Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  Somehow she doubted that. Darville was still a wolf and Jaylor was not present. She suspected they had been brought to the University. But everything was bigger, richer than Jaylor had described his meager journeyman’s quarters.

  “Are you all right?” She petted Darville with questing fingers. She sought injuries, despite the growing pain in her head with each movement, each thought.

  For answer, she received a sloppy kiss across her hand and cheek. He took her wrist gently into his mouth in loving greeting. She returned the gesture with a scratch behind his ears. The wolf took her response as permission to climb into the high bed with her. Once beside her he urged her into quiet repose again. Mica roused from a sleeping ball at her feet and scooted to her other side.

  As if they were back in her own clearing she nestled between them, drawing comfort from their nearness and protective concern. She was no longer embarrassed that her beloved wolf was really her cherished prince. Jaylor must return soon and restore him to his natural form. Then all would be well. Jaylor would see to that.

  She fell into a light doze.

  A sound roused her. Men’s voices spoke softly on the other side of the door. Her fingers curled into Darville’s fur. Her mind groped for the identity of the men. A familiar step on the floor of the outer room. Then the door was pushed open a crack.

  “Dear heart, I’ve brought the healer. He’ll take away your pain.” Jaylor smoothed her brow with the gentlest of hands.

  Deep inside herself she found a small soothing tune. She tried to hum it, but her head hurt too much. Jaylor’s hand continued to caress her forehead. She allowed his love to fill her and chase out the other, hurtful memory of men with stones and torches, the painful rejection by her mother and her da.

  The tune followed his love into her mind.

  “The swelling has stopped. But the bruise is painful.” Jaylor informed the other man.

  Brevelan peered at the small man who wore the robes of a master magician. Jaylor, still in his travel clothes of trews and tunic over a homespun shirt, appeared so much more wholesome and masculine than the little man who scuttled like a beetle toward her. She cringed away from his barely washed hand. Dirt and something that smelled of blood clung to his broken fingernails.

  She clung to Jaylor’s hand. The bond between them healed her more than the potions and powders the healer pulled from a pouch at his overfed waist ever could.

  The smell of meat on an unwashed body assaulted her senses when the healer reached to touch her wound. She felt the death of the animal the man had eaten for his supper. Had he killed it himself?

  Then the man’s own emotions engulfed her, pressing her back into the bed like the walls of a dungeon. Precious air became scarce. She didn’t need to hear his thoughts to know his intent.

  Desperately she tugged at Jaylor’s hand until he looked directly into her eyes. She had to communicate to him the man’s evil intent.

  “Grrrowwwwl.” Darville’s teeth threatened the man’s approach. He must have understood her silent communication.

  Jaylor’s eyes finally locked with hers. She fed him as much information as she could through her own. His deep brown eyes widened in surprise, then slitted in thought.

  “You may return to your master.” Jaylor didn’t look at the healer.

  “The lady is in pain. It is my duty to ease it as best I can.” The healer’s voice was squeakily high, almost effeminate.

  “She is not used to strangers. Your presence will hinder any healing,” Jaylor asserted. Brevelan continued to cling to him.

  “Nonsense. I’ll bathe the wound in this salve and give her a dose of this powder in a cup of wine. Red wine, I think, ’tis rich and will restore her blood faster.” The man continued to fuss with his pouch near the candle.

  Red wine to mask flavors not intended for healing! “No.” Brevelan found her voice stronger than she thought. “Your true master bade you to use witchbane and adderroot.”

  The man gasped. He stepped away from the proximity of the bed as his hands crossed at the wrist and flapped away any evil. “What witchcraft is this?” His voice sounded strangled.

  “It’s true, then. You serve a different master than the Stargods and the elder of this monastery!” Jaylor rose to tower over the man. The breadth of his shoulders shielded Brevelan from the little man, but not from the emotions of hate that beat back and forth between them.

  Once more she sank into the oblivion of black sleep.

