Dragon Novels: Volume I, The

by Irene Radford

  “I see.” She remained stone still. Inside, questions plagued her. What had triggered this new round of persecution from Simeon? The man at the parade, was he an agent of the king? Perhaps he owned a lace factory and wanted to deprive Brunix of his premier lacemaker. No, if he wanted that, he would have promised Katrina employment.

  “Is there nothing that excites you? Nothing that raises your passion?” Brunix leaned over her, his eyes nearly glowing red with his frustration.

  Katrina didn’t respond. She had worked so hard at controlling her anger and hatred toward Simeon and the fate that sent her into slavery that she doubted she could show her true feelings ever again.

  “If I can’t have your body, Katrina Kaantille, I will have your mind and your talents.” Brunix pounded his fist into the mattress beside her naked body.

  A faint glimmer of hope sprang to life deep in her heart. She didn’t dare let it flare too high.

  “That lace shawl you wear, the one your mother made for the queen . . . the one the king identified you by.”

  Katrina nodded her acknowledgment. He’d studied the piece of lace thoroughly, even tried draping it erotically around her body to evoke something within her. He couldn’t know that this unique piece of lace was all that she had left of her mother. Wearing it kept her keenly aware of all that she had lost.

  “You will make a pattern from this lace. A pattern that is difficult to duplicate. I will not have my business rivals stealing the design.”

  She didn’t tell him his business rivals already knew about the shawl and offered her freedom in exchange for it.

  “Will . . . will you consider my obligation to service you in bed canceled?” She couldn’t look him in the eye.

  “The pattern will postpone your obligation to me. You have until you finish making a sample shawl to . . . develop some enthusiasm for me.”

  “The pillow I use in the factory is engaged with another pattern. The homespun cover is too rough for the fine silk M’ma used for the shawl.”

  “You will use the pillow in my office.”

  Excitement flared deep within Katrina. A real pillow, covered in soft velvet, stuffed with unspun wool. And slender bobbins that clicked and sang as she worked. Some of those bobbins had been made for her. Just to handle them again was a reward beyond her daily hopes for escape from this man and his grim factory.

  “Light? The workroom is too dark to see a fine pattern. And pins? They must be delicate, sharp, and free of rust.”

  Brunix narrowed his eyes as he gazed at her with longing and speculation. He nodded briefly. “If I am pleased with the design, if it makes me as much profit as I think it will, you may consider the pillow and the bobbins yours. The light and the pins I will investigate. White paint on the walls perhaps.”

  “Oh!” Katrina gaped at him in surprise and delight.

  “So you do have passion within you, my dear. Passion for lace, true lace instead of the rudimentary garbage the others turn out. We’ll see if we can translate that enthusiasm into gratitude to me.” He grabbed her roughly by and arm, pulling her to stand close to him. He pressed the full length of his naked body against her as he ground his mouth over her lips in a cruel and possessive kiss. “Remember, Katrina Kaantille, you and your work belong to me, body and soul. And I will never let you go.”

  Queen Miranda lies near death. Her court is in chaos. The princess hides in her suite. Dour councillors and advisers cower in the lesser audience chamber, wringing their hands in panic. In Coronnan, the nobles would seize control and continue to govern with little or no interruption. Lucky for King Simeon that in SeLenicca a royal wish is absolute law.

  Miranda’s council doesn’t know how to act, only advise and hinder decisive action as being too rash. Miranda hasn’t had time to revoke her Edict of Joint Monarchy. Simeon is now in position to seize the throne for himself, without Miranda’s dithering. Once in control, he can allow Miranda to die and remain king without passing the crown to Princess Jaranda.

  The coven, through Simeon, is now in total control of one of the Three Kingdoms. My agents move into place. Soon the entire continent will be mine—except for Hanassa. No one can rule that haven of outlaws, rogues, and thieves. And Rovers.

  An alien presence brought Jaylor to full wakefulness. No light of moon or stars crept through the smoke hole, around the shutter or beneath the door. Yet he could clearly see every object in the crowded cottage. Moving only his eyes, all his magical senses alert, he surveyed his home seeking the thing that had startled him out of a sound sleep.

