The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

With a strong effort of will, Myri reined in her talent before she drained herself. The blue light dimmed. “That has never happened before. Why won’t you accept the healing?”

  (Your healing is grounded in the Kardia. I am a creature of the air. The power of the healing must come from those who fly.)

  Myri untangled the net. It relaxed at her touch where a moment before it had seemed almost alive as it wound around and around Amaranth in ever tightening loops.

  “You’re only bruised and tired.” She smiled at Amaranth. “Time and rest will do more for you than I can. But you must not use that wing until it is completely healed. I think your pride is damaged more than you are.”

  Amaranth sniffed with indignity. He gathered his feet beneath him and sat with his back to her, tail twitching. Keeping his damaged wing half-furled, he began his bath, carefully ignoring her.

  “When in doubt, wash,” Myri chuckled. “You’ll feel better after a bath.” She would, too. She couldn’t remember when she’d last had the opportunity. “I wonder if the bay is warm enough to swim in.”

  “Not at this time of year,” a deep male voice replied.

  “Who are you?” Myri stood hastily. She searched the crescent beach for potential enemies, wishing she was higher to get a better view.

  A solitary man stood about ten arm-lengths away. His smooth skin beneath a black, scraggly beard made him look to be about her own age. The squint lines around his dark eyes and weathered skin suggested a decade more in years.

  “You’re a Rover,” she stated the obvious. Only the nomadic traders wore the garish color combinations of black trews and embroidered vest, red shirt, green neckerchief, and a purple head scarf beneath a broad-brimmed, black felt hat that shadowed his eyes. No man native to Coronnan would be caught dead with a large hoop earring piercing his left ear and a belt full of dangling coins from many countries.

  “You don’t know me. Surely every beautiful woman in these parts knows Televarn, by reputation if not in fact.” He swept his hat off and held it across his heart. Every movement he made showed an enticing ripple of muscle beneath his shirt and trews. His limbs perfectly balanced the proportions of his torso. He moved with an easy grace. Even when standing still, he seemed about to step into a beautiful dance.

  She wanted simply to stare at him.

  Her fingers felt incomplete. She needed to reach out and caress his marvelous face, feel the smooth movement of his muscles beneath his flawless skin in order to become whole.

  (He knows not how to tell the truth if a lie is more interesting.) Amaranth’s voice broke through her mental fog.

  No memory of this man stirred in her. Not unusual. Most of her memories of recent months had fled. An ache of loneliness formed in the center of her chest. If she had ever known this beautiful man, she didn’t remember.

  Distrust replaced the lonely ache. Only Amaranth remained a constant in her life and her memory. She trusted only Amaranth.

  “Where did you come from, Master Televarn?” Myri stepped forward to stand between Amaranth and the stranger.

  “The cove beyond that headland.” He pointed over his shoulder, never taking his sight away from her. Every movement he made compelled her to watch him. “We always winter there.”

  “We?” she squeaked. “How many?” Her heart pounded loudly in her ears. Thoughts of spending the winter in her own snug cave halfway up the cliff vanished. A tribe of Rovers so close. . . . Her lungs labored at the thought of so many people invading her privacy. They would demand cures for endless small ailments. Her talent would compel her to help them time and time again until one of them met with a fatal accident or died of old age, or a disease she couldn’t cure. Then they’d accuse her of murder and threaten her until she was forced to flee for her own life.

  The pattern of life for witchwomen was always the same. Over the years, she and Magretha had met many such women, always on the move. “The next village will be kinder,” they said. “If not that village, then the next one beyond that.” Rarely did any of them spend more than a few seasons in each village.

  She and Magretha had lingered in their last village for nearly two years. Two years of goodwill and mutual dependence before the villagers turned on her.

  “Only my family winters in a cave in the next cove. A dozen or so.” Televarn flicked his fingers in dismissal of the paltry number. “May I see your pet’s injuries, witchwoman?” He stepped closer. His legs were long enough and strong enough to bring him dangerously close in three strides. His aura glowed with warm charm.

