“Rossemikka,” Darville whispered. The air seemed to shimmer around her hair, covered in a golden net, and her iridescent gown. As promised, the neckline of her gown dipped deep into her cleavage. The heart-shaped curve of the bodice just barely circled the tips of her breasts, promising a wider view should she make any sudden movements.
Perhaps this was the dragon-dream and his earlier vision the reality.
“Give her the flowers, sir.” Holmes prodded Darville’s back.
“Your Highness.” Darville bowed low in awe. Close up, he could see the rippling gold in her brown hair beneath the lace veil, the same color as his cat, Mica. He didn’t care that the white streak across her temple separated her from his dream vision of her.
Boldly, he held out the fragrant bouquet. He retained his hold on the stems long enough for his fingers to seek her delicate hand as he transferred his token. The girl jerked her hand away from any contact with him. She buried her face in the flowers and refused to look at him.
“You are more beautiful than all of the flowers in my realm, Princess Rossemikka.”
Rosie lifted her head finally. But her eyes raised no higher than Darville’s collarbone. Her nose wrinkled, not in disgust, but more in a gesture of curiosity. She sniffed daintily.
“You smell of magic, Prince Darville. Are you a sorcerer like King Simeon of SeLenicca?”
Chapter 7
Darville paced the circumference of the Council Chamber, knotting and unclenching his fists in time with his anxious thoughts. His mid-region demanded food, then twisted in rejection of the idea. This had been a most distressing day.
The retreating sun set ablaze the colored glass in the western windows. He stared at the light, absorbing the fiery greens and bay-blues. Starbursts of those colors blinded him to all else.
Only then did the vision of Princess Rossemikka leave him. He’d been so happy, so prepared to love her, once he’d realized she was the woman of his dragon-dream. Only to have her throw the entire Council into turmoil with those few words.
Asking Darville if he were a sorcerer, indeed. How did she know that was the one sentence that would undermine the fragile relationship between himself and the Council of Provinces? The chit couldn’t have said anything worse if she’d been coached by Lord Krej himself!
He’d never marry her now. How could he trust her? The much needed troops from Rossemeyer were gone forever.
His relationship with the Council was in shambles.
Enough. Darville was Crown Prince, rightfully king. The time had come to steer the course of his own future before Krej and his puppets had a chance to take advantage of Princess Rossemikka’s near fatal words.
“My lords.” Darville nodded curtly to each of the lords as they entered the chamber. Behind each lord, strode a cocky magician.
“Where is Senior Magician Baamin?” the prince demanded. He clenched his teeth against the cramp in his gut. What was he doing standing here, talking, preparing to “discuss” the kingdom’s problems. He needed to be out, urging his steed to a frantic pace, or running, or swimming. Anything physical, rather than this polite talk.
“Your Grace, must we remind you that we have forbidden contact between yourself and the University?” Lord Jonnias puffed up his chest and squawked his oft repeated arguments. “If a foreign princess can smell the magic on you when you’ve had no contact with magicians for over a week, when you insulted all of these worthy gentlemen by forcing them out of Council with witchbane, then the spells are in danger of overtaking you again.”
“What the princess smelled was the Tambootie that haunts my cousin. He was directly behind me at the time.” Enough politeness. Darville whirled to face his rival, an accusing finger pointed at Krej’s handsome face.
“I am under the influence of witchbane. Even if I were a magician, what use could I make of Tambootie?” Krej protested. His eyes were open wide with a look of incredulity. Who would guess at the evil the man had plotted last year?
“Then I overrule the Council. Each of you, mere governors of the provinces, has a magician adviser. I am your king, therefore, I demand the same right. I have chosen Lord Baamin as my adviser.”
“You are not king!” Krej growled. He was hovering behind the dragon throne as if he intended to sit there himself. Still wearing his formal tunic, Krej looked as if he belonged in that chair of chairs. All he lacked was the glass dragon Coraurlia perched atop his red hair.
