“I heard he likes his toys young and virginal, dismissed as soon as they become boring.” Brunix paced a circle around her and the lace pillow. “Marriages are discreetly arranged for the girls he ravishes. Those girls he rapes without guilt. But you . . . you he demands must come willingly to him. My contract with him forbids me to force you. As if he didn’t know that rape is a most heinous crime among my mother’s people. But I am supposed to . . . never mind. He has broken that contract.” He fingered the lace still draped around her shoulders. Gently he removed it and hung it beneath the cloaks.
“He told me that if I survived his Equinox ritual, my power would be released and I would be worthy to bear him a son. But I must come to his altar willingly. He hoped the humiliation of being your slave would drive me back to him. Willingly.”
“The black-gowned goddess!” he hissed. “She carries a child, conceived near the Autumnal Equinox. And she wears the aura of one with much power. Was she willing? Eager perhaps?”
Crashing footsteps on the wooden walkway, loud shouts, and angry questions brought Katrina upright. Her balance shifted to her toes, as she made ready to flee again.
“I can save you,” Brunix stood between her and the door, the only exit from the room. Another man had offered her the same thing. He’d asked for her mother’s shawl in repayment.
“What will it cost me?” She sought frantically for a window, another door, a place to hide.
“You know my price. Come to my bed of your own free will.”
The door buckled on its hinges from the fierce pounding on the painted planks.
Katrina bit her lip. There was no way out.
She nodded, too frightened to speak.
Brunix reached behind him to unlatch the door. Six broad-shouldered men wearing the gray uniforms of the palace guard filled the narrow hallway.
“In the name of His Majesty, King Simeon the First, I place you, Katrina Kaantille, under arrest,” the leader, wearing three silver stripes on his cuff, informed them. He stepped into the office so his companions could flank him.
“What crime has my wife committed?” Brunix remained firmly in place between Katrina and the uniformed men.
“Wife?” Three-stripe raised an eyebrow in surprise. “I was told the girl is a maiden.”
“My wife has been with me all morning, developing a new pattern.” Brunix waved a hand at the bolster pillow. “What makes you think she is the person you seek?”
“The queen was struck down during the birthday parade. His Majesty picked that woman out of the crowd as the perpetrator. She was wearing a black cloak and a wide lace shawl about her neck and shoulders. We arrested another woman wearing her cloak, but not the lace shawl. She is being detained until we find the true culprit and the lace.” The officer’s eyes strayed to the hook where the cloaks hung. Brunix’s outdoor garment was dark green. Katrina had been wearing Iza’s brown. The shawl was draped beneath them both, not visible to the guard.
“How can my wife be guilty? She has been here with me all morning. And though we make lace to sell, who but the nobility can afford to wear it?”
“Your lies won’t protect her, outland half-breed,” Three-stripe sneered. He raised his arm as if to backhand Brunix across the mouth.
Brunix caught the man’s wrist well away from his face. He squeezed and twisted the guard’s arm backward. “My father was a true-blooded citizen, my mother half,” he ground out. Brunix’s eyes grew darker with cold anger. “How much true blood runs in Simeon’s veins? He is the outlander, and a sorcerer. Yet you trust him over me, a lawful citizen of the queen. How did he single out the name and address of one woman in the crowd, who was not there, as the assailant? Look to him for answers before you arrest and accuse innocent citizens.”
He wrenched his hands away from contact with the guard as if the man were dirty. The guard hopped back a step, shaking his arm and wrist.
Three-stripe’s mouth opened and closed without a sound. Indecision marred his posture. He suddenly seemed shorter and less imposing. The two men flanking him edged backward, toward the hall.
“We will be back.” Three-stripe turned on his heel and retreated with less noise than he had come.
“And now, my dear, the time has come to pay what you owe me.” Brunix gathered the cloaks and the lace shawl from the rack as he gestured toward the staircase. Up the long series of steps to his apartment on the top floor.
“Hmm, distinctive design.” He studied the shawl as if unconcerned with her obedience to his wishes. “Unusual concept. We will discuss payment for this design after I teach you the delights of sharing my bed.”