  “Why do you call me that?” Suspicion flared within her. He was too beautiful. She remained where she stood, protecting Amaranth. She fluffed her skirts nervously, hoping the inquisitive flywacket would remain out of sight until he hid his wing.

  “Who else keeps a flywacket familiar. Both of you seem to be faded from view, or blending with the morning shadows. Is something wrong, witchwoman?”

  “I think you are mistaken. My cat is just a cat. He was curious and became entangled in a fishnet. Your net, perhaps?” A quick glance confirmed that Amaranth had his bruised wing safely folded beneath its protective fold of skin.

  “Only old women and untried boys use nets. I have skills that charm fish onto my hooks and I reel them in by the dozen. Is he truly only a cat?” He stepped closer again.

  “Stay where you are.” She erected a little armor around herself and Amaranth.

  “A witchwoman’s duties include providing relief from all sorts of ills. I have an itch that needs to be scratched.” He touched his crotch suggestively.

  “Only a witchwoman of little power buys the loyalty of men with her body.” She fought her instinct to run. Amaranth was still too tired and sore to follow.

  “But I love all women. How could I betray any one of them?” Televarn held his hands out away from his body as if reassuring her he carried no snares or hidden weapons.

  “Your women will always be jealous of your whores. They will poison the minds of other men against one they fear or dislike. Their whispers will make her a witch even though she isn’t one. The men have the authority to order a burning of a witch in order to please their women.” Myri nearly spat on his shiny black boot to keep him away.

  Another man wished her death by burning. She knew that. Vague memories of a man in a faded red robe with a compelling gaze and charming voice flitted through her mind in ragged wisps. If that man happened to enter the district, the Rovers would sell him information. Rovers would sell anything. They’d also steal anything.

  She strengthened the magic protection around Amaranth and herself. A flywacket would fetch a high price in the right circles.

  Which circles? She had encountered someone who would pay a fortune for her flywacket. They had tried to capture Amaranth. Who? Fruitlessly she searched her faulty memory. No other images sprang to mind. Her feet and arms ached to run and climb as far and as fast as she could.

  She couldn’t run. Amaranth needed her protection. He couldn’t fly yet. Not with the bone-deep bruises he’d earned in his struggle with the net.

  “Rovers value witchwomen for all of their talents. You needn’t be jealous because you’ve heard I fathered a bastard or two in my wanderings. That just proves I could give you children as well. You look ripe for motherhood, witchwoman.” Televarn continued to assess her attributes with knowing eyes. He reached out a hand, palm upward in entreaty. His slightly curved fingers silently begged her to join him.

  She’d seen another man use a similar gesture to weave magic. A man in blue.

  “I do not value the company of people, especially Rovers. I claim this cove. Go back to your own camp at once and do not return.” She scooped up Amaranth and placed him on her shoulder. The need to stay in a place she knew would provide her with food and shelter for the winter vied with her need to keep people away from her.

  She was so tired of running.

  “The tide has turned, my exit around the headland is cut off.” Televarn stepped closer yet
. His eyelids drooped in sultry speculation. “You’ve fascinated me and kept me talking beyond the time of safe return.”

  “Then climb the hill.” Myri strengthened her magical armor to repel him if he dared touch her.

  “A steep cliff. ’Twill be a dirty and treacherous climb. I will stay with you until the tide turns again. You really want me to stay. Only your jealousy wants to send me away.” He looked up, then flashed his dark eyes at her, delight and mischief glowing in their depths as if this were a familiar game with him.

  She longed to reach out and touch his beckoning fingers. What would the crisp curls peeking out from beneath his head scarf feel like as she ran her fingers through them?

  His eyes continued to hold her in place when she knew she should run. A curious numbness spread to her feet.

  A woman could get lost in his eyes, with their thick fringe of black lashes. His voice slid over her senses like warm honey. Why had he wished him gone? He was so beautiful.

  She’d been alone so long.

