The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  Coils of pulsing colors that represented the lives of all the souls Nimbulan had encountered in the nearly fifty years of his current existence sprang into view. A silver umbilical, tinged with blue, symbolized his own life. It wound away from his sight into a tangle of life forces.

  Seeing others represented in symbolic colors was easy. Only once had Nimbulan glimpsed the full texture of his own life and aura—during the day and the night of his rite of passage into adulthood. On the eve of his twelfth birthday, his tutors sent him to a windowless stone room, with only a Tambootie wood fire for heat and light. His trance, induced by the mind-altering smoke, had been deep and profound. After thirty-six years as a magician, he still didn’t understand the reflections of reality that he had seen. But ever afterward, he knew the true colors of his life-pulse in the void. A rare achievement.

  Now, during his saddest trip into the void, he saw life forces of clear crystal, reflecting all colors dancing around him. The crystal dominated the tangle of symbolic lives. He’d never seen them before—didn’t know who they represented.

  Beside him the dim essence of a fading soul drifted away. The red umbilical dulled toward gray.

  Nimbulan had to weave Keegan’s life force into the tangle of umbilicals soon, or he’d be lost forever, denied his next existence.

  “Walk with me, son of my learning,

  Eternal pain is not your due.

  My silver path to you I lend,

  Walk with me a path we are earning.

  “Walk with me, son of my learning,

  Walk with me one final time.

  Find with me the paths of life.

  Walk with me till seasons cease turning.”

  A great shuddering possessed Nimbulan. The red chain beside him regained color and vibrancy. It coiled up through him, encasing Nimbulan’s silvery-blue umbilical. All of their knowledge joined, their memories twined, and their secrets unfolded. They were one man, one life force, one mind.

  The vast tangle of life forces shifted and collapsed into images of men, generations of men, marching in intricate patterns, sometimes peaceful, sometimes at odds with each other. Magicians ringed the intricate dance patterns, calling directions to the men. He became a part of the vision, manipulating the resisting lords. The patterns swirled into violence, became the battle he had just fought and dozens of other battles, each indistinguishable from the other. Battle after battle, he lobbed spells into the fray at random. Death and destruction sent waves of revulsion through him. And still he sent men to their deaths with his magic.

  He watched men step away from the vision of battle, ready to retire and reform the balance of the dance patterns. Nimbulan wanted to join them, but he found himself pulling them back into the asymmetrical violence. . . .

  Keegan’s essence burst free of his mentor and sped outward into the knot of pulsing lives, leaving Nimbulan alone with access only to his own thoughts and memories. The vision faded. A sour taste lingered.

  A vibrant red umbilical wrapped around Nimbulan, urging him to follow deeper into the void.

  Symmetrical patterns. Balance. Harmony.

  Keegan beckoned to him to walk beside him in intimate friendship, as father and son, till the seasons ceased their turning.

  Nimbulan moved with the compelling vision, stretching to unite with other life-pulses as well.

  Unity. Peace. If only . . .

  An invisible barrier slammed down in front of him, blocking the enticing vision.

  (Go back, human. ’Tis not your time!) Unknown voices resounded throughout the eternal blackness. (Premature joining with the void is forbidden. Go back now, lest your immortal soul be torn from you and cast aside.)

  Nimbulan dropped back into his body with an ungraceful thump. The aches in his joints still hurt, but his soul felt lighter.

  “I hope I never have to do that again, Ackerly. Something happened in the void—something important to all of us. But I couldn’t quite grasp it. I almost followed Keegan into my next existence.”

  “Never think that, Master. What would Lord Kammeryl do without you?”

  “He’d find another magician. Yes, yes, I know, suicide is forbidden, Ackerly.” The Stargods had firmly reminded him of that. “But there is knowledge in the void. A vision slid around me, begging me to learn. I didn’t have time to do more than glimpse the edges of the lesson.”

  “What? What did the Stargods show you?” Ackerly leaned forward eagerly.

  “I’m not certain. I need time and solitude to meditate.”

