Then there were the many moons of travel southward to Brevelan’s clearing. Contentment. Darville, as a wolf. Darville, as a man. Jaylor transforming Darville back into a wolf, as he leaped from their hiding place to defend his father’s honor.
“I don’t want to die,” she sobbed. “I want to live for Darville!”
Transformation, Rosie reminded her.
Cats can’t fly.
But a kahmsin eagle can.
Mikka spread her arms in a desperate attempt to slow her increasing speed toward death. Sharp spires of rock jutting up from the sea reached for her hungrily. The waves pushed closer and closer, ready to swallow her broken body.
Her injured shoulders protested the movement. The wind generated by her passing pounded against her, resisted her. She fought to extend herself. Desperate to survive, she forced every hint of magic in her life to obey her will. She twisted on a tendril of warmer air. Her limbs moved more freely this time.
“I will live!”
Power surged through her. Feathers replaced her garments and hair. Her eyes slitted and focused. Sharp talons retracted. Wings caught the wind, mastered it, and guided her upward.
The kahmsin eagle of Rossemeyer flew, as free as a dragon. She pushed downward, once, with huge wings and sailed higher, higher yet. The soft mist of a low hanging cloud greeted her. Wings leveled, she glided on a current of moist air.
Through the veil of cloud she spied the land below. Eyes focused on tiny details, a rabbit in the grass, a sparrow in a tree, bay crawlers on a shallow strand at low tide. Hunger assailed her. Neither the rabbit, the sparrow, nor the crab would feed her. This was something different, something special and wonderful.
Need filled her heart. Her mate called to her. Her mate needed her. Kahmsin eagles mated for life. If one partner should die, the other never sought another.
She must land. One particular perch called to her. The man’s pile of stone looked intriguing. She dropped into a dive, wings tucked back against her body. As the opening to the aerie came level, she spread her wings to stop her flight.
Caution kept her back. She drifted on the currents of air while inspecting the figures who shifted in rapid jerky movements. She should be suspicious, hold back. Yet she needed to be in there. This was her aerie, she knew that. Her mate was within, and he was in trouble. The sparkling circlet in the corner needed to be attached to her mate before the trouble would go away. She seemed to be the only one to notice its absence.
A neat back wing and extension of her talons brought her to the ledge.
“Mikka?” her mate called weakly. He lay on the stones, injured. One wing was burned clean of coverings. He’d never fly again.
“Is that you, Mikka?” His weak cry tugged at her emotions.
“Aieeek?” She hopped down beside his neck and nuzzled him with her beak. Get better, she thought. I can’t live without you.
Her mate fell back, no longer able to stay awake. The pain was too great.
Mikka cried her distress, fanning her mate with her wings. A man approached, she shied away in fright.
“Don’t let her fly away!”
Blackness surround her. A net. A totally dark net covered her. Harsh claws gathered her into the folds of the dreaded net.
“Mikka?” Darville called weakly. The merciful blackness retreated and pain roared through his body. More pain as someone shifted and carried him. He thought he screamed. Perhaps that was only a dream, as well. The pain receded and so did his mind.
Candlelight burned behind Darville’s eyelids. He swam upward to a level of awareness that acknowledged the pain in his arm and shoulder, yet not so far up that the sharp burning mastered him.
Voices whispered around him. He heard bodies shuffling through a room. Something sweet burning in the grate tickled his nose and beckoned him to a higher level of wakefulness.
“I hate using the Tambootie as a remedy for pain.”
Was that Brevelan’s voice he heard?
“ ’Twas the Tambootie in the woman’s body that caused the burn. Like to like, a poultice of the Tambootie to draw the magic poison from his wounds.” That had to be Zolltarn’s arrogant presumption that only he had an answer.
“The only thing that filthy drug is good for is dragon food,” Brevelan argued.
Darville sensed the petite woman hovering over the bed where he lay. She would be facing the Rover, hands on hips, feet anchored, daring him to interfere with her patient.