  A ball of witchlight glowed at the foot of the bed he shared with Brevelan.

  Instinctively he raised armor around his sons sleeping in the loft. The ball didn’t move or flicker. Jaylor risked a little probe into the light. His mental arrow encountered no resistance, no menace, nothing. The light just hung there, waiting.

  Waiting for what?

  Carefully Jaylor swung his legs over the side of the bed. The ball of light shifted so that it continued to face him. As he stood, Jaylor grabbed the extra quilt to wrap around his shoulders against the night chill. The ball of light didn’t object or move.

  “What are you?” he whispered into the darkness, afraid to rouse Brevelan or the children in case the light turned hostile.

  No answer from the light.

  Jaylor took one step toward the central hearth. The light moved with him, remaining a few feet in front of his face.

  “Who sent you?” Jaylor probed with his mind as well as his words.

  The light bobbed a little, as if the question almost triggered a response but not quite.

  “Are you a message?”

  The light quivered and wobbled, almost joyfully.

  A strange summons indeed. Magicians were trained to send a flame through a glass to a designated person. What if Robb or Marcus were in trouble and couldn’t build a fire or reach a glass? The witchlight might serve the same purpose. He had to give the boys credit for ingenuity.

  “Give me your message,” he ordered.

  I AM YAAKKE AND I AM ALIVE!

  A long-handled shovel came readily to Jack’s hand. Several men had hefted it and discarded it without knowing why. The balance was wrong, the grip too large, or they preferred a pickax to a shovel.

  Jack allowed himself a small, secret smile. His staff, fixed as the handle of the shovel, didn’t like to be touched by anyone but him. The more he used it, the stronger his bond with this basic tool of magic became. Each day, the staff fed him memories and knowledge. Each night he practiced a spell or two. But still there was something he had to do. Something that compelled him to escape, beyond the need for mere survival.

  The iron chain around his ankle resisted magic. He was still bound to a partner or a pillar. Patchy-beard remained his chain-mate, someone who was too observing, always touching him, distracting him from his act of blankness.

  The supply caravan should be close. Soon Jack would have to take his chances and escape. He’d be able to complete . . . something. If he couldn’t break the chain, he’d have to drag his partner with him. The scraggly little man with bowed shoulders and patchy beard would slow him down, hamper his movements. If he waited a few more days until he was rotated back to being Fraank’s partner, his chance of survival improved. Fraank was trustworthy and still reasonably strong—though his mine cough worsened each morning. Patchy-beard made the hair on the back of Jack’s neck stand on end.

  Jack wished the cranky jackdaw would come back and show him how far the caravan had come, how much time he had to plan and work on a spell to unlock the chains.

  Aided by the strength of the staff, Jack stabbed his shovel at the nearest pile of rocky debris. As the blade clanged against solid rock, a new perception opened to him. A sound, so faint normal hearing could not detect it, whispered to him. Then the merest inkling of a vibration trickled through his toes to the soles of his feet.

  Something bright and shining hovered on the sides of his vision. He extended hi
s senses with magic and sent them in all directions.

  “Rockfall!” he yelled with three years of stored energy. “Get out now.” Without waiting for orders he grabbed his chain-mate by the hand and lunged for the lift.

  He broke the staff free of the shovel blade and tucked his tool through the cord that held his trews around his waist where it wouldn’t get lost.

  Fifteen pairs of men followed him without question, tripping over their ankle chains in their haste. Two-by-two they squeezed into the lift designed to haul half that many men out of the shafts. Jack took a moment to make sure that Fraank was with them. The guard pulled on the bell rope signaling ascent. The lift stayed in place.

  An ominous roar rose from the deepest portion of the shaft. Dread hovered over each man’s left shoulder, like death waiting to pounce.

  “Simurgh take you lazy bastards,” the guard yelled up the shaft. “Pull us up!”

  The rumbling beneath the shaft grew louder. The lift seemed to sway side to side within the wobbling mine walls.