  “Neither of which are you likely to have soon. Lord Kammeryl comes.” Ackerly pointed to a broad man with the reddish lights of his Stargod ancestors in his hair. Their employer marched determinedly across the field toward them.

  “Is that Quinnault de Tanos, the Peacemaker, behind him?” Hope brightened inside Nimbulan at sight of the tall figure gliding in the wake of Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ powerful form. De Tanos’ blond head shone in the dawn light like a golden aura of pure energy. The minor lord, who had studied for the priesthood until he assumed responsibility for his clan, was known for his wisdom and might help Nimbulan understand his vision in the void.

  “Meddlesome priest. Why doesn’t de Tanos stay in his monastery and count the stars?” Ackerly complained. “We don’t need his version of peace to win this war.”

  “Priest no longer, but an anointed lord,” Nimbulan replied.

  “Lord of a miserable chain of islands in the river and a farm on the mainland—not even a proper fortress. He commands no armies and leads no men. No one respects his meddling in the name of peace.” Ackerly spat on the ground beside his boot. “Compromise and treaties won’t find us a new king. Only a warlord who can defeat all rivals will unite Coronnan under one crown.”

  “I used to believe that, too,” Nimbulan whispered. He needed to think and think hard.

  “Go back to your pavilion, Lan. Sup and rest while I divert Lord Kammeryl and the failed priest.”

  “Find Kammeryl a woman.” Nimbulan suggested. Their employer’s aura roiled like an unbalanced storm cloud—like the patterns of men dancing in the void when they stepped out of the planned formation into violence. . . . Splotches of black marred the layers of orange, green, and yellow energy surrounding d’Astrismos. ’Twas always thus before and after a battle. Only the camp followers soothed the violent outpouring energy of his mind and body.

  “Make sure it’s a willing woman and not a young girl under a compulsion,” Nimbulan added.

  “He prefers the girls. He’ll linger longer with them. They cost less.”

  “A woman, Ackerly. Find him a camp follower who knows the payment, and the cost, beforehand.”

  Behind a delusion of thickening mist and smoke from the funeral pyres, Nimbulan withdrew.

  “Stargods, help me interpret your vision correctly!”

  A cold wet nose touched Myrilandel’s cheek. She opened one heavy eye, shrugging her shoulders against the predawn chill. Her dream of flying high over the Great Bay vanished, leaving her curiously empty.

  “Good morning, Mistress Badger,” she responded to a second prodding from the animal’s nose. “Thank you for the use of your burrow. I’ll be on my way.” She took one extra moment to rub sleep-sand from her eyes and dragged herself from the tight confines of the badger’s home.

  The joy of greeting a new morning filled the emptiness, and she forgot all but her excitement at facing a new day, a new adventure.

  “Grrrr,” Mistress Badger said, urging Myri to hurry. Dawn approached, and clearly the bristle-furred creature wanted to sleep.

  “One more moment.” Myri crouched in the den opening and reached back inside for her familiar and her pack before Mistress Badger could dash to her bed.

  “Merawk?” Amaranth protested the abrupt move. The flywacket peered at Myri through the narrowed slits of his eyes and extended his claws for balance. A hint of heaving within his black fur released his feathered wings in automatic response to Myri’s awkward grasp.


  “You don’t need to scratch, Amaranth!” Myri batted at the flywacket’s offending claws. Half cat, half falcon, Amaranth usually exhibited the best qualities of both creatures. But for the first few moments after awakening, he was as cranky as Old Magretha, the witchwoman who had raised them both.

  Myri dropped Amaranth beyond the badger’s reach and stepped aside. He settled into a morning wash, pointedly ignoring her. The badger waddled into the narrow opening without a backward glance.

  “Thanks again, Mistress Badger. ’Twas the snuggest nest I’ve had since I began this quest.” Too long ago, with only her magic talent tugging her toward some distant place and anonymous voices in her head to guide her. (East,), they said. (You will find a safe home in the east.)

