Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  I have them now. I have found the new ninth. A twist here and a lie there and she will be made to see the truth of Simurgh.

  Old Baamin wants Jaylor in the capital. I want Brevelan in the capital. But not yet. Not until I have everything in place and the coven is ripe to accede to my power.

  If only I had time for the baby to grow into his true calling. But I will have to make do with the mother. She can be manipulated and controlled through the baby.

  Darville fumbled along a small ledge just inside the tunnel as the door swung closed on its pivot. No light penetrated the stone walls to relieve the subterranean blackness. There should be a bit of fire stone and a candle hidden here from his last exploration of this ancient and forgotten escape hole.

  Gone! What did he expect in eleven years time, that no one else in the entire s’murghing castle knew of his childhood playground?

  “I’ll have to take the chance of traversing the passage in the dark,” he muttered under his breath. He’d done it before, on a dare from Jaylor, twice landing on his face from hurrying too fast over the paving stones. Unseen ghosts and mindless evil had pursued him in imagination then. He was older now and knew that ghosts had no power, and evil was always channeled by a mind. He took a deep breath for courage and stepped forward.

  He felt for breaks in the stone paving with his soft-soled shoes. Running his fingers along the wall, he pushed himself deeper into the blackness, following a gradual curve downward. Over and over he reminded himself that the starbursts of light before his eyes were mere illusions. There was no light, no other life in the tunnel.

  Something furry brushed his leg. He leaped aside, his pulse racing.

  “Meow?”

  “Mica! How did you get in here?”

  “Miower,” the cat replied. Moving a pace ahead, she spoke again.

  Darville stepped closer to her. “Make sure you stay out from underfoot, Mica, and we’ll get through this together.”

  “Meow.” Of course.

  Very quickly the narrow passage opened into a larger one. The light here seemed more gray than black. They had reached the primary tunnel where it ran below the river bedrock, connecting castle and University. A torch glowed at each end.

  Darville headed for the University end at a run. He was probably too late to join Baamin in his summons, but he might be able to pass a message along to Brevelan at the tail end of the communication. If anyone could save Shayla, Brevelan could.

  After many moons of silence, the dragon had reawakened her ties to the last member of the royal family in a desperate plea. Darville hadn’t just dreamed Shayla’s distress. He’d lived it with her.

  One more bend and the corridors of the University should be in view. Darville picked up speed. Mica scampered behind him at a slightly slower pace.

  Footsteps. There were footsteps behind him. The Council’s guards must have used the main access to this passage off the wine cellar. Darville didn’t pause long enough to listen to his pursuers.

  He looked ahead. The light was brighter, his goal nearly in sight. He focused on the single torch reflecting off iron bars.

  Iron bars meant the gate was closed.

  What gate? There hadn’t been a gate there when the tunnel was reopened last summer. He slid to a halt, his fists grasping the solid iron shafts. He shook the barrier in his frustration. A wolflike howl of rage rose in his throat.

  So close. He’d come so close to speaking to Brevelan. The dragons would remain lost for a while longer.

  “There is to be no further contact between you and the University, Cousin.” The oily voice of Lord Krej pulled Darville back to his senses.

  “Do you fear Lord Baamin so much you can’t allow him to advise me, as the Senior Magician has always advised the monarch of Coronnan?”

  “You aren’t the monarch yet. And ’tis the Council of Provinces which has given the order,” Krej said calmly. “To protect you from a recurrence of your illness.” He dangled a long brass key tauntingly from his fingers.

  “At your insistence.” Darville eyed his cousin’s companions rather than the key. Weak and sniveling, Marnak was no threat; the man-at-arms beside him might be. Both sported long blades on their belts.

  Where was Fred?

  “You have bought the Council, allied them to you by threat and by marriages to your daughters, Krej. The rest you have subverted with your rogue powers.” Darville inched his dagger out of its sheath.

  “Your fanciful tales of my participation in your ordeal with magic are just more evidence of your mental unfitness.” Krej moved to pocket the key.

