.” His hands darted from the protective pockets to capture her face. “If I can no longer work magic, there is nothing to keep me away from you.”

  Caught by the strength of his hands she could only stare into his eyes. There was anger there, bewilderment, even a little fear. He was as frightened as she!

  A measure of control returned to Brevelan. He was as frightened as she!

  “I’ve kissed girls before. At the king’s court. I’ve kissed them senseless.” His lips caught hers in a light teasing caress.

  The sensation was pleasant, undemanding. A niggle of an emotion she couldn’t describe fluttered in her stomach.

  “Women sought me out. Experienced women, who liked the idea of a tall young man with the strength of a sledge steed for their lover.” This time his lips held hers a little longer, enticing her with their gentleness.

  The cold lump of pain deep inside her melted a little to be replaced with warmth.

  Any semblance of control she had in his presence vanished.

  “Please. . . .”

  “Please what? Please do, or please don’t?” His thumbs caressed her cheekbones.

  His touch was light, tender, almost as if he cared for her. But he couldn’t care for her if he had kissed so many other women.

  “I always stopped at kisses before.” He molded his lips to hers, seeking a response.

  She felt her mouth soften. A quiver began at the base of her spine, a sensation so new, so lovely she didn’t know if she liked it or feared it. “Why should I stop with just a kiss now?” He nuzzled her neck.

  “Because your magic is intact.” Even the weight of her pet wolf leaning against her in adoration could not match the fullness she felt at Jaylor’s touch. She’d never known such tenderness, such wonderfulness.

  “Why should I believe you? The spell didn’t work.”

  “I did nothing to your magic.”

  “Then why didn’t the spell work?” He withdrew enough to look at her while his hands continued to hold her face gently. She could escape if she wanted to.

  If she wanted to.

  “The clearing is mine. I don’t know why. But when I first came here last summer, it called to me, sheltered me, obeyed me and no one else until you came. You are the only one who has found me against my will.” She tried to explain the special attachment she had for this small home.

  “Even the deadwood I would use to build a shelter obeys you? And what about the paths into the mountains? They all lead back here, nowhere else. That is magic, and women have no talent.” His hands dropped as if burned by her skin. He began pacing, his hands combing his beard and untamed hair.

  “Women are too worn out with bearing and raising men’s brats to have any strength left over for magic. What talent I have has not been impaired by a man’s interference.”

  Jaylor’s mouth moved, but no words came forth. She could see in his eyes that her words troubled him.

  “Interference. Strength. Yes. Yes, that is why magicians must avoid women until their powers are full and settled. Women drain their strength. Just as wifely duties drain a woman.”

  She waited while that idea sank into his brain.

  “If your father had an undeveloped talent you could have inherited something from him.” His eyes probed hers. “There is a way to know.” He hesitated as if embarrassed. “I could look into your mind. I have followed other men’s dreams before with just a touch.” Again his hands reached for her face.

  “No.” She backed away from those wonderfully gentle, probing hands. “No.” Panic tinged her voice. She forced mastery over her mind and trembling body.

  See into her mind! Never. He might see what had driven her here to this remote clearing, so far away from her family and the husband she had killed.

  The image of her husband stretched across their marriage bed, eyes bulging, tongue protruding, limbs rigid in death, flashed across her vision. The terror of that night visited her again. The terror and the relief. No one would look for the new bride early the next morning. She’d had nearly twelve hours to escape the prison of her marriage. Twelve hours to find the sanctuary of this clearing.

  It had taken longer, closer to a full moon to walk the length of the province. A moon’s cycle in which she moved closer and closer to the nameless thing that called her. She’d known the calling since early childhood. Back then she had thought it a yearning for peace and quiet, away from the noisy family home. Now she knew it was the empty clearing needing a new witchwoman.

  But Jaylor must not see any of that. He would know then that she was hunted, blamed for a man’s death. By law her life was forfeit. He must return her to her father’s village for judgment and punishment. She wouldn’t think what form that hideous punishment would take.

  “To touch me that way is more intimate than if I allowed you into my body.” She stalled his forward movement. Doubt clouded his eyes. She pressed her advantage. “You can’t dare to look into my mind.”

  Jaylor’s hand dropped again in agreement. “You’re right. I can’t take that chance.”

  “You still have your magic. But here in my clearing you must use your hands to move things.”

  My head aches with magic gone wrong. The glass is dark, obscured by another. More of the Tambootie removes the pain. I can see clearly again.

  The wolf! Injured. Good.

  He would have died, except for the cursed dragon.

  He must die this time. Then I can get on with the rest of my plans.

  The witchwoman and her lover will seek the dragon, and I will follow. Soon, very soon, all will be in place. I can set right three hundred years of mismanagement by the inept, so-called magicians!