  She stood, brushing dirt and twigs from her leaf-green overgown. Her fingers provided the only comb for her silver-blond hair. Out of long habit she braided the length of hair and coiled it beneath a kerchief. People accepted her more readily if they didn’t notice her strange coloring right off.

  A sense of wrongness buzzed like a bee around her head. She rotated her shoulders, hands held slightly away from her to catch the wind in her sleeves. The magic within her coiled, eager to spring forth in healing. Slowly she walked in a circle, waiting for her magic to point out the direction. North by east—not due east as the voices urged her. Stronger and more compelling than the voices. Something terrible awaited her. Close.

  A chill breeze and her own uneasiness sent lumbird bumps up her spine. “My cloak!” Healing always left her weak and unbalanced. She didn’t dare approach a spell without the means to warm herself later. She reached back into the den for the thick woolen garment. Her hand closed on the fabric just as Mistress Badger claimed it for her nest.

  Myri tugged. The badger sank her claws into her prize. “I can’t afford to let you keep it.” She pulled harder. The sound of rending cloth sent her heart sinking. “I’ve no way to replace it, Mistress Badger. And I don’t have your thick fur to keep me warm.”

  The fabric sprang free of the animal’s grasp. Myri dragged it out into the glow of false dawn. She examined her peat-brown cloak with sensitive fingertips. Her fingernail caught on a small rip near the side seam. She found no other damage.

  Eagerly she turned east to face the rising sun at its equinox. The sense of wrongness intensified, disrupting her joy at greeting the morning.

  Just over the next hill, due north, lay a village. The triple Pylon at the exact center of the community stood ready for fruit and flower decorations. All of Coronnan would celebrate the change of season today. Dancing. Feasting. Games. Especially dancing. Men and women weaving intricate patterns around the Equinox Pylon in ancient rituals that thanked the Stargods for the harvest and prayed for an easy winter.

  Myri and Amaranth had escaped Magretha’s vigilant eye every spring and autumn for as long as she could remember to watch and participate in the dancing.

  Did she need to heal someone in the village?

  (East. Go east. We will give you safety and rest. Do not turn aside.)

  “I want to go to the village,” Myri replied to the voices in her head. “They might need me.” Why shouldn’t she run away from her quest for just a few hours? She’d followed the compulsion to go east for over a moon now. Surely whatever called her could wait a little longer. As long as the first dance at least.

  She doubted they’d allow her to dance in this village. The patterns required equal numbers of men and women to balance the forces of nature. Unlike the Spring Equinox Festival, partners of the harvest dance were usually determined long before the celebration date. But she wanted to watch, to tap her foot in rhythm with the music and sing along with the age-old tunes.

  Myri ran up the hill to catch a first glimpse of people emerging from their homes as the sun crossed the horizon.

  The wind joined her healing talent and circled around her in a fierce howl, pushing her back east by southeast. Lumbird bumps marched up and down her arms. Wordless pleas carried by the moving air begged her to follow without delay.

  Her talent threatened to drag her due north faster than she could run.

  (Save your strength. Put aside your talent until you have more training. Go east. east and a little south, avoid the north.) The voices took on a pleading tone. (Do not linger in this area. There is danger to you.) The voices urged her to alter her route.

  She sat down on the damp grass in protest. Her talent and the anonymous voices warred within her every time she encountered people who needed her healing. She was getting tired of the compulsion always choosing her path for her.

  “I want to watch the dancing for a few moments.”

  The wind died. Her talent still reached out, sensing pain and suffering, but no longer dragging her in its wake. The voices silenced for a moment.

  She straightened her skirts and draped her cloak over her shoulders, spreading her arms just a little so the cloak billowed behind her like a giant wing.

  “Let’s go Amaranth. Maybe we can share a cup of cider and a crust of new bread.”

  Her mouth watered. Dry journey rations and creek water didn’t seem enough right now. Her stomach growled in agreement.

