“She could be a spy for the army. They’ll steal what little we have left. We won’t survive the winter if they claim our harvest.”
“If you can call it a harvest,” Basket Woman snorted.
“I have a little grain to share.” Myri offered her half-full pouch.
“The red-robe told us to beware of spies with gifts.”
“One good breakfast will prolong starvation a little. And that preacher doesn’t know everything. You’re welcome, stranger.” Basket Woman gestured with her free hand for Myri to enter her humble home. “The flusterhens are still laying, and there’s sausage.”
Myri’s mouth watered and her stomach rumbled. “What preacher?” She clamped down on her hunger. Amaranth dug his claws deeper into her cloak in warning.
The women looked to each other without answering.
Myri set Amaranth on the ground, ready to run again. “What preacher?” she asked.
“Moncriith,” Basket Woman said quietly.
“Sieur Moncriith warned us about witchwomen and their demon familiars.” Bucket Woman gave the man a priestly title. She backed away from Amaranth. “Sieur says we aren’t to give hospitality to any traveler. I respect the words of a priest. Only demons stray from their homes these days.” She dropped her bucket and crossed her wrists with a flapping motion. The flapping hands symbolized the ancient demon god Simurgh. The crossing acted as a ward against him.
The sun pushed aside the thinning clouds, sending a shaft of light into the center of the village. The Equinox Pylon, its harvest decorations slightly wilted, glowed as if on fire. Myri backed up at the omen of fire.
“I knew the Stargods would lead you back to me, Myrilandel.” Moncriith emerged from the first hut. His patched red robe seemed to glow in the growing light. Red for priestly orders or red for the blood he shed to fuel his magic? “ ’Tis time for you to face justice! My people are camped nearby. I will summon them to join the village elders. They will judge you for your demonic crimes.”
Amaranth darted into the shelter of a woodpile beside the house. Myri dropped her pouch of grain and ran.
Moncriith grabbed her around the waist before she had gone two steps. “You’ll not escape me again, Myrilandel, daughter of demons.”
Chapter 7
Myri clawed at Moncriith’s restraining hands with her fingernails.
He latched onto both her wrists with one strong, scarred hand.
Desperate to escape the images of fire that leaked from his mind, she kicked at his booted shins with her bare feet. Sharp pain shot through her toes, hot and intense.
She had to break free before his followers joined them and imprisoned her.
Moncriith laughed. His thoughts broadcast into Myri’s receptive mind. She cringed away from the images of herself, naked, writhing within a bonfire.
Myri’s imagination added details of pain in her own limbs. Green flame boiled around the edges of her vision. Her lungs gasped and labored with suffocating smoke that existed only in Moncriith’s mind.
Or her memory?
She remembered dragging Magretha from a burning hut. Flames had licked at her hands and singed her fine hair as she put all of her childish strength into escaping the fire with her unconscious guardian.
The memory cleared the panic from her mind. Her strength pooled into her hands and feet. She focused on Moncriith’s posture and muscular tension for clues to his next action. Though she stood nearly as tall as he, he had the advantage of weight and breadth.
With one last jolt of strength she slammed her elbow backward into her captor’s well-muscled belly.
“Oomph.” Air whooshed from his lungs into her ear. He didn’t relax his grasp of her hands or her body.
“Moncriith, let her go,” Basket Woman commanded. “I’ve offered her hospitality, and I’ll not have you bringing curses upon this village for abusing her rights as our invited guest.”
“She has no rights. This woman isn’t human. Not like us. She was born of demons and stole this body from a human child. She’s a changeling seeking to steal your souls and claim your bodies for her own vile purposes. Yesterday she worked her evil magic on a brave soldier, leaving his soul trapped in the void between the planes of existence while she cured his body. Perhaps he was one of the men missing from this village. One of the men who will follow her rather than return home.”
“How . . . how do you know this, Moncriith?” Basket Woman wavered. Moncriith could have offered no more damning evidence than the threat to deprive this village of yet more men.
“I have been blessed by the Stargods with a vision of this woman in her true form. I wear the red robes of a priest. Dare you doubt me?”