  The thick book landed with a thud on top of the growing pile at Jaylor’s elbow. “Useless,” he muttered and reached for yet another tome.

  “Not useless, just not containing what you sought.” The Elder Librarian straightened the pile of books that threatened to topple. He caressed each volume as if it were a beloved child.

  “Precisely.” Jaylor flung another of the volumes at the library wall. It struck the neat rows of other books and brought them to the floor with it. Elder Librarian dashed—as fast as his years allowed—to rescue the abused books. “How do I find a counterspell to a spell created by a man with complete disdain for traditional magic?” Jaylor muttered to himself. “A spell that will work without a staff.”

  The noise created by the fall didn’t ease the growing sense of time wasted. “I’m supposed to be more stubborn than smart, if you believe my master. So why can’t I find some answers by sheer perseverance?” He looked to the old man. All the members of this community were older than time. Worn out old men with no other place in Coronnan. He shuddered when he remembered the time one of his teachers had suggested Jaylor, along with his poorly aimed spells, remove himself from the hallowed halls of the University to this very monastery.

  “Perhaps, because you are smarter than your master thought, you will find the answer with your mind or your heart before your impatience wins.” Only a very old man could have the patience of this librarian. “ ’Tis not the nature of the spell you must unravel that troubles you. You know that answer already, but not until the other problem leaves your mind clear.”

  Jaylor looked the man over with new insight. He’d been using his magic vision so much lately he hardly realized what he was doing. There was a small web of power just beneath his feet, feeding his enhanced vision. The librarian’s aura showed worry and fortitude and patience.

  And there was no smell of meat about him.

  “You’ve given up eating meat,” Jaylor stated flatly.

  “I’ve lost my taste for it.” The elder shrugged.

  “Since when?” Suddenly he needed to know the answer, as if trusting this man depended upon it.

  “Since there was no magic left to gather.” The old magician’s eyes avoided his.

  “Most people of Coronnan don’t gather magic and they still eat meat.”

  “True.”

  “Brevelan forced me to lose my taste for meat. I find my magic different, but stronger, since then.” He clued the old man to speak of his own change. He had noticed the elder choosing his place to stand in the room, right over another power spot.

  “It occurred to me that there must be another source of magic, older than man himself, used by the magicians we now call rogues.” Elder Librarian raised his eyes and allowed them to meet Jaylor’s for the first time since the journeyman entered the library. “Traditional magic has only been available for three hundred years.”

  Jaylor felt the older man’s probe, turned it aside, and sent one of his own. It, in turn, was pushed back toward him. This was no failed magician put out to pasture! But for whom did he use his power?

  “Adderroot is a poison I know of. Which is witchbane?” Jaylor decided to test this man for reaction. If he showed suspicion at the combination, then he knew of the healer’s attempt to poison Brevelan.

  “Witchbane?” The librarian moved to one of the long lines of his beloved books. “Witchbane? I’ve heard the name but not in a very long time.” He rummaged behind a few books and withdrew a very old one. “This might tell us.” He blew dust
from the spine and cover reverently.

  “The healer sent by the gatekeeper tried to give some to Brevelan last night.” Suddenly Jaylor had to trust the old man who counted books as dearer friends than his fellow elders.

  “Oh, dear!” Elder Librarian paled. “I suspected our enemy had placed spies within our midst. I had no idea it was someone so highly respected.”

  “Or so trusted by all. Isn’t he the same healer who was consulted when the king’s heart fluttered and nearly failed a few years ago?” Suddenly Krej’s master plan fell into place. “Has he been slowly killing the king?”

  “Possibly,” Elder Librarian whispered, as if afraid to utter such treason. “I thought the destruction of the dragon nimbus was responsible.”

  So this old man was aware of the loss of the dragons, too.

  “But only Darcine’s health is in question. His son is hale and hearty, strong and determined.” Jaylor began pacing, making sure his steps stayed close to the lines of power he sensed beneath the stone floors.

  “Darville was never consecrated. His tie is not as tight to the dragons.”