  A distant drum sounded the rhythm of a pulse—softly at first, but gathering volume and tempo with each beat. Myri hurried over the crest of the hill. She didn’t want to miss a moment of the first dance of thanksgiving. For four years now she’d participated in the dancing wherever she and Magretha made their home. This ritual offering of the first and best of the harvest, of all those dedicated to the Stargods, seemed the most important. Spring festivals, with all their emphasis on fertility, tended to be wild, drunken affairs. Autumn rituals brought people into harmony with the Stargods as they displayed their gratitude and reverence for the season’s bounty.

  She lifted her voice in a song that followed the same cadence as the drum.

  The Kardia pulsed beneath her bare feet in unison with her song and the drum. Feminine voices from the village joined hers as people burst from the huts, wearing their brightest and newest clothing.

  “Mew?” Amaranth asked in his cat voice. He wove a path of protection around and between her ankles. His sides heaved again and a wingtip protruded from the concealing folds of skin and fur. His preparation for flight revealed the depth of his agitation.

  Myri came to an abrupt halt at the edge of the common.

  “Yes, Amaranth. I know something is not right here.” Myri bent to scratch his ears. His mild protective spell extended to her.

  A circle of pounded dirt around the Equinox Pylon bespoke of many generations of ritual dances. Nine men, nine women, nine drummers, and nine children must circle the decorated three-times-three poles of the Pylon. Only healthy people filled with life and joy should participate in the dance. Nine, the sacred number of the Stargods. Always nines and always a balance of male and female.

  But only one man joined the women, and he half crippled. Beardless boys, their faces set in dutiful concentration, filled the positions of the other men. A solitary ancient woman, well-past childbearing held a padded stick over the solitary drum. The young women in their prime seemed most out of place. None appeared pregnant from the Vernal Equinox fertility rituals.

  None of them.

  Because there were no men.

  “Where did they all go? ’Tis not yet the season for them to go away hunting. Surely no plague would kill only men.” Myri sought an explanation for the out-of-balance dancers.

  The rhythm of the single drum faltered. Faces turned toward Myri and her black cat. Silence stretched across the bowl of the village until the hills themselves begged for the return of the drumbeat. Pain poured from the eyes of every dancer. They knew the unbalanced numbers. Then the old woman slammed her padded stick against the skin-covered hoop of the drum. She beat again and a third time. The rhythm returned. A flute joined in. Dancers moved in the ancient pattern.

  Step, hop, clap, hop. Stamp three times in a circle. Step toge
ther, step, hop. Clap, clap, clap.

  The voices joining the festival dance slowed to a dirge. Many of those in the circle of dancers wept openly. Still the dance continued. Step, hop, clap, hop.

  “Where is the thanksgiving and the joy?” Myri asked the empty sky. “Where are the men?”

  (The plague that took them is called war,) the voices said inside her head. (Go now, quickly, before the plague catches you, too. You must delay no longer. Come east. We will protect you from war.)

  Myri whirled from the sad sight of the Equinox ritual, choosing a direction at random. The rhythm of the drum continued to beat in her head. No more men. No more men. No more men. Up one hill, and another, and yet another, she ran, trying desperately to escape the horror of a village without men. Men to plow and plant, to hunt and sire new babies.

  No more men. No more men.

  The drum seemed to follow her, louder and louder. Her heart sped with the effort of her running. The drum increased its tempo to match.

  (Turn away, turn to the east and south!) the voices pleaded. (You are going the wrong way!)

  She held her hands over her ears. The throbbing sounds grew louder yet and so did the voices. The farther she ran, the closer she came to the source of the pulse. Amaranth flew circles over her head, mewling his concern for her.

  As she crested the third hill, Amaranth dropped awkwardly to the ground, as stunned as she.

  She stumbled across the body of a dead man. Blank eyes stared at her, his face twisted in pain. Blood covered his torso from a deep sword slash that split him nearly in two.

  ’Twasn’t the drum that had followed her. She’d run away from a feeble attempt to celebrate life toward death and destruction.

  “Pass in peace to your next existence.” She closed his eyes with her left hand as she crossed herself with her right.

  Below her, in a broad river meadow, lay thousands of men, dead and dying. Hideously wounded and needing her help.