“A boiled preparation of the leaves, mixed with eel oil, garlic, and mashed tubers works wonders on burns.”
“ ’Twas the Tambootie that drove Janataea insane. I’ll not use it. All I need is a little quiet and a chance to work my own kind of magic. I’ve stabilized him, but he needs another session to promote his own healing.”
“Mikka?” Darville croaked. He didn’t need drugs or healing spells. He needed to know that the vision of his wife saving herself with a shape-change was true.
“Bring the bird in,” Brevelan ordered.
“The dust and mites in her feathers will contaminate the burns!” Zolltarn seemed adamant in his desire to be in control.
“She won’t remain a bird long. As soon as she sees that her mate lives, she’ll return to her own form voluntarily.”
“And if he dies from his wounds?”
“He needs a reason to live. Seeing his love safe will give him one.”
Quiet prevailed a moment. Darville risked opening his eyes a slit. He had been set on a soft mattress in the master bedroom. The master wouldn’t be needing it anymore. Lush curtains in maroon and green protected the bed on three sides. The hangings were drawn back on the side facing the huge fireplace. Logs, as thick as his thighs, burned brightly, throwing warmth throughout the room. The Coraurlia rested on a feather pillow beside him.
The door creaked open. Carpets and wall hangings muffled any footsteps. Jaylor poked his head into the opening of bed curtains, keeping his body hidden. “You’re awake.”
“Barely.” Darville’s head and body throbbed with renewed pain by the effort of that single word. The darkness began drifting over his mind again. He willed it aside.
“Ready for company?”
“Only if it’s Mikka.”
“Your wish is my command, Your Grace.” Jaylor moved slowly and carefully into view. On his outstretched arm—an arm misshapen by layers and layers of wrapped quilts—perched the largest eagle Darville had ever seen.
“When you were a cat, Mikka, I had to pad my shoulders from your claws. My tailor will have a fit if he has to protect my arms from those talons.” He tried to chuckle, but his entire left side hurt too much.
“Dreeek?” The bird cocked her head and opened her eyes wide in question.
Darville patted the wide bed on his uninjured side. “Come, Mikka,” he coaxed.
The eagle hopped awkwardly from her perch on Jaylor’s arm to the bright coverlet. “Dreeek?” she asked again.
“My beautiful Mikka. Come back to me.” Moisture gathered at the back of his eyes, tears of pain and loneliness, and tears of tremendous hope. “Come back to me, Mikka.” The tears spilled and fell freely.
“We’ve got to hurry,” Brevelan interrupted. “The Council and their troops are less than an hour away. They’ll condemn Mikka in this condition. They’ll condemn all of us for trade in black magic.”
Darville had never before seen her wring her hands in agitation.
He’d conquered his enemies, and still he must fear his own Council.
“Jerook!” Mikka squawked and flapped her tremendous wings.
“Out, Jaylor, Zolltarn. They need privacy for this.” Brevelan shooed the men with more frantic gestures of her hands.
“I’m a magician, I can help.” Jaylor protested.
“You’re a man and she’s embarrassed. Don’t you remember Darville each time he came out of a transformation?” Mischief glinted in her eyes. “I always had the decency to turn my back on his very naked body.”
&n
bsp; “Oh,” he mouthed. “Well, yes, of course. We’ll be just outside.” They retreated behind the bed curtains.
Darville thought them gone when Brevelan emerged long enough to throw Jaylor’s cloak onto the bed. He closed his eyes for strength.
The mattress shifted. The rope supports groaned.
He opened his eyes to a blur of colors. Gold, silver, lead. Ruby, emerald, diamond. Soil, clay, and sand.
His senses reeled in confusion. But he had to watch. The eagle grew in length, thinned in mass, stretched, and shifted.
“Thank heavens for Brevelan’s good sense.” Mikka sat beside him at last, long legs dangling over the edge of the bed, her glorious hair draping her arms and torso. In one deft movement, she twitched the blue cape around her. “What would this world be like without women of common sense?” Mikka’s throaty chuckle surrounded the bed enclosure with love and hope.