  Jaylor began talking to himself, straightening his thoughts with each word. “The bond is tight enough for one dragon to risk everything to protect him.” He stopped by the window. In spite of the chill rain outside he had opened the shutters earlier. As always, the confines of a building destroyed his ability to think creatively. He leaned out to look down onto the massive courtyard. Cool rain pelted his face and cleared the fog from his thought processes more than mere words could.

  “But that, too, was part of his plan. Our enemy had no hope of finding and snaring the last dragon without the prince. That was why he lured him into the mountains, then tried to kill him. It was a trap for the dragon!” He paced to the next window and threw those shutters open also.

  “A trap delayed by the intervention of a witchwoman.” His words came out loud enough for the old man to hear. Silence pulsated between them as they thought, trying to find the logic in one so warped as Krej.

  “Where does her magic come from?” Elder Librarian’s eyes looked innocent. His questions seemed to be just to satisfy the insatiable curiosity of a man dedicated to books and knowledge.

  “She believes Krej to be her true father. You noted the hair color. Krej’s mother is from another land. Who knows what kind of magic talent, or lack of ethics, she passed on to her son?”

  “Krej! It can’t be. Why, Brevelan must be at least eighteen, maybe older. If Krej were truly her father . . . he was barely sixteen himself, just a new journeyman when she was born. I knew him then. His powers increased until the day he left the University at twenty. He was married within the moon. Since then he could have no magic!”

  Jaylor couldn’t help grinning. “Sex and magic have very little to do with each other.” He knew that for certain, now.

  If anything, his powers had increased, or was that the Tambootie he still craved.

  “We have not yet found witchbane in the book.” Elder Librarian looked away first.

  Jaylor grinned at his embarrassment. Magic, old and new, he could discuss with this respected elder, sex he couldn’t. “No, we haven’t found a reference to witchbane.”

  Jaylor tried to comb his hair with his fingers. It was neatly tied back into a courtly queue. He scraped his jaw with his hand instead. That, too, felt strange without the beard he’d grown used to. Now he was groomed as a magician should be. Even before he was bathed, shaved, and combed to look like a master magician, he felt that he was a master. He just didn’t have a cloak to prove it.

  And there wasn’t much of a Commune left to grant him that honor.

  “But what you really need is a book on unraveling spells when you don’t know how they’ve been thrown.” Elder Librarian climbed up a sliding ladder searching for a different volume. Like a bay crawler he pulled himself along the shelves sideways.

  “I know who threw it and how he did it. But there are pieces of his soul wrapped up in the spell.”

  “An evil soul within the spell?” The old man gasped as he stumbled to the chair opposite Jaylor. Elder Librarian breathed deeply, searched the shadowed corners for answers, and finally looked back to Jaylor. “There is a book in my quarters. A very old book that was forbidden three hundred years ago. No book should be destroyed, so, when I stumbled across it, I hid it rather than cast it into a fire. I will fetch it for you. But you will not like the information contained there.”

  “Why not?” Jaylor probed the man. The spell shattered when it hit armor.

  “During the Great Wars of Disruption, such spells were common. They hold traps of great magnitude for other magicians. The only way to break the spell is to die.”

  Chapter 32

  Elder Librarian was not entirely correct, Jaylor mused as he carefully closed the ancient book and set it aside. He didn’t have to die in order to break Krej’s enchantment of Shayla. If, and that was a very big if, he could capture the pieces of Krej’s soul entwined in the spell and encase them with his own ephemeral spirit, then he might survive. But his own soul would be doomed to wander with Krej’s throughout the firmament or writhe in hell for all eternity. It all depended on just how nasty Krej really was and if he had allowed any of his good qualities to form the spell.

  Was Shayla’s freedom and the safety of the kingdom worth the cost?

  Without a staff the question was moot.

  He shook his head and paced the outer room of the suite he and his companions occupied. Mica sat in the middle of the hearth rug bathing an already immaculate paw. Brevelan and Darville slept in the inner chamber. He should join them. The moon had set hours ago. The night was far advanced.