Red hair. The inherited evidence of magic talent. Brevelan had Krej’s bright red locks. Jaylor’s hair and beard were dark auburn, lightening with red highlights when he was exposed to the sun. Baamin’s now white head had once been blond with red lights. There was no trace of red in Rossemikka’s hair—only that odd white streak across her temple.
Darville sniffed. There was so much Tambootie essence in the chamber from the presence of the magicians, he couldn’t tell if any still clung to his cousin or not.
He longed for the time when the addictive herbage was banned throughout the kingdom. Only dragons should be able to feed on that tree.
“Sir Holmes, escort Senior Magician Baamin to the Council Chamber immediately.” Darville shouted his order out the door as he strode to the other side of the throne.
“Your Grace!” the Council gasped as one.
“Since the Princess Rossemikka holds me in so little regard as to belittle me in public at our first meeting, I declare her an unfit candidate to be my queen. The treaty is null and void.”
“You can’t do that! We, the Council, signed the treaty. You must comply or Rossemeyer will invade. We will be fighting a war on two fronts,” Lord Andrall reminded him.
“I am already fighting a war on two fronts, my lords. Have any of you even taken the time to read the treaty?” Darville threw the offensive document into the center of the table. No one reached for it.
“Section three, clause four, paragraph two,” Darville quoted. “ ‘The Regent of Rossemeyer will station at least one member of his family with each battalion.’ Clause five, last paragraph: ‘In the event Rossemeyer finds itself at war, Regent Rumbellesth reserves the right to call his troops back to defend their homeland, without notice.’ That means he can declare war on us at any time and already have troops in place—troops our armies have come to trust. And he will have a member of his family ready and able to usurp the throne as well.”
Darville circled the room once more, anxious, restless, angry. He’d taken the time to change to a mud-brown field tunic. Now he needed to be out in the field. “Read it, my lords. Read the s’murghing document and then tell me the treaty is to our advantage.” He pounded his fists on the table.
No one dared look at him. Not even Lord Krej.
“Moments ago I was informed that the city of Sambol, which guards our western border, has fallen to King Simeon’s army once again. Our crops were damaged by the long winter and too wet spring. There will not be enough food this winter to feed both the people and an army. And while I battle these devastating problems, you,” he pointed an authoritative finger across the table at each and every one of the Twelve, “you restrict my every move, refuse to pay your tithes, post spies and guards, and deny me access to my most trusted adviser.” And then there was his traitorous stomach that cramped in rhythm with Shayla’s labor.
Dead silence reigned. Every man in the room sat in guilty awareness.
“No more!” Darville shouted his disdain for the men. “Wars and kingdoms cannot be run by committee.”
“Now just a moment, Prince Darville.” Krej’s face was turning as red as the maroon of his tunic. “You have no right to override the Council. We are a ruling body of equals, our provinces are interdependent. None of us has more power or resources than another. Our monarch is a neutral arbitrator with a tie-breaking vote. A leader, but not a dictator.”
“The army mustering below this window gives me the right to overrule your shortsighted decisions. An army of five battalions loyal to me, paid by me out of my income
from the city.” He paused for breath while he allowed that information to sink in.
“During all those months that I did all of the data work of the Council and little else . . .” Darville gestured to the stack of bookkeeping records by his chair, “I discovered that all of you have neglected to pay your tithes for many years—even when my father was alive and duly crowned. Therefore, I declare all of you in arrears and your titles forfeit by right of the compact of Nimbulan. All of you signed that compact when you inherited your titles. This Council is dissolved as of this moment. My troops and a fully loyal Palace Guard will arrange my coronation and I will proceed with ruling this country as it should be! From the front. I ride within the hour.”
He stalked to the doorway, paused, and turned back to face the silent men. “You may regain your positions of authority when you join me at the front with a full complement of troops and supplies.”