“You are certain you can do it?” Jaylor asked Marcus for the fifth time. “Sensing a concentration of dragon magic is crucial in this quest.”
“I’m certain, sir,” Marcus replied tiredly. “I was gathering dragon magic before Old Baamin died.”
Jaylor turned to his other journeyman. “What about you, Robb?”
“Master Jaylor, I was levitating winecups long before any of my class.” The young man looked indignant at the question. “Successfully.”
“Then I charge you both with the quest to go see an invisible dragon,” Jaylor said quietly. Unconsciously he’d used the same phrase Master Baamin had spoken when giving Jaylor his journeyman’s quest four years ago.
But Jaylor was Senior Magician now. So much had changed in the intervening years. Coronnan needed journeymen magicians to seek Shayla and bring the dragon nimbus up to full strength more than ever. Without dragons, Communal magicians could not combine and augment their magic by orders of magnitude to overcome the solitary rogues. Only with the enhanced power of several magicians joined together could the Commune hope to impose and enforce honor, ethics, and justice into all uses of magic.
Until then, judges, lords, and mundane citizens looked to the Gnostic Utilitarians to protect them from all magic, good and bad. Good thing the Gnuls and the coven hadn’t worked together on their separate plots to depose Darville and his queen.
“I hope you are more successful in restoring the dragon nimbus to Coronnan than I was.” Jaylor draped his arms about the shoulders of his journeymen.
“You freed Shayla from Krej’s glass sculpture. That was a start,” Marcus reminded him.
Jaylor paused a moment, remembering his lengthy recovery from that spell.
“You had better return as full masters of your powers, or I’ll come find you to make you regret it,” he added sternly, shaking them with affection.
“As if Brevelan would let you chase after us without her,” Marcus mumbled.
“We know who really runs the Commune.” Robb grinned at his partner.
“What did you say?” Jaylor glared at the young men.
“Nothing, sir. We’ll come back. With the dragon.” Marcus winked at Robb.
“Or if she can’t fly, we’ll summon Brevelan.”
“Good. Now remember your instructions. Stay in touch. I want a summons every night at sunset.” He’d said this all before, but it deserved repeating. “Keep together and blend in with the locals any way you can. You’ll have to be doubly careful avoiding detection at the battlefront. SeLenicca is gearing up for a major push to drive our army back toward the pass. There is no magic in SeLenicca to augment your own reserves, so you’ll have to keep your delusions to a minimum. And whatever you do, don’t rouse King Simeon’s suspicion. The battle mages report small concentrations of dragon magic across the border, but not enough for all to gather and combine. That convinces me that Simeon is holding Shayla hostage. He won’t want to give her up. You will be executed as spies at the first suggestion that you come from Coronnan.”
“We know, Jaylor.” Robb patted the Senior Magician’s shoulder reassuringly. “We’ve been over this a dozen times.”
“Keep going over it. I can’t afford to lose any more journeyman. Keep a look out for Lady Rejiia, too. She’s been missing since her child died.”
“But Queen Rossemikka is pregnan
t again. We don’t need Rejiia as heir to the crown,” Robb grumbled.
Jaylor bit back the bitterness of that news. Margit reported that Mikka ailed with this pregnancy. A few whispers had begun that the queen’s inability to carry a child to term was clear evidence of witchcraft.
Between the whispers and the difficult pregnancy, Jaylor had decided to keep word of the plot against the queen’s brother to himself. Mikka and Darville didn’t need the extra worry. The plot had been temporarily foiled. King Simeon’s mistress, whoever she was, would need time to replace the poison.
“Better off without Krej’s daughter. I never trusted her,” Marcus added.
“More reason to bring the dragons back, to protect the queen’s baby—the long-awaited heir. Take care of yourselves.” Jaylor saluted them with a fist clenched over his heart, then offered his left hand, little finger, and ring finger curled under. A mild shock of power that only another magician could feel went into the handshake—the new recognition signal of the Commune.