“I am not a demon. I swear to you, I’m not,” Myri pleaded with the woman.
“Meerawck!” Amaranth swooped from the sky, claws extended, teeth bared, aiming directly for Moncriith’s eyes.
“Ayii!” Moncriith screamed. He thrust Myri away, raising his arms to protect his vulnerable face and neck from the flywacket.
“Stargods preserve us!” Bucket Woman crossed her wrists and flapped them. Then she touched her forehead, chest, and each shoulder in the more accepted blessing. “I renounce this evil with my mind, my heart, and the strength of my shoulders.”
“Demons. Demons from the sky!” Basket Woman buried her face in her apron and fled.
Amaranth swooped and tore at Moncriith’s hair with his claws. The Bloodmage beat at the winged cat with his hands. He tried to duck his head within his robes. Amaranth reached again to claw at the man’s scalp.
Myri dashed behind the woodpile, out of sight of her persecutor. Her bruised toes complained with each step. She ignored them, running along a trail that guided her east and south, toward the mountains. East toward something that called her. The wind swirled up and pushed her in that direction. She spread her arms, letting the air catch her cloak like a sail, speeding her on her way.
But Moncriith was headed east, too, in search of demon lairs. She fought the wind, turning west and north toward the village where Magretha had raised her. The cold bite of circling air thrust her harder toward the east.
(East.) Voices filled her mind, crowding out every other thought. (East. Home. Safety.)
Myri gave in to the driving force of the wind. Before she had traveled a league, a grove of oak trees south of the trail beckoned her. Oak with protective mistletoe hanging heavy in the upper branches. A hiding place. She could watch the pathways for Moncriith, let him go ahead of her. Safer to follow unseen than flee ahead.
(Yes. Hide now.)
Silently she stepped off the established path, blurring her passage with magic as she went. Amaranth would find her. Moncriith wouldn’t. She prayed to the Stargods and the guiding voices that Moncriith wouldn’t find her.
Nimbulan coughed and spluttered through muddy water, crawling up a soggy embankment. He dragged his staff along with his heavy body, as much a part of him as his arms and legs. Each breath took a concentrated effort and ended in another cough. He expelled more water from his laboring lungs and collapsed, face-down in more mud.
Some force he couldn’t understand propelled him onto solid ground. Water ran from his hair, his clothes, from the sky. . . . Everything was as wet as the river. Why didn’t he just give up and let himself drown?
“The first lesson you give to your apprentices had better be how to swim,” Quinnault de Tanos said. “I’ll not have my people risking their necks rescuing every landhugger who throws himself into the river. Thank goodness you wore a tunic and trews and not those long robes you magicians favor. I’d never have gotten you out of the river with the weight of all that sodden wool dragging you down.”
“I didn’t throw myself into the river. The river threw itself all over me,” Nimbulan said between hacking coughs.
Quinnault grabbed the back of Nimbulan’s shirt and lifted him. Nimbulan scrambled to get his feet under him, balancing on his staff. He needed to regain some semblance of control.
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br /> “Breathe, Nimbulan. You’ve got to get your lungs working again.” Quinnault slapped the magician on the back, hard. Almost too hard. Something seemed to snap between Nimbulan’s ribs.
Deep coughs racked his body. He spewed more fluid, from his belly this time. When the spasms tapered off, each breath seemed less painful than the one before.
Instantly he was back in his memories of Druulin’s tower. Boojlin and Caasser opened their mouths in protest as the cold water from Nimbulan’s booby trap hit them from above. Both bullies breathed in too quickly, taking water into their throats and up their noses. They coughed and choked. Caasser’s face took on a funny gray-and-pink tinge.
Instantly remorseful, Nimbulan jumped to slap Caasser on the back, forcing him to expel the water.
“Not so hard, Lan. If you break his ribs with your pounding, you’ll only make it worse,” Ackerly had warned him, only half seriously. He and Nimbulan had suffered much at the hands of the larger bullies. Returning some of the pain and humiliation brought satisfaction to Ackerly’s grim smile.