“Guards, seize him!” Krej screamed.
“Why, Krej? What reason could you possibly have to prevent me from defending our country from invasion, pillage, and rapine?” Darville thrust men and chairs aside as he lunged toward his cousin.
The massive throne fell backward. The crash of dense wood on denser stone riveted the attention of all in the room. Only Krej’s drawn sword was between the two rivals for the throne.
They both stared at the quivering sword. Deathly quiet hung around them and the menace of a naked weapon, drawn in anger in Council. No one looked away from the sword as the sound of heavily booted feet marched into the room.
Fred led a squad of armed men into the chamber. They ringed the room, fingering their weapons. But they looked to Darville for direction. He gestured for them to stand at the ready, their weapons still sheathed.
“You cannot endanger yourself on the field of battle, Your Grace.” Krej’s tone was anything but meek or submissive. Instead he glared into Darville’s eyes, daring him to disagree. Daring him to draw his own sword and fight out their grievances.
“Since time began, the Kings of Coronnan have led our armies to victory. I will follow in the footsteps of my esteemed ancestors. Interfere at your own risk, Krej.” Darville took up the challenge.
“A compromise, Your Grace?” Lord Andrall pushed his way between the rivals. “You may choose your own advisers and we will crown you king on the day you marry the Princess Rossemikka.”
Darville yanked his gaze away from Krej. He had to think. The Council had backed down, offered what he really wanted, once he’d asserted his natural authority. But could he still marry the princess? She had betrayed him. Just as Krej had.
A prince could trust no one. No one but himself. Knowing that, he was forewarned and forearmed.
“I will not have a queen whose first interest lies with Rossemeyer. Nor will I have a wife who dresses like a trollop, exposing herself to all eyes.”
“Speak with her, please, Your Grace,” Andrall pleaded. “Get to know her a little. Inform her of our customs.”
“She accused me of being as murderous as King Simeon.”
“She asked if you were a sorcerer. King Simeon is the only known monarch capable of magic,” Andrall added.
“Though how he throws magic in SeLenicca when no one else can remains a mystery,” Krej said, still holding his sword.
“I intend to find that out. If we are ever to control magic again, we, the mundanes, must understand it as well or better than our magicians.” Darville allowed his shoulders to relax a little.
“Just speak with her, Prince Darville. Perhaps she was told to say those words to throw us into this very turmoil. Perhaps she didn’t know how her accusation would upset the Council. ’Twould be typical of Rossemeyer’s tactics.” Andrall continued pleading his case.
“After I consult with Senior Magician Baamin, in my private study, I will consider speaking with the princess.” Darville righted the throne and solemnly sat in it. “My lords, we have lost a battle. ’Tis time to mobilize relief forces and plan a new strategy.”
My rival has not nearly the control I was led to believe. The meeting between Darville and Rossemikka was a disaster, just as I planned. But I compelled her to say those damning words. I controlled her from the beginning. Not my rival.
Kings and regents are all fools if they think they have real power. They will all look to me once I let them know I manipulate one and all.
But first, I must bring the new ninth to the capital. Temporal power means nothing if our rituals are incomplete. I can wait no longer to bring Brevelan into the coven.
Jaylor carefully wiped Brevelan’s fevered brow. She was so tiny and so pale, her fragility tugged at his heart even more than her strength did.
One of the field rabbits nudged her ear from the other side of the bed, offering his own slight comfort. At her feet a greenbird twittered in sympathy. In his agony, Jaylor couldn’t appreciate the love these creatures held for his wife.
“Don’t you dare die on me, Brevelan!” he ordered through the knot in his throat.
“So fierce, my husband? What happened to the weak shell of a man who doubts his own recovery?” Her last words were muffled by a rising groan. She clutched her rounded belly as if to contain the pain.
