Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “What? Oh, well, yes, of course you do. But you’re still a boy.” The old man chewed his lip. “You’re all boys compared to me.” He swung his staff to include the entire assemblage.

  “My task, Lord Jaylor?” Yaakke’s curiosity burned.

  “Your quest, Yaakke, is to remain at my side, protect me if necessary, and learn all you can. When I decide you are ready, I will send you to find Shayla,” Jaylor said with a tinge of envy in his voice. “When she is found, you will return to the Commune so that we, as a whole, can bring her back.”

  “A quest, sir?” Yaakke’s voice cracked into an annoying and juvenile squeak. “A master’s quest?”

  The magicians broke out into a squabble. “No!”

  “Yes!”

  “He’s too young.”

  “He’s had no formal training.”

  “We’ll see how you progress with your training and how well you behave.” Jaylor ended the argument.

  The huge courtyard within the palace grounds was filled to overflowing with rowdy lords and commoners alike. Mikka peered out at the crowd awaiting the coronation of their new king and his bride.

  “Don’t be intimidated by them, Mikka.” Darville touched her arm with reassurance.

  “They’re exciting. I haven’t seen anything this joyful since . . . since before Papa died.” Carefully, she smoothed the clean lines of her golden gown. This regal outfit was cut more modestly than her spectacular wedding gown, but still showed more of her bosom than was considered proper in this conservative society. Oh, well, they’d reach a fashion compromise eventually.

  “Is Rosie shying away from the noise?” Darville seemed overly concerned about her. She rested her hand on his arm lightly. He winced at the contact. The burns from Janataea’s blood were healing slowly. There was only so much a healer could do for him—even a magician healer.

  “Sorry, darling.” She lifted her hand from his sleeve. His free hand covered hers and put it back on his arm, where it belonged.

  “How’s Rosie doing?” He repeated his question with genuine concern.

  “Very well.” She grinned.

  “Will she jump out and repudiate me in mid-ceremony?” A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth.

  “Meow?” Rossemikka ran a long fingernail gently along the line of the fading marks of a previous scratch on his cheek. “Does that answer your question, my love?”

  Darville shifted just enough to kiss her lips long and lingering.

  “We’d best get this show started,” he breathed as they came up for air. “Did you see Jaylor and Brevelan in the crowd? They promised to be here.”

  “I didn’t see them. I don’t expect to. With the current mood against magic in the capital, they can’t just transport in or announce their presence to one and all.”

  “I guess not.” Darville looked disappointed. “But they are my best friends.”

  “Mine, too. They’ll be here. We just haven’t found them yet.”

  A blast of trumpets announced the beginning of the procession. Acolytes swinging incense burners led the way, followed by green-clad sisters of the stars singing hymns in six-part harmony. Priests in scarlet robes came next, intoning ritual prayers. Then followed the lords. Andrall led the way, carrying the Coraurlia on a golden silk pillow.

  At the moment the dragon crown emerged into the open courtyard, the high overcast broke apart and a shaft of sunlight arrowed into the gleaming glass. Rainbows arced from the symbol of royal authority. Awed silence rang through the crowd.

  “Dragon weather!” someone, who sounded a great deal like Jaylor, announced with awe. Murmurs and shouts of approval rippled through the crowd. This was a good omen.

  “I believe that is our signal to follow.” Darville gestured, then he and Mikka stepped out to greet their people.

  The sun burst forth in sparkling autumnal glory. Everyone looked up. A speck in the distant sky grew and flew closer. No one moved.

  The speck took on an outline, indistinct but huge. Mouths gaped open as the creature flew closer. Light shimmered around the winged form, teasing the eye, drawing vision out and around.

  “A dragon!” The priests shouted with glee.

  “A blue-tipped male dragon,” Darville added.

  The huge creature hovered over the courtyard, almost visible. It gave the impression of searching the crowd.

  “Grrower!” it trumpeted with joy.