  She’d known a man’s touch. Four years now she’d danced the ritual around the Equinox Pylon at the beginning of spring. Each year she’d mated with a different man, three clumsy and hasty youths. One older, gentler widower seeking a new mate. But never had she conceived, so her Equinox partners hadn’t invited her to share their lives or their beds again.

  She might never know a man again if she sent Televarn away.

  Magretha scorned her for enjoying the Vernal Equinox festival and the men. The old witchwoman claimed a man’s loyalty was firmly rooted in scratching his itch, not in remaining faithful to any one woman. Magretha had been betrayed by a man before her face and back became scarred by a fire.

  Filling a few hours with this man’s company while exploring his beautiful body would result in no harm. She wouldn’t conceive. Witchwomen never did. Televarn wouldn’t own her despite his desire.

  There had been another man who desired to own her. Tall, slender, older, wearing a blue magician’s robe. He’d wanted her talent, not her body.

  The man in the red robe wanted to possess her soul while he cast her body in the fire. She shuddered away from that memory.

  This Rover wanted to possess her flywacket, and enjoy her body at the same time.

  Who wanted her or valued her for herself?

  She recognized the compulsion to love him for what it was, magic imposed by him rather than desire from within herself. Once she recognized it, she broke the spell by closing her eyes and turning her back on him.

  “You should have considered your retreat before you ventured this far. Leave my beach any way you can. I care not if you fall or ruin your clothing. I care only to be alone.” She started walking toward the cliff and her high cave as fast as the soft sand clutching her feet allowed.

  With Amaranth still draped limply over her left shoulder, she reached for tiny finger and toeholds. Stretch, brace, cling. She mounted the sheer wall of sandstone smoothly. She forced her concentration away from the Rover’s pretty eyes and into her climb. She forced her thoughts onto the fish that cooked slowly over the coals. She dared not lose herself in contemplation of weak sunlight glinting off layers of yellow and gray rock. Watching how her blood rose close to the skin beneath her fingernails, turning them lavender, wouldn’t gain her the protection and solitude of the small cave she had claimed.

  The sound of small stones tumbling in the far curve of the cliff made her pause. Balancing on tiny knobs of rock, she risked a look down and to the far right. Televarn mounted the cliff near where a volcanic headland jutted into the bay. The jagged rocks and slopes offered an easier climb than straight up the smooth sandstone where Myri sought the shelter of her cave.

  The Rover glanced her way. A big grin split his face. His white teeth showed clearly against his tanned face and dark clothing. His hat lay against his back at a rakish angle, slung in place by a thong around his neck.

  S’murghit, he was beautiful.

  “I’ll be back, pretty witchwoman. When you need a man, call my name into the wind.” He raised a hand in salute.

  The unstable rock beneath his other hand crumbled in his grip. He lost his precarious balance, windmilling his arms as he fell into mixed sand and gravel.

  The incoming tide rushed at his unmoving head.

  “Now I have to go rescue him.” Myri sighed. “I’ll never be rid of him.” She knew she couldn’t leave him. Her talent wouldn’t allow her to ignore anyone who needed healing.

  Chapter 12

  “Why do I have to sweep a clean floor?” Powwell, the newest apprentice, pouted at Nimbulan.

  “Because we can’t afford servants,” Nimbulan replied. No need to tell the twelve-year-old boy that sweeping their new home was a test. He needed to know how long before the three recruits figured out how to manipulate the brooms with magic. They could all light fires with a concentrated effort. That ability had proved their inborn talent and gained them places as apprentices. None of them could yet move an object with his mind.

  Their minds seemed equally closed to the concept of reading and ciphering. Only magicians were allowed, by law and by tradition, to use the arcane knowledge contained within letters and numbers. The newest boys refused to believe themselves worthy of this secret skill.

  Nimbulan spent nearly all of his time coaxing the boys into learning. Not for the first time in the last few weeks, Nimbulan regretted his haste in seeking new apprentices and withdrawing to the monastery. He needed more help than Ackerly, Lyman, and his older apprentices offered. If he had other teachers to work with the boys, he could spend more time experimenting and cataloging the massive library.