  “Niow,” Mica protested as she launched herself toward Krej, claws extended, murder in her eyes. The regent raised his crossed arms to protect his face from her wicked claws and gnashing teeth. A fiery glow surrounded the cat, sealing her to her prey with magical armor.

  Darville didn’t wait for a formal engagement of blades. With a quick twist of his wrist, his ceremonial dagger sent Marnak’s longer blade flying. He swung around to face the man-at-arms. In the same motion he kicked backward into the young lord’s gut.

  The guard glanced quickly toward Krej for permission to engage his prince in battle. But the regent was occupied with one very angry cat and a magic that isolated them from mundane interference.

  “Never take your eyes off your opponent,” Darville reminded the guard as he slipped under the lowered tip of the sword. The narrow blade of Darville’s knife nicked the man’s throat. The sword clattered to the stone floor in surrender.

  “Forget the s’murghing prince, you fool,” Krej choked as the glowing armor broke down and he flung the cat free of his arms. “You’re supposed to be protecting me!”

  Mica scampered away, the bright brass key dangling from her mouth.

  “Another time, Lord Krej,” Darville barely saluted his cousin. “We’ll have this out, another time, I promise. Right now I have an appointment.”

  Mica presented him with her trophy. The lock was new and well oiled, it opened at just a touch of the key. Darville kicked the gate shut behind him and hastily relocked it. Then he pelted down the corridor to the main tower with all the speed his athletic legs could muster, the key safely in his pocket.

  “Magic!” Marnak grunted as he clutched his belly and tried to stand. “The prince worked magic, Father.”

  “Nonsense. ’Twas the cat’s magic. The cat was a witch’s familiar before she adopted Darville. Now she works her evil ways on him. We must separate them.”

  Krej’s words made Darville pause on the first step. Would his cousin and once trusted ally really deprive him of Mica, his only friend? He couldn’t afford the time to think about that now.

  The moon was just reaching the height of its nightlong arc when Darville burst into the Senior Magician’s private sanctuary.

  “Prince Darville, talk to her, please. They must come to the capital.” Baamin pleaded as Darville barged into the tower room.

  “Brevelan?” He looked carefully at the piece of glass held upright in a special gold frame. All he could see was the stack of books on the other side, their titles magnified by the glass. “Is she there.”

  “She was a moment ago.” Baamin peered closer. “Yaakke, where is Brevelan?” Anxiety tinged the old man’s voice. “She shouldn’t be able to leave the spell until I release her.”

  There was a moment of silence while Baamin cocked his head as if listening. Darville couldn’t hear anything. He started pacing the room. “Tell her that Shayla is in a cave with lots of water around and she’s hurt. I think it’s a wing. She can’t fly. She needs us!”

  Baamin passed the message to whoever was on the other side of that glass.

  Mica nosed open the door. Her purr filled Darville’s heart while Baamin consulted the glass again, now speaking, now listening. Darville scooped up the insistent cat.

  Instead of letting her perch on his shoulder, he cradled her warm body against his chest. Stroking her silky fur soothed him. He fell into the rhyth
m of her rumbling music. His eyes glazed, and he lost focus.

  The face and voice of Brevelan appeared clearly in the glass.

  “Break the summons, Baamin. We have been observed.” Lines of worry folded around her eyes.

  Darville’s heart swelled with joy and pain at the sight of her. He loved her so much! She could have been the perfect princess for him.

  But no, Brevelan had chosen Jaylor. She had her reasons. He knew them, understood them. Deep inside he wept for the loss of her.

  Mica’s purr stopped. The image of Brevelan disappeared as quickly as it had come. The cat butted her head against Darville’s chin seeking the same comfort he did.

  “Brevelan, who has the power to invade this spell?” Baamin asked.

  There was no answer.

  Baamin whirled to confront Darville. “Did Krej take the witchbane this week?”

  “I watched him swallow it yesterday,” the prince affirmed. Lord Krej went along with the treatment in his usual half-joking manner. He had convinced all but a few skeptics on the Council and Darville that he, Krej, was the victim of the prince’s malice rather than the perpetrator of dire magical plans against the kingdom.

