“I know.” She choked out the words. A huge lump formed in her throat. Her body ached for the wolf to continue leaning into her. It was not to be.
“Step away, Brevelan. I need to change him back.”
“I know.” This time she couldn’t watch. She pulled her long braid over her shoulder and played with the bark fastening. The tendrils of escaping hair took her concentration. She loosed them, ran her fingers through the long strands. Deftly she rebraided the distinctive red hair.
No matter where she went, its rare color stood out, identified her with Krej. She would always be known as a witchwoman, whether she had magic or not, just because of her hair.
“When you have finished, give me your knife.” she commanded Jaylor.
“Why?” He sounded startled.
“I wish to cut off this braid. It’s cumbersome, dirty. If we are to travel the length and breadth of the kingdom in search of Shayla, I do not wish to be burdened.” She turned to stare at Jaylor, commanding him with her eyes.
“No,” he returned flatly. Darville looked from one to the other, waiting for the magic that did not come.
“It is my hair, my choice.”
“No.” Jaylor took a step toward her.
She wanted to back away from his advance. His eyes held her in place. She remembered the thin coil of magic he had used to connect them. But once he had read her thoughts, once she had known the pattern of his mind in hers, she had returned the magic and spoken to him without words.
Something special bound her to him, just as she was bound to Darville.
She couldn’t allow that to happen. She was destined to live her life alone. If she allowed herself to depend on these two men for comfort, companionship . . . love. . . .
“Give me your knife.” She stiffened her resolve.
“Brevelan.” He reached out an empty hand in entreaty. “Your hair is beautiful.” His words were soft. She strained to hear them.
“Beautiful?”
“You are beautiful, unique, special. Please leave it.”
Of its own volition her hand came up to touch his fingertips. It was like touching his mind again. As their hands joined, they were connected by that same something that had allowed her to send him words without speaking. A swirl of bright red and blue and copper magic encased them. She stepped into the circle of his arms. His lips touched the top of her hair.
The magic spun faster, tighter. He lifted her chin with one hand as the other held her against his broad chest. She raised up on tiptoe to be closer to him. Their lips touched. Jaylor deepened the kiss, merged with her, became one being with one mind, one idea, one goal.
Gently, Jaylor raised his head. A finger traced her lips. Wonder filled them both.
The magic died. As fast as it had sprung up, it faded. Deep inside herself, Brevelan felt the emptiness of its absence. She looked into Jaylor’s eyes and saw the same emotions. He looked deflated. She felt lonelier than ever.
“You will not cut your hair.” Darville’s deep voice penetrated her abstraction. He was once more a man and naked.
“Get dressed,” Jaylor responded. He shook himself free of the lingering spell. She looked for the telltale signs of fatigue. They were absent. Jaylor didn’t even look hungry.
“Those men got away. They’ll talk. Our enemy will move faster, change his plans. We need to follow quickly.” Darville moved briskly, efficiently, once more a prince and a soldier.
“I’ll regather the scattered leaves.” Jaylor made no move. Rather, he stood facing his old friend, spine rigid, eyes defiant.
“No. We haven’t time,” Darville decided.
“They were important to Krej’s minions. I will find out why.”
“No,” Brevelan gasped. She stepped between the two tall men. “You mustn’t. Tambootie is too dangerous!” She reached to touch his chest, to implore him not to experiment.
Darville took her other hand.
She gasped for air. Their jealousy was suffocating her.
“You seem to have lost weight, master magician.”
Baamin looked a long way up to the man who broke the taboo and spoke to the Senior Magician before being addressed. Maarklin, the exceedingly tall magician to the court of Nunio, looked down his even longer nose toward Baamin. He still wore his blue master’s cloak over his unadorned fire green robes. His height and natural bearing added elegance to the simplest garments. During their days as apprentices they had called the tallest of the class “Scrawny.”
They’d called Baamin “Toad knees” then. No more. Now they called him “Master.”