  Brevelan paced in front of the door of her cottage. If only Jaylor would hurry. He always headed for the bathing pool first thing in the morning. So why was he dawdling over his morning routine? At last he stretched and scratched, ran his hands through his hair and beard then turned toward the creek.

  “Shayla?” Brevelan called to her dragon friend as soon as Jaylor had disappeared among the ferns.

  Hm? The dragon replied sleepily.

  “What am I going to do with that man?” Brevelan had never had a friend before, someone close enough to discuss this sort of thing. Shayla seemed to be the only one who could understand her dilemma.

  Trust him. Came the succinct reply.

  “Trust him? I don’t even know why he is here.” Partial answers and dragon riddles weren’t enough this time. She wanted the truth, all of it and right now.

  He is the only one who can save the Darville.

  “I don’t understand your obsession with a wolf. Why is he so important to you?”

  He must be protected. That seemed to be enough explanation for the dragon. Brevelan could feel her friend sliding onc
e more into drowsy oblivion.

  “Every creature has a name.” The cat had told Brevelan her true name. Every hare, squirrel, bird, goat, and chicken within the clearing had names for themselves. But the wolf was notably silent on the issue. Shayla had given him the name of a prince—Darville, from the city of dragons.

  “You tell me nothing new. You are a very logical and practical creature. So why did you drag me out into that storm when you had not concerned yourself with any human for ten years?” Five breeding cycles Shayla had called the time. She had neither sought a mate nor concerned herself with people in all that time because the villagers had killed two of her litters. Why she stayed in Coronnan was a mystery.

  Protect the golden wolf. The man is the only one who can save him.

  “Why rescue the miserable beast? If you’d had him for supper, your life would have been simpler.”

  And Brevelan would have been even more lonely throughout the long winter months. Now that spring was in the air and Jaylor lingered, she didn’t feel the empty ache quite so desperately.

  Her thoughts stopped. Jaylor. She wasn’t lonely with Jaylor nearby. She couldn’t dwell on those impossible ideas. She had to press Shayla for information. “Why did you give the wolf a royal name? Is he the leader of his pack?”

  What else should I call him?

  “You could call him Wolf, or Puppy like I do, or any one of countless other names. You could name him Lord Krej or even call him Simurgh.”

  No! Shayla’s roar of protest almost shattered Brevelan’s mental ears. The roar continued, echoing in her head and around the foothills. Never. Never consider the evil one. Do not even think of him.

  A wind rose and whirled about the clearing. It whipped the trees into a fury and drove all the small creatures toward shelter. A huge shadow passed overhead. Shayla was gone.

  Brevelan stood her ground, not even bothering to subdue her swirling skirts. She might have known the ancient god of evil was at the heart of this puzzle. This wouldn’t be the first time Brevelan had suspected his followers lurked within the kingdom. Even Lord Krej was rumored to have had dealings with a coven.

  Three summers ago she had served at his castle for a banquet. All the girls from her village were bound to assist when extra servants were needed. Before the meal, while Brevelan spread fresh rushes on the floor, she had watched Krej in his Great Hall. He touched with fondness each of the six statues he kept there.

  Most of the sculptures were of animals Brevelan had never seen before, did not know the names of. There was one huge cat, bigger than a pack steed, with teeth as long as a saber fern.

  Krej talked to each of the statues. He sounded as though he were reminiscing about the capture of each. When he came to the cat she heard him say: “You led me quite a chase through that forest, special one. The trees hid you for a time. But you could not know they were all Tambootie and so they aided my search instead.”

  Then the cat blinked. Brevelan was sure of it because Krej cursed and waved his hands and the cat was still once more; captured in a prison of bronze.

  “Behave, cat,” Krej admonished the beast. “You have been granted the privilege of being sacrificed to Simurgh. You should be happy to serve the winged one.”

  This was worse than killing an animal for food! That at least had a purpose, sustained life in a way. Krej had imprisoned these beautiful creatures in stone and wood, metal and clay. Imprisoned their bright spirits for all time. She knew instinctively that each animal was still aware of that prison, not sleeping, not dead, but not alive either.

  She had backed away, silently. By the time the banquet was served, Brevelan was at home, physically ill, unfit to be seen at the castle of one of the Twelve members of the Council of Provinces.

  Wolf trotted up behind Jaylor. The beast had enjoyed splashing in the water almost as much as Jaylor had. Together they wandered the path back to the clearing in silent companionship.

  “Whaoaar!” the dragon roared above them.

  Strong trees bent with the wind of her passing. A mighty tail lashed across the sky. New leaves and old branches crashed to the ground around them.

  Jaylor covered suddenly numbed ears with his hands. The sound of the dragon’s anger echoed again and again through his mind.

  Wolf merely stopped with one ear cocked as if listening. He showed no fear of the noise, and the unnatural wind did not so much as ruffle his fur.