  “There is no antidote to witchbane and no one else in this kingdom has exhibited enough power to invade one of my spells.” Baamin scratched his chin in thought.

  “Could Krej have hired a foreign rogue?”

  “If so, we must find him before he corrupts or masters us all.”

  Chapter 4

  Janataea’s voice roused Princess Rossemikka from her nap. “The time has come, Princess. You must put on your cloak and go down to the ship.”

  Rosie picked up her ball of thread and began to untangle her last cat’s cradle.

  “Come, Rosie,” Janataea coaxed.

  Rosie unwound herself from her curled sleeping position, still puzzling the knot in the center of her work. She should resist Janataea’s orders. There was something wrong with the command. One look at the older woman’s eyes dimmed her flicker of perception. Compelled by an overwhelming need to obey Janataea, Rosie dismounted the seat with a small jump.

  The deeply rooted compulsion sent her to stand one pace in front of her governess. One pace. No more. No less.

  Janataea draped a cloak of oiled wool over Rosie’s shoulders, then lifted the girl’s thick braid to the outside. The governess’ hands were soothing as they stroked the plait smooth and coiled it into a concealing head covering. Rosie leaned into the caress. “Hmmm.” Her throat vibrated with pleasure.

  Outside the castle, a fresh breeze touched Rosie’s face. She lifted her head and sniffed the bright morning air. Salt. The wind was coming from the sea. A storm would crash upon the shores of Rossemeyer’s protective cliffs by sunset. The two river valleys would receive the blessed rain. On the high plateaus where everyone lived, nobles and peasants alike, the wind would howl and fling sand with punishing force.

  Little if any rain would relieve the dry desert air. But the people of Rossemeyer would huddle within their dwellings and wait for the storm to pass.

  Every ship in the harbor would be well out to sea by the time the storm ripped into the harbor with murderous waves. Rosie would be on one of those ships.

  “I don’t want to go,” Rosie protested Janataea’s guiding hand. She turned and tried to slip through the governess’ grasp.

  “Of course you want to go, Your Highness. You sail to meet your new husband.” Janataea was insistent.

  “I have no need of a husband. Men frighten me. I won’t go.”

  “You will or we’ll both be burned as witches. You heard your uncle. Think about me if not yourself, Princess Rossemikka,” Janataea hissed with anger. “Think about your mother!”

  Rosie blinked at her governess. “Why isn’t my mother here to see me off?” Rosie ignored Janataea’s words and tried to slip past her again. She twisted her body into impossible thinness. But her governess was used to her ways.

  “Queen Sousyam is not well. You know she has not been herself since the night your cat disappeared and you lost your memory.” Janataea made it sound as if Mama’s health was Rosie’s fault. “You must not disturb her rest.”

  This time Janataea’s grip on Rosie’s arm almost lifted her from the ground. She was propelled forward with a force Rosie couldn’t comprehend.

  An honor guard of heavily armed warriors awaited them at the gate to the outer courtyard.

  Rosie narrowed her eyes against the sunlight, blinking to adjust her vision from the darkness of the castle. The first lord in line offered Rosie his arm to escort her outside. Rosie pulled away from him with a spitting hiss. Only Janataea and Manuel were allowed to touch her. She would delight in a hug from Mama. But Queen Sousyam never tried.

  “Be polite, Your Highness,” Janataea corrected her. “Lord Aahmend-Rosse has earned the right, by his prowess on the field of battle, to escort you aboard.”

  Rosie obeyed the compulsion of her governess’ voice, shuddering only slightly under the man’s touch.

  “Rossemikka!” Manuel called out from the doorway. His pounding footsteps followed rapidly.

  Rosie resisted the tug of Aahmend-Rosse’s arm and turned to receive a hug from her brother.

  “I hate it that you have to sacrifice yourself like this, Sis,” Manuel panted. “But there is no other way. Uncle Rumbelly has mismanaged everything. I’ll be able to claim my crown in another six moons. You can come home to visit then, often and for however long you want to stay.” He clasped his sister tightly.