  Sunlight touched the dragon’s wings and arced downward. Rainbows of color filled the Coraurlia with life. Lord Andrall turned within the circle of prismatic light to face his king. His face glowed with wonder.

  The dragon shifted. Rainbows followed his wing movement and bathed Darville and Mikka in magnificent blessing.

  Epilogue

  The coven has failed in its mission. Our two strongest members have been stolen from us. The next candidate to be the focus has betrayed and deserted us.

  But we are not broken. The Council has begun the campaign to outlaw all magic in Coronnan. As the mundanes rejoice with their maimed king and trollop of a queen, witches and magicians flock to the coven. They will work with us against the Council and our enemies in the Commune.

  The coronation is but a mockery. The ceremony will never be completed. And while all of Coronnan turns its attention to the gaudy display of jewels and fashion, the coven will implement a scheme destined to restore the true balance of power.

  This book is dedicated to the members

  of the Portland Lace Society,

  active and retired

  Acknowledgments

  I wish to thank the members of The International Old

  Lacers for helping me research this book over the

  last thirteen years, even when I was having too much

  fun to call it research.

  Thanks also go to my editor, Sheila Gilbert, and her

  staff of miracle workers for turning my rambling

  prose into real books.

  Most of all I need to thank my agent, Carol McCleary,

  for believing in me before anyone else did.

  Prologue

  Lord Krej and his sister Janataea are lost to the coven. Zolltarn, king of the Rovers, betrayed them both and deserted our ranks. No other has enough power to become the focus of our magic rituals. Our numbers are depleted; a miserable six when we need nine, and I am but half-trained. The Council of Provinces and their puppet king have triumphed.

  But only for the moment. I am making plans for when we are a full nine once more. Then the Twelve will die for what they have done to us.

  I have not the power or knowledge to break the reflected magic that transformed Krej into a tin weasel with flaking gilt paint. No honor for him, tricked by Darville and caught in the spell’s backlash. If only our Lady Janessa could be revived. She would know how to release her son. But she died and was honored by being transformed into an idol at the moment of death. I sense that Lord Krej still lives within his statue prison. His life-spirit fades little by little.

  I will have revenge. Before Darville is crowned, when all eyes are on the gaudy display of the coronation festival, my agents will kill the self-righteous king and his trollop of a queen.

  The great winged god Simurgh will demand blood for the power needed to carry through with the plan. A mere slave will do for the initial spells. When all is done, I will need a triple sacrifice for the return of Krej. Yes! I sense the balances moving into place as I plan.

  Jaylor is boon companion to Darville. His wife, Brevelan, is bastard daughter of Krej. And their babe is an innocent. They should die together.

  Chapter 1

  Apprentice Magician Yaakke downed the last of his ale, purchased with illusory coins. Sullenly, he elbowed his way out of the makeshift tavern and into the rowdy coronation crowd. He’d lingered too long.

  Time never flowed at the speed he wanted it to, and now he was late. One more infraction of the rules to prevent his promotion to journeyman.

  A crow scolded him
from atop his perch on the tavern tent’s ridgepole with raucous cries. Guilt and shame burned Yaakke’s ears at the reminder of his tardiness.

  He’d idled the hours with forbidden eavesdropping on the thoughts of drunken revelers. He liked to imagine these simple folk were his family, since he had none. Every farmer or merchant could be his father come to visit him during the week-long coronation festival. . . .

  Now he was late.

  “Disgusting filth!” A lean man of middle height spat a bite of meat roll into the gutter. His bright scarlet tunic with gold braid proclaimed him a senior member of the Guild of Bay Pilots. The wily boatmen were an integral part of Coronnan’s defense. No one else could guide shipping through the constantly changing channels in the mudflats of the Great Bay. Invading navies had ceased trying to negotiate the mudflats centuries ago.

  “That’s good meat and pasty. How dare you insult my wares!” A young woman with blond curls escaping her kerchief glared at her customer. She planted work-worn hands on narrow hips, presenting a picture of outraged determination. “You took a bite, now pay up.”