  This was a decision only he could make, and his resolve still wavered.

  Brevelan and Darville had helped him before when he broke the spell of diversion on the road. He couldn’t allow them to help him again at the risk of their lives and their souls. Mica purred her agreement.

  “I’ve found a way around Krej’s traps twice,” he quietly told the darkness in the corners of the room. “I’ve got to try. For Darville and Coronnan, I’ve got to try.”

  Darville stirred in his sleep as Jaylor quietly rustled among the packs. At the first indication of his friend’s wakefulness, he stilled his hand on the three pieces of his staff, now tied into a bundle like so much kindling. Regret for the lost tool—an extension of himself clouded his vision.

  “What keeps you awake old friend?” Darville whispered. Brevelan slept soundly on.

  “I must finish my quest,” Jaylor replied tersely.

  “Let me find my trews and boots.” Darville yawned as he too searched the packs.

  “No, Roy. I have other chores for you.” Jaylor stared directly into Darville’s sleepy eyes.

  The golden-brown pools glimmered in the reflected light of a shielded candle. He didn’t blink as Jaylor wove his next words deeply into the prince’s thoughts.

  “Brevelan will need witchbane from the healers’ quarters. She must throw it in Krej’s face, make sure he breathes it. Or she can mix it with his wine, but he must drink the full cup. It will negate his powers. But she must be careful how she handles the drug. Not one single drop must touch her skin.

  “You, Darville, must face the Council with a sword on your hip to defend against assassins. Elder Librarian will see you transformed back into a prince if I do not return. And if I fail, Darville, you will protect Brevelan. As long as I know she is safe, I am free to risk everything.”

  The words washed over Darville’s furred back. He understood each and every sentence. He would follow the directions until each command was completed.

  Darville scouted the crowded courtyard of the monastery. Mercenaries sat in the weak sunshine, mending and polishing their gear. Few, if any of them, paid heed to a scruffy golden dog or a multicolored cat on the prowl. Darville knew that Brevelan was hiding somewhere near the piles of war materials. It was dangerous for her to be seen by any of the foreign m
en. She had her task and Darville had his. As soon as they were all certain the healer was entrenched with a mug of ale and a long tale to tell a bawdy crew, the companions moved.

  The healer’s scent was strong in his rooms. Darville found the things he had touched, learned the individual scents, minus the healer’s. Somewhere in these two rooms was the potion Brevelan needed. He searched his memory for the scent the man had carried when Brevelan was hurt.

  Mica leaped onto a sturdy table. Her nose was as busy as his own. He nudged open the lower cupboards. While his nose worked, his ears were alert. No sound of steps outside the door. Darville was sure he would smell the approach of the healer before he heard him, so distinctive and strong was his odor.

  There was nothing of interest in the cupboards, nothing that reminded him of the first time he had seen the healer.

  A jar rocked on the table as Mica sought the shelves. Darville growled a warning to her. They didn’t have much time. She had to be careful. She hissed her arrogant response.

  He sought the boxes under the bed.

  “Meroower?” Mica questioned him.

  He bounded closer, nose questing. She had found what they sought, wrapped in leather and tied with rawhide.

  “Grriipe,” he yipped instructions.

  Carefully the little cat grasped the bundle in her mouth. It was too big.

  Footsteps echoed in the hall. Someone was coming!

  Darville whined as quietly as he could. The cat spat at him.

  The person stopped with a hand on the latch, lifted it.

  They froze.

  The door began to open. Then the latch dropped. The person moved away, as if he had changed his mind.

  Impatiently Mica batted the bundle to the table with her paw. She followed in a graceful leap. Darville stood against the table, happy to stretch his back. The bundle fit easily in his mouth.

  From her position on the table Mica swatted the latch until it opened. Then they both slipped out and away. Brevelan should be back in their rooms by now with the weapon she was to steal from the watchtower.