  “But why does the floor need to be swept at all? It’s clean.” The boy stared up at Nimbulan. A need to know poured forth from his gray eyes. Determination rode firmly on his shoulders.

  Sunlight streaming in through the narrow windows added a glint of auburn to his muddy brown hair. More often than not, any trace of red hair accompanied magical talent.

  Buried deep inside the boy’s stubborn brain there must be intelligence, or he’d not have figured out how to start fires upon command rather than at random. Nimbulan had to draw it forth by devising ways to stimulate Powwell’s curiosity rather than answering every question.

  Powwell assumed Ackerly’s posture when demanding an answer from Nimbulan when Nimbulan was lost in thought or distracted. He almost chuckled at the one thing the boy had learned as an apprentice.

  Nimbulan bit his lower lip, resisting the urge to say, “Because I said so.” Too often that had happened during his own training, and he’d wasted valuable lessons because he defied the statement and his tutor. He’d never given up defying Druulin in the all the years he had served the irascible old magician. Right up until the day he had died on the field of battle along with Boojlin and Caasser and two full armies. All of them reduced to ashes by magic gone awry. Nimbulan and Ackerly had fled the impending battle the night before in order to seek employment elsewhere. They’d finally managed to break Druulin’s binding spells upon Ackerly and had slipped away from the old man’s tyranny.

  “The floors must be swept every day, Powwell. We need to make certain they stay clean so that the dust from our shoes and clothes does not mar delicate instruments or interfere with our experiments,” he explained patiently.

  Experiments that couldn’t begin until the three new apprentices had enough training to guard magicians in deep trance and reawaken them if necessary. Sometimes the Tambootie drugs used to heighten magic awareness tempted a magician to remain in the void. Only a trained magician who had achieved at least the second level of apprenticeship could bring a lost master back from the void, body and soul intact. Jaanus and Rollett could almost do it. They were the most advanced and needed to be involved in the experiments. Gilby, Bessel, and Herremann weren’t far behind them in skill and control.

  The new boys had a long way to go before Nimbulan could begin to work on his grand scheme of combining magic for peace.
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  Nimbulan sorely wished he could spend more time in the library, searching for magic clues with Lyman and his older boys instead of supervising the youngsters. Just last night he’d scanned a text on Rover culture with a tantalizing hint about rituals and joining magic. But he didn’t have time to read further. Libraries and Rover legends had to wait.

  “Water works better at keeping down dust,” Powwell said with careful thought. “We should douse the stones and then sweep. Everyone should brush their clothing each morning too. That way we’d only have to sweep every few days instead of every afternoon after lessons. If dust is your only concern.” He lifted his eyes to challenge his master.

  Nimbulan suppressed a chuckle. The boy was quick, if only to find ways to avoid working. Hopefully, his talent would catch up with his brain shortly. In his experience, the best magicians were also the most intelligent.

  “Then do it, Powwell. And inform your classmates.” Three boys. They’d only been able to recruit three boys on the short notice of the move to this island. No women. No pretty witchwoman with moonlight woven into her hair.

  Nimbulan wondered if Myrilandel’s eyes always wore deep violet shadows beneath the skin or if that lovely shading was a result of fatigue and an improperly worked talent.

  He gave himself a mental slap. He didn’t have time to dwell on Myrilandel and why she ran away from the opportunity to train with a senior Battlemage.

  “They’ll beat me up if I tell them to do more menial chores, sir!” Powwell sulked. His mouth turned down prettily. Too prettily for a boy verging on manhood.

  I’ll have to keep this one out of Kammeryl’s sight, he thought. Not that the lord had set foot on the island since Nimbulan had informed him of his winter plans. Kammeryl d’Astrismos had raged for two days when he heard the news. He’d dismissed the entire enclave of magicians, including healers, from his army, vowing to replace them all.

  Nimbulan wondered how soon Kammeryl would need to send emissaries requesting his return. Seasoned Battlemages were few and far between these days. Especially since Keegan’s death.