Nimbulan shifted his attention from hitting Caasser’s back to forcing the boy’s arms over his head with a firm grip on both elbows. The shift in posture seemed to open the taller boy’s air passages. His convulsive coughs tapered off. Nimbulan waited for Caasser’s gasping to ease into long sobbing breaths. Part of him wanted to pull Caasser’s arms back, hard; to prolong the boy’s pain in retribution for all the nasty tricks he’d played on Nimbulan and Ackerly.
The part of him that was growing up and assuming more responsibility knew that if he did, he risked making a lifelong enemy.
He released Caasser and rubbed his back and shoulders to ease his breathing more. The pranks and tricks might not stop, but Nimbulan had earned Caasser’s trust.
They had eventually become friends and battle comrades. Until that fateful day when Nimbulan and Ackerly hadn’t joined Druulin and his assistants in their last battle.
An older and more experienced Nimbulan recognized his vulnerability while he gasped and choked. Quinnault’s rough handling emphasized his determination to get Nimbulan upright and breathing again. Nimbulan shifted his back and ribs, assessing any damage. Nothing permanent, maybe a bruise or two.
“My thanks,” Nimbulan wiped his streaming eyes on his sleeve. Caasser hadn’t been so generous.
“Come along now, Nimbulan. We have an entire island to survey.” De Tanos marched forward. He strode easily through the high underbrush, long legs stretching over small shrubs and hummocks.
“We need to build a fire and dry out before we catch the lung rot.” Nimbulan hastened to catch up. The slight effort started a tickle in his chest again. He swallowed it and kept moving.
“Nothing dry enough to burn, except maybe some old furniture inside the monastery. Did you bring a flint?”
“I’m a magician. I don’t need a flint to start a fire. Even exhausted and half-drowned, I can start a fire just by thinking flames into the wood.”
“Then we’d best get under cover and dry off. The sun is coming out, but it’s too weak and too late in the year to be much help. You need a drink? You sound a little hoarse.”
“No I do not need a drink. I’ve already drunk half of the river.”
“There’s a well in the monastery. We’ll have to test the water to make sure it’s still sweet.”
“Well, I won’t test it by drinking it, that’s for sure.”
“Stop complaining, old man, this is the start of a truly great adventure that could change the history of Coronnan.” Quinnault fairly bounced over the rough ground.
“I’m an aging magician, not an old man. That gives me the right to be as crotchety as I want.”
Quinnault stopped short and stared at his companion. “Crotchety, yes. Interfering and stagnant, no. I hope you have something solid to experiment with. Coronnan needs innovation. Soon.”
“Hmph,” Nimbulan snorted as he passed the lord on the narrow trail. He glimpsed stone buildings within the dense overgrowth. Eagerness replaced his preoccupation with small ailments. He forged ahead faster than his abused lungs could manage.
He paused to catch his breath just as a ray of sunshine broke through the cloud cover. Brilliant blue beams of magical light reflected off glistening paving stones in front of the old monastery.
“Stargods preserve us! What is that?” Quinnault crossed himself, paused, then crossed himself again.
“Something special. Something very powerful,” Nimbulan gasped. “Only ley lines glow that shade of blue.” He forged ahead, anxious to discover the source of the strange light.
“Hold on, old man. This could be dangerous. There are rumors of ghosts and demons haunting his island.” Quinnault grabbed Nimbulan’s sleeve.
“I’ll protect us with magic, boy.” Power began tingling through Nimbulan’s boots into his feet. Eagerness lifted his spirits and urged him to run. Energy coursed upward through his legs, into his belly and chest. The staff vibrated and stood upright on its own. His heart beat strong and true. All lingering coughs faded from his lungs. His eyes focused sharply.
He watched sap draining from leaves into tree trunks; saw individual drops of moisture in the air; knew every different rock that had crumbled to form the dirt at his feet.
New sounds entered his ears. Distant birdsong, the whoosh and sigh of the river lapping its banks, worms crawling beneath the surface of Kardia Hodos. The moon and stars danced through the universe, beckoning him to join their balanced movements.