Darville couldn’t answer. He filled his eyes with the vision of his beloved.
She looked at him and smiled. “And if I know Brevelan, she’ll give us a moment to say hello.” She leaned over and brushed her lips across his.
He couldn’t help wincing, even as he sought a deep contact.
“Does it hurt much?” She was immediately contrite.
“Less since you came back to me.”
She kissed him again, lingering over his mouth.
“The dragons told me to look to my left and I’d find you. I looked to my sword arm.” He moved his injured arm and groaned with the pain. “I couldn’t find you with my strength. I had to look to my heart. You are my heart, Mikka. And now you must be my strength, as well. This wound may be mortal.”
“Not if I have anything to say about it.” Brevelan bustled back into the room. Briskly, she swept aside the curtains and dumped an array of pots and bandages on the mattress beside Darville.
“You have approximately ten minutes to decide how you’ll deal with your Council, King Darville.” Jaylor was right behind his wife, the members of the Commune directly behind him. “While you’ve been unconscious, Krej’s troops put up some resistance to the mercenaries from Rossemeyer. Andrall and a contrite Jonnias lead your thousand cavalry. With no true leader to push and guide the battle, most of Krej’s men refused to face the combined armies.”
“Suggestions?” Darville forced his awareness to the men in the room. Brevelan’s ministrations were gentle, yet the extremity of his injury was pushing him toward unconsciousness again.
“Your queen has exhibited a rare and powerful magic talent. Your own feats this day defy mundane explanation. In their present mood, the Council may decide to enforce their new law against magicians and depose you.” Zolltarn hooked his thumbs in his belt.
“Darville’s backlash of Krej’s spell may be explained by the action of the Coraurlia.” Jaylor paced before the hearth.
“Has he worn the crown long enough to produce that violent a reaction?” Slippy asked from the doorway.
“I saw the backlash. I wasn’t in a position to probe the source.” Zolltarn shrugged his characteristic gesture. “The queen’s talent probably sprang out of dormancy in the face of grave danger. That talent must now be dealt with or it will go wild—like Yaakke’s”
“By Council decree, neither of you may rule.” Slippy elbowed his way to the front of the crowd.
“We have decided to keep knowledge of your talents secret.” Jaylor assumed command of the room again. “But we must have your word of honor—from both of you—that neither of you will throw a single spell until the Commune is reinstated.”
“And when will that be?”
“When we get the dragons back.”
Chapter 35
Yaakke viewed the cleared Great Hall of Castle Krej with awe. The members of the Commune had been busy. All of Krej’s treasures were free. All except the former lord of the castle and the hideous harpy presiding over the sacrificial hearth. What would Jaylor do with them? Consign them to the sea, as Janataea’s body had been—without any rites of passing?
The twelve magicians present stood around the two monstrosities, scratching their heads and arguing quietly among themselves.
“You sent for me, Jay . . . Master Jaylor?” Yaakke had to remember that his former friend was now Senior Magician of the entire Commune.
“Yes, Apprentice Yaakke, we did.”
That sounded ominous. No one used “Apprentice” as a title, unless something of dire importance was about to happen. From the frowns that greeted him, Yaakke guessed the worst.
“We must discuss the matter of your abandonment of a superior in mid-spell.” The magicians ringed themselves in a half-circle beneath the huge window. They held their staffs upright, extensions of themselves, gnarled symbols of their authority. Colored light sprinkled down upon them from the awesome window, turning their faces into masks of ancient deities—most of them malevolent.
Heat flushed Yaakke’s face. His feet grew cold, and his hands started to shake. They were going to throw him out. He knew it. He’d be stripped of his powers and cast away, like the piece of rubbish he knew himself to be. His brief flirtation with magic was a dream the likes of him didn’t deserve. He clutched his own nearly straight staff across his chest defensively.
“We could dismiss you from the University, Yaakke,” Jaylor said, not unkindly. “You abandoned me in the void. You were a pivotal part of that spell. When you pulled away so abruptly, I could have died.”