  When the dragon had passed overhead, her fury diminished, the wolf looked up to Jaylor as if to say, “Shall we go on home?” With his head tilted just so, his chin lifted and his golden eyes blinking up at Jaylor, Wolf looked so intelligent, almost as if a human soul resided within his body.

  The Rovers had never found two of their missing men. Jaylor had the sudden urge to talk to Baamin. He needed to know more about dragon-dreams leading men astray. Dragons were the essence of magic. Could their illusions transform a man into a wild creature? And what of his friend back in Coronnan City? Jaylor desperately wanted reassurance that Roy had returned to the capital.

  Stargods! I need to end this farce soon. I can’t tolerate any more delays. Time is running short. I have eliminated or bribed more than one old fool in the Commune. Some of the students have talent. But they are gone, dispersed, chasing wild lumbirds. Even this one, who has found the wolf is only pretending to do magic.

  I am the only one in Coronnan who can use the real power. Throwing dragon magic is child’s play, a child size power.

  Tomorrow I will finish the job. I must push the journeyman and the witchwoman to lead me to the dragon. The witchwoman is elusive. But I think I know her secret now. The wolf and the cat, even the rabbits and squirrels return to the clearing easily. Only people are kept out. There is a trick I must try.

  First, I must take something for this headache. A little Tambootie ought to do the job. It will also prepare me for the task at hand.

  Chapter 9

  Jaylor fed another branch into the fire. His lean-to was in place. The physical labor had acted as a release for the questions that churned in his mind.

  He clutched Mica to his chest for warmth against the chill of his purpose. She purred in rhythm with his agitated pulse. Was summoning a master while on quest in violation of the complex rules?

  Jaylor moved his staff within easy reach of his hand. The plaited grain of the once smooth oak offered reassurance. In these uncertain times, he might need the stronger focus for his magic even though the moon was full.

  When he’d cut the staff in the heart of the sacred grove, just before beginning his quest, the branch had called to him, claiming him as its owner. At the time, the wood had been straight and smooth. Every time he used this tool the grain bent and coiled, taking on a pattern similar to a loose braid. The more often he used the staff the stronger the communication between them grew. He needed to use the staff. The staff needed to be used by him.

  He folded his long legs underneath him and sat facing the blaze. There was enough fuel to keep it burning for quite a while without attention. He extracted from his pack a small oblong of glass not much larger than Brevelan’s tiny palm. This was his first viewer, given to him as an apprentice, much more portable than the slightly larger, brass-framed glass he had earned as a journeyman.

  One of Brevelan’s soothing songs drifted across the cool evening air. He allowed it to wrap his mind in comfort and relax his body.

  Mica purred louder, harmonizing with the wordless tune. She butted her head against his chin. He stroked the cat’s unusual fur in rhythm with his breathing. Her warmth settled him.

  Jaylor focused on the seething green center of a flame. The glass brought it closer, enlarged it until the fire filled his vision. Gradually, he drew the flame into his consciousness.

  The part of him that was aware of the night—listening to Brevelan’s song, chilling in the rustling wind, feeling the hard ground beneath his butt—separated from his magic. The rest of him hovered near the void and knew only the flame. He breathed de
eper, deeper. The flame in the glass grew cool and distant. It jumped to the edge of the clearing. There it paused, hesitant to break the armor. Jaylor pushed it onward.

  A tiny flicker of magic fire climbed hills, skimmed over the bay, seeking, always seeking. Through the forests and down the broad highway to the capital, it drew ever closer to a familiar mind. When it found the barrier of the mighty Coronnan River, it paused to gather strength, then jumped the channels twisting around the city and wound its way through the alleyways with growing urgency until it found the University and the one window that faced the courtyard. Light flowed from the window, drawing the tiny flame. Like seeking like.

  It slid up the stone walls and glided through the opening to merge with a candle flame. Into Jaylor’s glass came the image of Baamin. Like the journeyman, the senior magician held a glass, though his was much larger and rimmed with gold.

  “Jaylor?” The old man murmured from his own trance.

  “Sir,” he replied. Had his master really been that old and worn two moons ago when Jaylor left him?

  “Finally, I’ve gotten through to you!”

  Surprise wound its way into Jaylor’s consciousness. He thought he had done the summoning. “You have need of me, sir?”

  “Trouble is brewing in Coronnan. Strange reports come to me from all quarters. What is happening in your sector?” The old man’s image wavered in the glass. Jaylor strengthened his contact.

  “Baamin, I have seen a dragon. Twice. Yet I do not believe I have finished my quest.”

  “Which dragon? Is it well? Are you alone or have you been followed. Have you encountered anything or anyone strange on your quest?” The magician’s questions came out in an anxious rush.

  Some of Baamin’s emotions reached Jaylor through the spell. Jaylor’s disquiet grew. Which strange event should he relate first? “I believe a rogue magician frequents the southern mountains. He disguises himself as a one-eyed drunk, but he looks upon himself as a younger red-haired man.”