His vision in the void took shape before his eyes. This time the magicians stepped back and watched rather than distorting the patterns. The lords danced in harmony with the Great Wheel of sun and moon and stars. . . .
“This is better than an overdose of Tambootie,” he whispered in awe.
“What do you see?” Quinnault remained behind him looking anxiously right and left.
“I see the source of all magic. Come, boy, let’s find out what other miracles this abandoned monastery shelters.”
“Slowly, Nimbulan. We don’t know what kind of traps lie hidden, nor what drove the last inhabitants away.”
Nimbulan shrugged his agreement. “You go left, I’ll go right, but stay within sight.” He pointed directions with his staff, but the tool jerked back to the pool of blue between each gesture.
“We stay together, or we don’t go.”
“Oh, all right.” Nimbulan stepped onto a fat ley line to his right and followed it toward the pool of glowing blue. With each step, he sensed the power in the ley line increasing. The line itself grew wider until he placed his feet side by side and still saw blue around the edges. “Stargods! I’ve seen smaller parapets in Castle Krej where Kammeryl d’Astrismos holes up every winter. Ley lines are supposed to be as fine as spider silk.”
“I’ve never truly seen a ley line before.” Quinnault turned in a circle, gaping at the lovely blue glowing beneath the Kardia’s surface.
“Can you draw the power into you, de Tanos?” Nimbulan’s skin began to itch with the magic he hadn’t unleashed yet. His staff glowed with power. There was so much of it!
“My feet and fingers tingle. Is that the magic?”
“Yes. Yes. Try something, Quinnault. A simple spell. Anything. See if the massive amounts of power fuel your talent where small ley lines can’t.”
“I can’t think of anything to do.”
“Something useful. Shift some of these shrubs to the side and make a path.”
Quinnault closed his eyes and screwed his face up in concentration.
Nimbulan watched the plants in front of them. None moved. “Open your eyes, de Tanos. Stare at the fibers of each plant and think them in a different place.”
“I . . . I’ve never been able to move anything before. Not even a simple transport.”
“Have you always closed your eyes to try the spell?”
“Yes. It’s easier to concentrate.”
“Then try it with your eyes open!”
&nb
sp; The young lord stared at a small tuft of grass. He clenched and opened his fists rhythmically. The blades of greenery wiggled and waved to the right but didn’t move.
“Again. You’ve got the essence of the plant listening to you. Now be more persuasive. Draw the power up through your body and out your hand. Point at the grass.”
Quinnault lifted his left hand slowly, index finger extended toward the tuft in question. Again the blades wiggled and straightened.
Nimbulan resisted the urge to help the lord. He needed to know if the vast reserves of power on this island could turn minor talents into major ones. Quite possibly, after having experienced a large ley line, de Tanos would be able to find and use lesser ones in other places.
And once awakened, could he learn to combine his power with another’s?
“I don’t think I can do this.” Quinnault bent over, bracing himself on his knees and panting.
“Maybe you think too much.”
“It’s like a wall grows between me and the grass.”
“I’ve heard better excuses from first-year apprentices. We’ll try again later. After we’ve seen the source of these ley lines and the monastery. I do hope the roof is sound.” But it didn’t have to be. With all this power surging through his body, he could repair any damage with a thought.
Together they walked onward. Youthful vigor put a bounce in Nimbulan’s steps. He wanted to dance with joy and energy. He felt as young as Quinnault. Younger. As young as Myrilandel.
“I’m suddenly quite hungry. Do you suppose there are any late brambleberries left?” Quinnault stopped to inspect the thorny vines. Two overripe berries fell into his hand. Both splattered against his palm, too swollen with rainwater to hold their shape.
“You are hungry because you spent a great deal of energy while trying to transport that tuft of grass. Walk on the ley line. It will replenish you.”
“I can’t see it anymore. The blue is gone.”
“No, it’s not. It’s fatter and stronger than ever!”
“I can’t see it . . . or sense the power anymore.”
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 8