  Jack and his chain-mate, with surprising strength for such an elderly and scrawny man, reached for the emergency rope. Fraank and his partner on the opposite side of the crowded platform grabbed the companion rope. Together they hauled on the pulley device and lifted the crew an arm-length.

  Dust replaced breathable air. Pulsing roars filled Jack’s ears. “One, two, three, heave,” he ordered. Four pairs of hands hauled again on the ropes. “One, two, three, heave.” He may have lost his name, his memory, and three years of his life, but at least he remembered how to count.

  “Three, one, two, heave,” the guard ordered in a squeaky whisper.

  Up an arm-length, then two more. Jack and his comrades found the rhythm and pulled in unison without the off-count commands of the guard.

  Dust and smoke built to a choking density. Men coughed and sweated; hearts beat double time. No one spoke.

  Arm-length by arm-length the platform rose. Louder and louder the protests of the inner planet swelled to enclose them, cut them off from reality. New tremors sent them rocking against the smooth walls of the vertical shaft.

  The lantern dropped and extinguished itself. Direction became meaningless. There was only the burn of the rope upon sweating palms and the choking nightmare of once solid rock rippling like laundry in the wind.

  And still the roar grew. Words lost themselves. Thought ceased.

  Jack and his comrades pulled. One, two, three, heave. One, two, three, heave, he commanded them with his mind when words ceased to have meaning.

  “Light, I see a light up there,” someone croaked.

  “Pulls us up,” the guard yelled again to the men on top.

  At last the grinding tension in Jack’s shoulder’s and arms eased as the crew on top took over with a winch. He felt slack in his rope. The platform jerked upward. He clung to his safety line, fearful lest the main pulley snap under the stress.

  Faster and faster they rose to the surface. Thicker and thicker the dust filled their eyes and their lungs. Deeper and deeper grew the roar of collapsing rock and screams of dying men who hadn’t had enough warning to escape. At last the lift broke the surface. Torches still burned in the upper chamber. All but the pulley crew had deserted to the safety of outside.

  Jack pushed older, weaker men ahead of him. He and his chain-mate lifted the cumbersome length of iron links and hobbled in their wake. Find the rhythm. Outside foot, inside foot, he commanded his partner with his mind.

  As if he heard the mental order, the other man complied. Less clumsy, they sped toward light and solid ground. Smoke and collapsing tunnels followed.

  Chapter 19

  The lacemaker hides with a Rover. That is what Simeon fears. If he crosses the factory owner, the man’s entire tribe will curse the crown of SeLenicca.

  I have little use for Rover tricks or Simeon’s superstitions. Yet Simeon was raised in Hanassa, where Rovers are welcome. He knows more of their ways and their abilities than I do. I know only Zolltarn, the Rover king, and his treachery.

  I must bring the lacemaker to heel so that I can end Simeon’s obsession with her. The spells of the solstice will be useless if he cannot concentrate.

  How to circumvent the mysterious connections of Rovers? I must force a confrontation with Zolltarn. He witnessed Krej’s backlashed spell. He knows the construction of the magic. He also deserted the coven for the dubious honor of membership in the Commune.

  Chaos reigned in the yard outside the mine adit. Jack assessed the situation with two quick glances. Most of the men, prisoners and guards alike, were running for their lives.

  “Bring ropes and lanterns. We have to get the rest of the men out!” the commandant yelled from the center of the yard. “Come back here, you cowards.”

  No one heeded him. Jack dragged his sluggish chain-mate toward the storeroom for survival equipment. They hadn’t much time.

  Without thinking, propelled by his need to escape the mine, he whipped out his staff and tapped it against his leg irons. The manacles loosened. He bent and easily snapped them open with his hands. He repeated the procedure for all the other prisoners he encountered on his way to the storeroom.

  “The gate is open. This way.” Fraank dragged at his sleeve, holding him back. Fraank’s chain-mate, in turn tugged Fraank toward the gate, toward freedom.