“Shouldn’t you have one of the women with you? I know nothing of midwifery and little of healing.” Jaylor dipped the cloth in the basin of cool water. No fever flushed Brevelan’s skin, but she radiated heat in waves from her discomfort. The hut was sweltering. Jaylor was chilled to the bone.
The illness had come on her suddenly, while they went about their daily chores. One moment Brevelan had been singing to her flusterhens. The next she was writhing on the ground in pain. Jaylor had scooped her up, cradling her against his heart. Panic had frozen his mind.
Only Yaakke’s prodding had given Jaylor sense enough to bring Brevelan inside and dispatch the boy to the creek for fresh water.
“A midwife could not help me. Shayla is in labor three moons early and therefore so am I.” She groaned again, rolling to her side on the wide cot.
“Shayla! Brevelan, are you in contact with Shayla?”
“She never left me.” Brevelan spoke through gritted teeth.
“Do you know where she is? We must bring her home to Coronnan.”
“She is in labor as we speak. She could not fly back, even if she were willing.” The pain eased and Brevelan lay on her back, panting with exhaustion.
“ ’Tis you I must save, beloved. What can I do to help?”
“We must find a way to sever my tie to Shayla. I have not the strength or the will to do it myself.”
“Perhaps the child is ready to come after all. Perhaps his growth was accelerated, like the baby dragons, by all of the magic that was thrown near the time of his conception.” Jaylor felt a moment of hope. As much as he feared the birth, dreaded discovering he might not be the child’s father, he was excited by a new life. If dragon-dreams were to be believed, then this was just the first of many children who would fill this clearing with laughter.
“The babe is not yet ready. Trust me, Jaylor. Our son must wait his turn. ’Tis merely my magic responding to Shayla. The bond must be severed.”
“But how? I have no magic left in me. Even if I did, I’m not certain I have the stamina to throw the simplest of spells.” Jaylor hung his head. The nightmare of his magic filling Krej’s great hall visited him again and again. The terror, the pain, the exultation of the greatest spell in modern times was too much for a single man to live with.
Guilt threatened to wash away the little niggles of power he had been nursing lately. What if his next spell really killed him, as his last one almost did? He was just beginning to find reasons to live again. Reasons like Brevelan and the baby.
“I have to try the spell, Brevelan.”
“You can’t,” she whispered in fear. “A spell of that magnitude would kill you. I couldn’t live if you died.”
“You and the babe mean more to me than my life, Brevelan. I have to try!”
&
nbsp; “Find another magician. Guide him, but don’t risk yourself.” Her voice was growing weaker.
Jaylor dribbled a little of the water into her mouth. She lay quiet a moment, waiting out another pain.
“Yaakke can summon Baamin. If the three of us link through the glass. . . .”
“Baamin cannot find Shayla. He has tried often in the last six moons. I think we must bring my father into the spell. He is closer to the dragon throne than I. His bond to Shayla should be strong, if he would only search for it.”
“No! How could you think about allowing Krej to work magic again? I won’t permit his presence anywhere near you.”
Brevelan sighed deep and long. “Then I will die and the babe with me.”
The Princess of Rossemeyer stood framed in the doorway to Darville’s study. The candlelight caught in her golden hairnet and shimmered around her brocade gown. At least this gown of hazel-green was more demurely cut than the one she had worn earlier. But she still revealed much more of her bosom than Darville believed proper.
“I am told I owe Your Majesty an apology.” Her voice was husky, as if she had been crying, and she refused to meet Darville’s eyes.
Her hands fluttered restlessly, seeking something to occupy them.
“In Coronnan I am addressed as ‘Your Grace.’ ” Since she wasn’t looking at him, Darville allowed himself the luxury of drinking in her beauty. The sight of her only brought depression. She was the woman in his dragon-dream, yet he could never trust her, never love her.
He didn’t stand to greet her as court manners demanded. Mica purred in his lap beneath his desk. Some of the weight in his gut dissipated with her quiet rumbling. His hand dropped to pet her silken fur.
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 41