“The strain of the times,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. There were reasons for his decrease in girth. Like a sudden revulsion for the taste of meat. Traditional magic required a magician to restore his body with animal protein. This rogue magic thrived on breads and roots. Meat now made him sluggish. But Scrawny didn’t need to know that.
“Unusual summons, sir,” commented Fraandalor, the member of the Commune posted to the court of Krej in Faciar. He too was tall, but slightly stooped, as if his blue cloak and shimmery gray robes were too heavy for his shoulders. Years ago he’d been known as “Slippy,” like the sea snakes that washed up on the shores of the Great Bay every summer. Sea snakes provided a sweet nutritious meat when prepared properly. But the cook had to be careful lest careless cooking left a natural poison in the meal.
Baamin reminded himself that Slippy could very well have been corrupted by his lord’s greed for power. Or by the temptations of rogue magic. Was Slippy the man wandering the southern mountains in the guise of Baamin’s nightmares? Impossible. He couldn’t have performed magic in Shayla’s cave two days ago and be back in Coronnan City today.
“Unusual circumstances.” Baamin perspired heavily under his formal court robes, blue cloak and trews, long gold tunic and fine cambric shirt that hung on his reducing belly. Responsibility and new powers lay uneasily on his shoulders.
“Gentlemen, please take your places.” He waved them to the thirty-nine chairs placed around the formal table, made especially for the Commune of Magicians almost three hundred years ago. It was round, as tradition dictated, forged by dragon fire of solid black glass—perhaps the most valuable item in the entire kingdom.
Except for Shayla, Baamin thought. A glass dragon is much more valuable.
“Did you say something, sir?” The magician to his left raised a puzzled eyebrow.
“Just arranging my thoughts.” Baamin took his own place farthest from the sealed door. The room was as round as the table, devoid of windows or decorative hangings. The only contents were the huge glass table and stone chairs. It was kept comfortably warm through a system of vents from the kitchen fires. Even so the perspiration turned cold on Baamin’s back as he assumed his role as leader.
“A most inconvenient summons,” Slippy reiterated.
“Most inconvenient circumstances.” Baamin glared at the questioner. “Gentlemen, the king is gravely ill. He barely draws breath, his body does not move.”
“That shouldn’t make much difference,” Scrawny snorted. “He hasn’t done anything in years. By the time the kingdom realizes he’s dead, we will have a smooth transition of power to Darville.”
“There are . . . ah . . . complications.” Baamin coughed.
All attention centered on him. His personal armor slid into place just before he felt their probes into his mind. Probes that were forbidden by traditional ethics. His armor was strong, fueled by his new inner powers. He easily absorbed the probes and turned them back to the senders.
The lines of magic honed into arrows of poison and sped back whence they came.
Seven of the twelve reared back in pain. Astonished at Baamin’s individual power, they put all of their remaining magic back into their own armor. The slim traces of magic that had been in the room disappeared. The other five magicians slumped slightly from the attack, then straightened in respect. Their armor remained solid.
The five
undoubtedly held rogue power. But did they know it? Had they practiced with it? Were they in league with other rogues?
“We are still a Commune,” Baamin asserted. “And if we don’t work together for a common good, the kingdom is in danger of collapsing.”
“There isn’t enough magic left,” one of the seven protested. He was gray with fatigue from maintaining the little protection he could summon.
“Perhaps, perhaps not. But if we work together, we can overcome the problem without resorting to the jealousy and civil war that disrupted us once before. We may have to attract new dragons to the kingdom.” The noise of their questions and protests assaulted his ears as painfully, but less dangerously, than their magic. Baamin reasserted his power over them without magic.
“I said together!” His voice boomed around the room.
Silence.
“Shayla has been kidnapped and transformed into a glass statue by a rogue.”
The silence became deeper, more profound.
“I have forces in the field seeking her location. We are the best-educated men in the kingdom. I need you here, searching for a solution to the divisions that threaten the Council.” He speared each one with his gaze. The Commune had been built on interdependence, trust, and common goals. The Commune must continue with or without a king. With or without a dragon.