He watched the young men gather their packs and march toward the edge of the clearing.
“Will you keep an eye on Margit, sir? She’s feeling kind of abandoned with both of us going off on quest.” Marcus paused at the edge of the clearing barrier. “Maybe you can teach her to tolerate cats better. I really like cats.”
“I’ll make contact with her every week instead of every moon,” Jaylor promised.
Marcus nodded and smiled his thanks as the edges of the clearing blurred and the journeymen passed through to the path.
Jaylor raised his hand, as if to delay their departure once more. Surely they’d forgotten something. He should call them back, delay their leave-taking a little longer.
“They are older than you were when you were given the same quest. And better equipped.” Brevelan placed a gentle hand on his shoulder. “Those boys have scoured Coronnan for apprentices these last three years. They know how to live rough and fend for themselves,” she reminded him.
“I guess I can spare the boys for a while. They must succeed where I failed. Coronnan depends upon them.”
“Thanks to those ‘boys,’ you have ten new journeymen to take their place and fifteen apprentices eager to join them.” Brevelan urged him away from the sight of the path closing behind the retreating steps of Robb and Marcus.
“We still don’t have enough magicians to resume our traditional roles in society, if and when we are ever legal again. I wonder if I should leave the University in Slippy’s care while I go with the boys?”
“Don’t you dare!” Brevelan’s hands fluttered trying to reach for him and curve protectively around her swelling belly at the same time. If the mundanes could see Brevelan and her children, they’d never again believe that witches couldn’t bear children. That was an action he dared not allow.
Jaylor smiled anyway. Brevelan’s dragon-dream was coming true. Shayla had promised her a clearing full of healthy children. In the vision, the oldest boy was as blond as King Darville, all the rest as red-haired as their mother.
Jaylor’s eyes automatically searched the clearing for blond Glendon, now three, and his redheaded brother, Lukan. The boys were rolling around the freshly tilled kitchen garden, wrestling with a wolf pup. As usual they were filthy, healthy, and laughing.
“We have been blessed, Brevelan.” He patted the evidence of their new child. A tingle of awareness shot up his arm. The child was already asserting its personality.
“Twins this time.” Brevelan sighed happily. “Girls.”
“What! I thought this was to be another boy. Next time is supposed to be twins. Dragon-dreams don’t lie.”
“We make our own future, dear heart. This time we made twins,” she laughed at him and with him. “Gossip from the capital says that Darville is much better since he learned to sign his name and wield cutlery with his right hand. He’s learning to live with the pain. His wound isn’t worse,” she continued happily.
“If the boys don’t find Shayla and heal her, then Darville will always have a useless left arm,” Jaylor reminded her. Memory of Darville’s situation sobered the bubbling joy of impending fatherhood.
He and Darville had wrestled in the mud as boys, much like Glendon and Lukan. They’d been happy and healthy then, blond- and auburn-haired, just like Glendon and Lukan.
Yaakke had spent his childhood as a kitchen drudge, without much happiness, love, or companionship. Jaylor wasn’t sure why his thoughts turned to his lost apprentice. Sending two journeymen off on the same quest as Yaakke must have reminded him of the boy’s failure.
Had the wild fluxes of a maturing body caught up with his unbounded magical talent? If so, perhaps he was better off dead. The massive, uncontrolled powers unleashed in such circumstances must have been lethal to Yaakke’s spirit as well as his body.
“I am reluctant to authorize a full-scale invasion of SeLenicca, Andrall,” Darville informed his most trusted Council member. He paced the small retiring room behind the Council Chamber.
“ ’Tis sound military strategy, Your Grace,” Andrall reminded him. “We control both ends of the pass through the mountains. Our position will be reinforced if we hold more territory on their side of the border.”
“The battle mages we employ at the front fear there is not enough magic in SeLenicca for them to protect our troops from Simeon’s mages. I would give a fortune to know where they get their power! Besides, invasion will put us on the offensive. If we keep to defensive resistance, we have leverage in convincing other countries to honor the trade embargo against SeLenicca.”