  Patchy-beard pointed to his own leg iron in an appeal for freedom. “We’ve got to escape before the guards come to their senses.”

  Jack scowled at the man’s pleas. “We’ll never survive without food and warm clothing,” Jack yelled at Fraank over the din of men screaming and the Kardia collapsing within the mine.

  “Blankets and food. A pack steed if we can find one,” Fraank agreed with Jack. “What about him?” He pointed to the still manacled Patchy-beard.

  “He’s a spy for the commandant. We’d better leave him.”

  Both Fraank and Patchy-beard gaped at him.

  “You might as well remove the entire beard, spy. The glue won’t hold it much longer.” Jack continued his trek across the compound to the storehouse.

  “How did you know?” The spy ripped the false beard off in one smooth motion, revealing clean, healthy, skin beneath.

  “You listened too closely and kept trying to touch me in a camp where men avoid physical contact as much as possible in order to maintain some semblance of privacy. As we hauled the lift up the mine shaft, you pulled with too much strength.” Jack selected blankets and new boots, coats, and a tarp for a tent while Fraank stuffed another pack with food.

  “You won’t get far in these mountains without help and a guide. Release my chains, magician, and I’ll take you to safety,” the spy said as he added water carriers to the supplies.

  “What makes you think I’m a magician?” Jack tapped the end of his staff lightly against his thigh. Power shot from the end of the wood down his muscles to his feet. An aftershock tingled against his feet. Moments later the Kardia shook again.

  “The staff.” Patchy-beard clung to the door frame for balance until the tremor eased. “I felt a surge of power the day you found it and came to investigate. Smart move keeping it inside the mine where the commandant couldn’t sniff its power.” The narrow-shouldered man straightened to his true height. With shoulders back and chin lifted, he was suddenly as tall and strong as Jack. And not much older.

  “You are more than a prisoner of war, or a criminal culled from The Simeon’s prisons,” Jack said. He looked behind the man’s left ear, judging the colors of his aura. The colors swirled and changed layers rapidly, defying interpretation. “I suspect you are a military officer on assignment. Perhaps you are one of the sorcerer-king’s converts, seeking sacrifices to Simurgh.”

  Jack looked around for anything more he might need rather than make himself dizzy with the constantly shifting colors of the man’s aura. Nothing important appeared nearby.

  “We have enough. Let’s go, Fraank.”

  “You haven’t released me ye
t,” the spy reminded him.

  “You don’t deserve release. You and the mine owners and King Simeon should be thrown to the bottom of the mine for what you have done to free men. No one has the right to own slaves and work them to death in that hell-hole!”

  “If you release me and take me with you, I can take you to the coven. They have need of men with your power. They will reward you well.”

  “If you work for the coven, you must be a magician, too. Release yourself.” Anger filled him for his three lost years, for the pain and toil of hundreds of men who had suffered in the mines, anger at himself for becoming a victim of King Simeon. He resisted the urge to plow his fist into the spy’s handsome face.

  “Take me with you. I’m not a magician,” the spy cried. Panic tinged his voice as Jack dove out of the storeroom, Fraank in his wake. “I’m only sensitive to power. And I sense power in these mountains. The Simeon has hidden a dragon in this region. If you are the magician sent by the Commune to find the dragon, I can take you to her!”

  Rejiia held her father’s gold-rimmed circle of glass up to a candle flame. Slowly she recited the words of a spell she’d devised herself, pronouncing each word distinctly. The language was modern and didn’t have the power of the ancient tongue of Simurgh, so she reinforced each syllable with magical energy from her mind.

  The babe within her belly quieted his morning ritual of kicking and squirming, as if he knew the importance of magic and didn’t wish to disrupt it.

  Behind the glass, the green flame grew in size, broadened and stilled. The hot core of light surrounding the wick took on new colors. Gold and brown, mixed with ruby, silver, and pearl. Gold by itself. The colors became shapes. Reality faded. She sent her essence into the flame, to become one with the vision she called forth.

  Rossemikka writhing in pain and grief. Darville silently holding her hand. Blood. Death?