Chapter 22
Desperately, Baamin swam up through the folds of sleep. He had to awaken. He had to end these repetitive dreams.
Blackness closed over him, dragging him deeper into the world of his worst nightmares.
His own naked body pranced around and around a giant cave. His fuzzy sun and fog face sprouted long, long, longer teeth. Powerful muscles rippled beneath his sweating skin. A tune poured forth from his soul. Each note conveyed magic into the most massive spell of his life.
His magic swirled around an amorphous form of crystal. Awe struck him nearly dumb. A dragon transformed into precious glass shimmered before him. He’d never seen a dragon before. Might never see one again.
At last the song died on his lips, and he fought for reality again.
Dawn glowed on the horizon outside his window. He sat up, panting for breath. Exhaustion still dragged at his muscles. Yet he feared to sleep again. If he closed his eyes, he would dream.
The same dream that had haunted him time and time again for the last four nights.
Was it all a dream, or had he actually transported himself to the southern mountains and wreaked havoc on the kingdom by kidnapping a glass dragon?
Darville sniffed the air for danger. The smell of smoke was old and wet. It permeated the clearing even now, some four or five days after the villagers had torched Brevelan’s hut, probably only hours after she had left it. His nose felt clogged. Then he remembered he was human again. His wolf senses were dulled.
“Let me scout around,” he whispered.
Jaylor nodded in reply as he quietly set down his basket of salvaged Tambootie leaves.
Darville watched Brevelan’s eyes fill with tears while her chin jutted forward. Stargods! but she was brave. Even though his memories of the moons he had lived here were dim, he knew this woman, knew all of her moods, her strengths, as well as her vulnerability. For her he vowed revenge. The prancing rogue and his s’murghing minions would pay for this destruction.
He scouted the perimeter of the clearing with care. No snapping twig or scuffling undergrowth betrayed presence. Every few steps he sniffed and tasted the air.
Maybe his senses were dulled. But he knew what danger should taste like. That combined with the soldier’s skills he’d been taught since childhood should serve him well. But he’d feel a lot safer if his familiar sword hung from his belt, or if he could really smell again.
The clearing and its environs were empty. Had been for several days. He missed the rabbits and squirrels, the goat, and the nest of mice in the thatch. Only the partially destroyed hut and hints of memories remained.
Three-quarters of the way around the clearing his boots scuffed against something soft. Underneath a network of debris, he found the soft brown fur of a lop-eared rabbit. He recognized the small scar across the dead buck’s nose. This had been one of Brevelan’s pets. It had been trampled by heavy boots.
Darville’s anger ran cold through the veins. The creature had probably returned to the clearing seeking shelter from the strangers who invaded this place, only to be caught in the melee.
Saying a silent farewell, he recovered the rabbit with dead leaves and ferns. At least he could spare Brevelan the knowledge of this one small loss.
“They’re gone. The area is completely empty,” he informed his companions upon his return. “The thatch is gone, and part of one wall, but the hearth is undamaged.”
“We’ll stay the night,” Brevelan decided for them. “I’ll gather kindling. You two get to work on a roof of some kind.”
Darville looked at Jaylor. A spark of animation hit his friend’s eyes.
“Yes, Mother,” they replied to her stiff back as she marched into her ruined home.
“Remember to wash when you’re finished,” she called back over her shoulder. “Little boys need to bathe every evening,” she scolded them. A false note tinged her levity.
“Think she’ll feed us real food if we behave?” Darville thought greedily of a thick haunch of venison. But he doubted he’d be able to eat rabbit again.
“Depends on how you define real.” Jaylor avoided his eyes.
Darville felt his old friend’s laughter. “I mean some meat. Roots and gruel can’t fill an empty belly after a day’s hard work.”
“They will fill you if you let them.” Jaylor finally looked at him.
This time Darville looked away. His belly felt slack. It protested constantly. He knew Jaylor had felt the same hungers many times in the last two days. Yet he had accepted Brevelan’s meatless diet. “I don’t think I can continue to work hard and walk all day without meat,” he replied sheepishly.