“The Council of Provinces intends to push for an invasion, and override your veto if necessary, Your Grace,” Andrall whispered, though no one had access to this room except through the empty Council Chamber.
“I need something to bargain with. Something that will . . .” Darville stopped in mid-sentence. A shift in the tapestry that separated them from the main room alerted him to the presence of an eavesdropper. Both men stood absolutely still, hands holding ceremonial short swords at the ready.
“Ahem, Your Grace?” Fred called from the main room.
Darville relaxed and thrust aside the wall hanging. “Yes, Sergeant?”
“I have someone important for you to interview, sir.” Fred clamped his mouth shut and stared pointedly at Lord Andrall.
“You can trust His Lordship, Fred. Who claims my attention now?”
“The spy, sir.”
“Which spy?” There were so many, in SeLenicca, in Rossemeyer, in the households of his lords, at the front . . . He dared not trust anyone these days. Not with the Gnuls gaining influence with the Council and the Council paying people to spy on himself and Mikka.
“The one we sent from Sambol last year, sir. The one who knows about cats . . . dead cats.”
A frisson of alarm ran from Darville’s spine to his hands, making him itch to wield his sword. If ever he needed Jaylor’s counsel, it was now. How did he deal with people who left gutted cats in places where he was likely to find them? The one he and Fred had found at the Equinox Pylon in Sambol was the first of many.
Every time he rode through the country, they found another. The placement of the corpses was no coincidence.
“Bring the man to my office. I’ll fetch the queen. If I can pry her away from that nosy maid, Margit.” Mikka was his best adviser since Jaylor had deserted him. Raised to be a queen, Mikka knew how to listen and observe. From a quiet place in the corner she often saw things that Darville missed, like gestures and postures suggesting lies and deceit. “We will discuss the military situation later, just before the lords regather, Andrall,” he said as he dismissed the lord.
“They will be here momentarily, Your Grace,” Andrall reminded him. They’d met here, behind the Council Chamber for that reason.
“Then tell them I am detained. I need an hour.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Andrall bowed his head in grudging acquiescence.
Three years ago the Council might have t
aken advantage of Darville’s absence to vote for invasion. Now, however, he knew they’d wait for their king.
Minutes later, Fred hustled a slim young man wearing the white robes adopted by the Gnostic Utilitarian cult into the king’s office. Cut in the same manner as the red-robed priests of the Stargods, the white was symbolic of their purity from the taint of magic.
Mikka’s eyes narrowed at first sight of the man. Her nose twitched with suspicion and she withdrew deeper into her window seat. If anyone had reason to fear this cult, ’twas the queen. Magic was still illegal in Coronnan and she possessed a great deal of magical talent. The cult had been known to denounce those who claimed to be the victims of magic as well the perpetrators. Knowledge of the cat persona trapped within Mikka’s body would draw their outrage and fuel the pleas for Darville to put her aside as his queen.
So far he’d been able to avoid confronting the issue of her inability to bear him an heir. How much longer before he was forced by lords and populace alike to bring in a distant and foreign relative or divorce Mikka?
“Your Grace,” the spy bowed deeply, but his eyes darted furtively into every corner as he moved. “I have not much time. I must either return to my dwelling before I am discovered missing or leave the country within the hour.” He continued to search the shadows for any sign of listeners. His eyes lingered on the queen in the window seat, then darted back to Fred for reassurance.
“I will protect you . . . uh, your name was not given to me. Please sit down.” Darville leaned back in his demi-throne, adopting a position of ease. He hoped the spy would become comfortable enough to speak freely.
“My name is best kept secret from all but the Stargods. No one is safe from the Gnuls, sir. No one. They’ll torture and kill me without hesitation if they suspect where my allegiance lies.” His pale skin lost more color as he shivered inside his robe. He remained standing, poised to dart out of the room at the first sign of trouble.
“Then tell us quickly. What have you learned?” Darville sat forward, frowning. None of his appointed magistrates had the authority to overlook such outrages.
Dragon Novels: Volume I, The Page 81