  The noisy black crow swooped down from the ridgepole of the tavern pavilion and devoured the discarded food in one gulp. Not a crow, a jackdaw. As it lifted its head and croaked in triumph, Yaakke noted the white tufts of feathers above the bird’s eyes, much like the bushy eyebrows of an old man. The bird rotated its eyes before launching itself back to its high perch. The movement caused the white tufts to waggle, just the way Old Baamin’s eyebrows had whenever he admonished his apprentice.

  Grief threatened to choke Yaakke. The irritable old man would never again correct him for an error in magic or in manners.

  The argument between the girl and the Bay Pilot drew Yaakke’s attention back to the present. His telepathic senses amplified the anger, distrust, and fear that surrounded this typical market argument. He considered turning his back and slipping into the throng of revelers, unseen, unknown.

  “Uncooked pig offal. I’ll not pay to be poisoned.” The pilot’s hand reached for the long boat hook that dangled from his belt.

  Violence spilled from the man’s aura, infecting other members of the crowd. Warning prickled the length of Yaakke’s spine. He searched the crowd for help, anyone with a hint of authority to intervene. A ring of avid observers formed around the arguing couple.

  “Give the arrogant bastard what for, Margit!” one of the watchers yelled.

  “Don’t let the chit cheat you, Guildsman!” another voice answered from the other side of the crow. Violence simmered around them, inviting their participation with more than words.

  The pilot looked over his shoulder at the crowd. Uncertainty flickered in his eyes and in his aura. Then the mask of arrogance, so typical of his kind, dropped back into place. He waved the boat hook in front of Margit. The girl didn’t retreat.

  Yaakke silently applauded Margit’s courage. He’d had his meals stolen from him by bullies often enough to understand the girl’s need to stop this one thief before another took advantage of her weakness.

  “You’ll pay or I’ll have the guard on you!” Margit’s eyes grew large at the sight of the Guildsman’s sharp boat hook. Her aura pulsed red. Anger or fear?

  Power?

  No. Her eyes were too clear and innocent for her to possess the sudden surge of magic Yaakke sensed in the air.

  “What guard?” the boatman snorted. “Only my Guild keeps Coronnan safe!”

  More jeers from the crowd, for and against the Guildsman. Yaakke decided he’d better step in before a riot started. If he prevented a dangerous disturbance at the king’s long awaited coronation, maybe the Commune would consider him reliable again. He also needed to track down that sudden surge of magic he’d felt. Maybe Jaylor would give him his journeyman’s quest after all.

  Yaakke sought the pilot’s name within his mind. The information hid from a light probe. Yaakke concentrated harder. Paetor. Unusual. The syllables grated on his tongue like a foreign language. The Guild tended to be separate from the rest of Coronnan, inbred to the point of alienness. But the name was strange even for the Guild. Curiosity and admiration of Margit’s courage propelled Yaakke forward.

  He threw an illegal spell, a small delusion. The surge of magic didn’t return to combat him. Reflection from the Guildsman’s eyes showed the short apprentice as an army officer twice the man’s height and double his breadth of shoulder.

  “You’ll pay for the pasty, or I’ll lay you out as fish food,” Yaakke hissed at Paetor, grabbing the haft of the boat hook with one hand. His little boot knife suddenly appeared in his other hand looking very much like a foot-long dagger tickling the pilot’s throat.

  Paetor’s jaw opened, then shut.

  The crowd edged backward, suddenly silent.

  “She gave me refuse from the gutter to eat!” Paetor fingered his purse but didn’t open it. Some of the arrogance slid out of his posture. His eyes darted to the thinning crowd.

  “That’s good sausage!” Margit protested. “If you don’t like it, fine. But you ate it, now pay for it.”

  An angry tirade from Paetor’s mind filtered through to Yaakke’s mental ears, in a very foreign language. This was no Bay Pilot with a few strange ways, but a foreign smuggler up to no good. The strange source of magic must come from him.

  Jaylor! Yaakke sent a telepathic plea to his new master, the Senior Magician. We’ve got trouble.