“I could change you back into a wolf for a few hours, let you hunt.” Jaylor’s face looked bland, except for a tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth. The same twitch that had been a signal for a new mischief when they were children.
“Would it be for only a few hours?” Darville was skeptical. He knew his friend’s penchant for practical jokes.
Once, when Jaylor was thirteen and he fifteen, their gang of wild and restless friends found sport in tormenting a stray dog. Sickened by the cur’s pitiful squeals of pain and confusion, Darville had flung himself into the midst of the cruelty, fists flying. Jaylor wasn’t far behind. When fighting the older and more numerous boys proved futile, Jaylor had used his waning strength to throw a spell. Each of the bullies sprouted a dog’s tail.
And the tails were tied together with bits of devil’s vine. A particularly thorny, choking, and pernicious weed.
Confused, the bullies had chased each other in circles, trying to unite their bonds, pricking their fingers, and unable to remove the thorns or the knots.
The stray dog had bounded free.
That memory reassured Darville. Jaylor wouldn’t leave him in wolf form for long. And then he wouldn’t have to eat another stew of roots and herbs.
“It’s a deal. Do you want me to save you some of the kill?”
Jaylor’s face fell. Darville felt chagrined. He’d used the wrong words.
Kill.
Brevelan could never forget that each bite of meat had once been a life.
“I guess not.” Darville tried to smile. “After we fix the roof, we can take a dip in the pond.”
“You splash too much,” Jaylor replied, his own sense of humor returning.
“Only when you dunk me.”
“Who, me?”
Darville slapped him roughly on the shoulder. “Of course, you. You’ve been doing it since we were babes in short britches. You never could resist rubbing it in that you were bigger than I.”
“Younger, too.”
“Not as
smart.”
“Stronger and more stubborn.”
“That’s for sure.” They continued to wrestle as they crossed the clearing and began working on the thatch.
“It’s too dangerous,” Brevelan affirmed to Jaylor.
Jaylor tried to ignore her.
“I agree.” Darville faced him, hands on hips, shoulders back and chin thrust out. “We haven’t time for you to experiment. Old Thorm, or whoever that rogue might be, is probably already out of the mountains.”
Brevelan and the prince were joining forces against Jaylor’s determination. He wasn’t sure he could fight both of them. Darville was strong enough to knock him senseless. Brevelan had the power to persuade him of anything. Anything at all.
“Mbrrt!” Mica confirmed her own opinion of Jaylor’s seeming foolishness. She paced in front of the warm hearth, round hazel eyes glowing, back arching.
“Not you, too, Mica?” Jaylor protested to the anxious cat. Her soft presence had always seemed supportive. Some of his determination slipped away when he raised his eyes from the basket full of Tambootie leaves.
The herbage had begun to wilt over the day and the night since it had been abandoned by Krej’s steward and the barkeep. Still, the scent from the essential oils permeated Brevelan’s partially repaired hut. A vacancy lingered behind his ears and his heart beat irregularly whenever he closed his eyes.
“This is too important to ignore. Krej and his pet rogue use the leaves in some way to increase magic powers. I have to understand how this works if I’m going to undo that very complicated, very powerful spell.” Verbalizing helped define his motives. It also made sense of the floor that kept tilting toward the repaired roof.
“I’m sure he doesn’t eat the poison. And even if he does, he’ll wait until he’s safely back at the castle.” Brevelan grabbed a dented pot full of water and placed it over the flames to bring it to a simmer. The sputtering green flames lighted her face, highlighting her delicate features. The red of her hair took on a coppery glow, an elemental color firmly rooted in the soil of Coronnan.
Jaylor wanted to reach out and touch her gently, to reassure her and let her know he loved her. His fingers itched to bury themselves in her thick hair, separate each beautiful strand into a copper veil. The leaves called to him, begged him to forget the color that was grounded in the soil. Why not fly with the colors radiating from the wonderful leaves.
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 21