  She accepted his touch where others repelled her. Manuel alone had fought to help her regain many of the memories she had lost.

  “Prince Darville is vulnerable,” Janataea hissed. “You must marry him before he has a chance to organize his forces and confirm loyalties. His dragons might come back at any time. You must marry him before he has the opportunity to close his borders again with dragon magic. For the good of Rossemeyer, we must leave now.”

  “You’re right that the Prince of Coronnan needs us. But he might lose his civil war, even with our troops. You could be in grave danger, Rosie. I want you to be very careful and come home at the first hint of trouble.” Manuel clung to Rosie with a fierce possessiveness.

  “You are not yet King of Rossemeyer and cannot offer sanctuary to your sister once she’s married,” a gruffer male voice reminded them.

  “Uncle Rumbelly,” Manuel hissed. His inflection made the name a curse.

  “I am still regent and I decree that once married she will be a foreign queen and no longer welcome on our soil.” Their guardian staggered into the courtyard.

  Rosie couldn’t tell if he stumbled from pain or from drink. How did Rumbellesth, with his sloth and illness, command the respect and loyalty of the disciplined warriors who stood guard on the castle walls? Rossemeyer, by tradition, produced only whipcord lean, strong, and fierce survivors. War and conquest were everything in their desert culture. Yet still Rumbellesth governed.

  Hypocrisy ruled everywhere. Rosie expected her betrothed to be the same. Repulsion rose in her throat. She clung to Manuel and the safety of the familiar.

  “The tide will not wait.” Janataea urged her charge forward.

  Rosie’s hand lingered in her brother’s. She continued to look at him with fond regret, even as she was led to the docks and the ship that would carry her to her destiny.

  Brevelan paced the boundaries of her clearing, following the path of the sun, as she did every morning and every evening. The child within her stirred uneasily. He had been restless, upsetting her stomach since she had returned her consciousness to her body last night. Her baby didn’t like being left alone. How would he react when the time came for him to separate from her body at birth?

  She strode faster, working her way through the trees surrounding her clearing. The baby moved in agreement with her increased pace. She was seeking the path of last night’s intruder. He was seeking . . . seeking what? Whom?

  Someone, other than he
rself, had been in communication with the unborn child while she had vacated her body last night. But who?

  “Brevelan,” Jaylor called to her from the garden. “Where are you, Brevelan?” He seemed to enjoy grubbing about in the dirt since his magic had deserted him. The work had brought his heart almost back to normal—for a mundane. But a magician needed more.

  Brevelan was happy for the help, but concerned that gardening was Jaylor’s only exercise, mental or physical. Perhaps if he started throwing a few small spells, his heart would completely heal and his magic would return in full.

  He had been such a big and vital man last spring. Now he seemed almost shrunken, weak of will as well as of body. There was a time when she had feared him, and wished him reduced in size and dominance. Watching his feeble attempts to regain his health tore at her heart.

  She wasn’t sure he was quite as helpless as he seemed. Daily, his aura increased in vitality and size. Perhaps he had heard his child’s silent questing for her last night and reached out with his mind and his magic to soothe the baby.

  A warm spot in her heart began to glow. If Jaylor was reaching out to the baby, then his path to healing had just become easier. More than that, she wanted the bond between father and son to be strong, even before birth.

  “Coming, love.” She closed her eyes and shifted the clearing around her so she emerged from the wooded boundary right beside her husband. “Now what is it you need so desperately?” She smiled at him with new contentment.

  Jaylor looked startled to see her so close. He hid his face as he bent to apply his shovel to a good-sized tuber plant.

  “Should I dig all of these roots now and place them in storage, or just enough for today?”

  “Don’t hide from my magic, Jaylor.” Brevelan reached a hand to lift his chin. He jerked away, as if afraid to look in her eyes. “ ’Twas you who taught me not to fear magic. ’Twas you who gave me the freedom of mind to use my magic as it was intended to be used. To protect me and mine.”