The dragons tried to keep me, Jaylor’s thoughts added to Yaakke’s mind. “You also endangered the life of our queen. We almost didn’t find her in time.”
“I’m sorry,” Yaakke whispered. And he was truly sorry. He liked Jaylor, respected him, sort of. And the queen? Well if Jaylor couldn’t find her, then Yaakke certainly never would have.
“And well you should be sorry, boy!” the oldest of them shook his staff at Yaakke. The old geezer was so ancient he’d retired to a monastery years before Baamin was elected Senior.
“It’s just that Lord Baamin was dying and I thought I could help him,” Yaakke defended himself. “I loved him.” His words trailed off as grief choked him once more.
“We understand that.” Jaylor cut off the old man’s attempt to burst back into the conversation with a brief gesture of his own staff. “So you will not be dismissed.”
Yaakke looked up with hope that died at the sight of the grim expressions of all assembled.
“There is no longer a University to dismiss you from,” Zolltarn explained.
“No University? But there has always been a University. The kingdom depends upon it.” That was the most amazing thought of all. He couldn’t conceive of a world without the University. The massive stone buildings were the only home he had ever known, ever dreamed of knowing. “How will we fight the war? Who will advise the king and the lords?”
“That is an unknown we must all discover.” Jaylor shook his head in dismay.
“Can’t we just move it?” Yaakke looked expectantly to each of the masters.
“We have already begun to empty the University of all contents and remove ourselves to a new location, outside the capital.” Slippy looked a little disgruntled at having to explain things to this boy. “The Council has exiled us from the government. We, in turn, will withdraw from the lords. Magicians will move out of palace, manor, and castle into the villages. They will be available to the people as healers and teachers. But we have forbidden them to provide any service—even a simple message relay—to a lord without the express permission of the Commune, as a whole.”
“Wow!” Yaakke couldn’t say anything else. Those were drastic measures. The Council probably didn’t realize how much they depended upon magicians. The lords weren’t going to be happy at losing one of their greatest privileges.
“As part of the new University policy, membership in the Commune, henceforth, will be secret. The Council knows about us.” Jaylor pointed to the group, as a whole. “But new masters and students will be as unknown as our new l
ocation.”
“What about the war, sir? We can’t just abandon the army. Simeon’s fighting with magic,” Yaakke protested. Then he blushed in realization of his audacity in questioning these powerful masters.
“As soon as you show them how, four magicians will transport to the front. We believe King Simeon to be the only sorcerer at our western border. Four University trained magicians should be enough to counter any magical attacks he can launch.”
“The Simeon is pulling energy from somewhere. It’s got to be mighty powerful to work in SeLenicca. We shouldn’t underestimate him, Jaylor.” Zolltarn looked worried. “Are you sure four are enough?”
“To start. Simeon doesn’t know the transport spell. We can send reinforcements before he can launch any attack our members can’t handle.” Jaylor looked more worried than he sounded. He and Zolltarn continued to stare at each other in a contest of wills. Zolltarn wanted to direct the defense of the kingdom. Jaylor had the authority.
“The king, sirs, and the queen, too? They’ve both got magic that the Council doesn’t know about. Will they be rejected as rulers because of their magic?” Yaakke’s curiosity was up and roaring.
“How I handle that secret will remain secret.” Jaylor glared at him.
“What about me, sir?” Yaakke screwed up his courage to ask. He’d been summoned for a reason. Punishment? Promotion? Or just a lot of work transporting people and things hither, thither, and yon?
“You have the greatest challenge of all, boy. Don’t take it lightly.” The oldest magician advanced on Yaakke as if he meant to strike at him with his staff.
Yaakke couldn’t back away. But he did wince at the magician’s use of his childhood appellation.
“I have a name now, sir,” he challenged. “I was ‘boy’ when I was a nameless kitchen drudge with no magic and fewer brains. I’m an apprentice magician who can read and write and throw spells with the best of you. I’ve rights now, and a name is one of them.”
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 64