  No answer. Jaylor’s thoughts were normally easy to find and separate from a crowd. Something must be terribly wrong in the Grand Court, where the coronation was about to take place, if Jaylor didn’t answer a message of trouble.

  The smuggler wrenched himself free. He took off at a run over the bridge to the next city island. Yaakke followed him. He discarded his spell of delusion and became, once more, the undersized, nameless drudge from the University kitchens he had been until last spring. No one took much note of his running pursuit of the smuggler except to protest his jabbing elbows as he cleared a passage.

  He lost sight of the smuggler in the crowds of dancing and singing citizens who thronged along the processional route. More tavern pavilions sprang up along the way, offering a dozen places for the man to hide.

  Think! Yaakke admonished himself. Think like a smuggler. The docks were too obvious. Where else would a fleeing foreigner head?

  Yaakke calmed his panic-driven heart rate and focused his psychic powers on one specific accent. The physical and telepathic din from the crowds dropped to a murmur. Two men thought with that peculiar clicking rhythm to their mental voices. Yaakke tuned in to them. One was at a distance, probably the other side of the capital. One was just ahead.

  Yaakke fine-tuned his listening and heard surface thoughts in a foreign language. He probed deeper, seeking meaning in images rather than words. He encountered a little resistance, then the man’s thoughts became clear.

  I’ve got to get to the boat and close the cargo hatches, the accented mental voice hummed anxiously. Can’t let the guard find those s’murghing Tambootie seedlings before the assassination.

  What? Yaakke sought the source of that desperate thought. The smuggler had to be stopped. He had to discover who was going to be killed and when.

  But the significance of the Tambootie bothered him more. If Coronnite Tambooties grew anywhere else, the dragons would seek it, and they’d never be enticed back to their homeland. Magic and magicians would be illegal in Coronnan forever without the dragons. The border to keep out King Simeon’s invading armies would remain collapsed without dragons and dragon magic. Yaakke listened for the elusive mental voice again.

  Nothing. Almost as if the smuggler and his thoughts had been swallowed whole by the void. Further probes from Yaakke’s mind met a wall of resistance. Some kind of internal armor.

  He sniffed the magic that surrounded the foreigner’s mind as he edged his physical body closer. The magic didn’t come from within the smuggler. Only a powerful and well-trained magician could impose that kind of subtle
protection on another man. And this magic didn’t smell like anyone in the Commune.

  Carefully, Yaakke probed the “nothing” with a finely honed magic dart. In his mind’s eye he saw the witch bolt of questing magic pierce the armor. The invisible arrow came up against an undulating wall of power and slid around it. Glaring white light filled the dart with explosive menace as it rounded the curve of armor and headed straight back toward its sender at double speed and intensity.

  Yaakke recoiled in horror. If the probe pierced his mind, then the hidden magician who had placed the layers of armor on Paetor would know everything about Yaakke, about the Commune’s secrets and the disguises used by the Master Magicians today.

  Yaakke needed his staff to counteract the probe. If he opened his magic senses to keep track of the questing spell, his own power would attract it like a magnet. The staff was inert, unless charged by Yaakke, and could absorb the magic safely. But the staff was hidden, along with his pack, back at the inn. If he’d carried it today, he would have been marked as a magician and hustled off to gaol hours ago.

  On the edge of panic, he ducked the speeding probe and ran, scattering diverting delusions in this wake. The dart of magic swung around to Yaakke’s new direction, seeking the mind that had launched it.

  Rejiia de Draconis peered at the coronation spectacle in the Grand Courtyard from behind a magical mask. Resentment of her cousin, the new king, colored her perceptions with black auras. Counting slowly, she controlled her breathing. “I have to see things clearly if I am to succeed,” she whispered to herself.

  Calm spread through her body. Knotted muscles in her back and shoulders relaxed a little.

  The royal steward flung open the massive doors of the King’s Gate, signaling the beginning of the coronation ceremony and a major interruption of Rejiia’s plans to become queen.