She hadn’t been allowed outside the suite since that horrible day Televarn had kidnapped her and brought her to Hanassa. The baby had been born the day she arrived.
How long had Televarn kept her mind blank while they traveled here? How long had her husband suffered, not knowing her fate?
If only the silver cord of magic still connected her heart to his, she would know if he lived.
Myri turned her attention outward again. She established contact with Amaranth’s mind. A sense of free soaring overtook her. A cold wind blasted Amaranth’s face and lifted his wings. Freedom!
Through her familiar’s eyes she saw the wide curve of the Great Bay, the mudflats on the western shores, and the braided delta of islands that made up the growing capital city.
Almost there. Quickly, Amaranth. Yaassima comes.
Her breath shortened in anticipation. Within a few heartbeats she would see the beloved face of her husband. “Nimbulan,” she whispered. “How I miss you, husband. What made you stay away so long?”
Deep within her mind, she heard Amaranth cry out. He’d spotted the palace where King Quinnault lived. New construction gave the ancient keep an untidy look. She didn’t dwell on the changes that had occurred in the last three seasons. The island next to the palace was her destination; the island where a vast pool of magical ley lines slept, hidden beneath compacted mud and silt. She honed in on the quiescent power in the pool.
She directed Amaranth’s vision in an anxious search for the man who had given her love and trust and a child when no other could.
Together, she and her familiar picked out the window of the room in the ancient monastery, now the School for Magicians, where Nimbulan slept. She had shared the room with him for a few precious days before her exile from Coronnan. Her baby had been conceived there. Conceived in love.
And now the baby’s father didn’t even know she existed. Myri had never told him, waiting for him to come to her so that she could relay the joyous news to his face. She had waited impatiently for him to come, always hoping that tomorrow . . . Neither she nor Powwell nor Kalen had perfected the summons spell. The road between the capital and her clearing was still too dangerous to trust a messenger to get through.
Pain stabbed her neck and chest, hot and fierce. Amaranth had been stabbed! He faltered from the wound. Myri’s inner vision darkened as the pain swelled to encompass her entire being. Amaranth’s agony pulled her mind deeper into his pain. Each heartbeat spread the burning acid through his veins.
Poison. Magic poison pierced them. His pain became hers. A deep wound beneath his left wing, perilously close to his heart, made him falter and lose altitude.
Myri clutched the baby to her breast. The warmth of the tiny body anchored her to the reality of her physical existence. The familiar pressure of milk swelling in her breasts kept her from following Amaranth deeper and deeper into paralysis.
Voices in the corridor warned of Yaassima’s approach. Abruptly the pain ceased. Myri’s vision swirled and brightened.
“Amaranth!” she screamed with her mind. Her voice remained a whisper. “Where are you?” Frantically she searched for some contact with her familiar. The door squeaked open. Myri couldn’t allow Yaassima to break her precious contact with Amaranth.
Amaranth, fight the wound. Fight the magic. You have to live, Amaranth. You have to warn Nimbulan, Myri screamed again with her mind. The pain returned. Not the hot stabbing wound Amaranth suffered, but a dull aching loneliness that threatened to squeeze the life from her.
Don’t die, Amaranth. Oh, please, don’t die.
“We have no fleet of warships, Your Grace.” Nimbulan said. “But we have an army of wily fishermen who work the mudflats every day of their lives.” Nimbulan retrieved his gold-framed glass from inside his tunic. He walked to the nearest candle on the high table.
“The tariff on trade was merely an excuse to trigger an invasion,” Quinnault said as he cleared the table of current projects with one sweep of his arm. “The warriors of Rossemeyer thrive on war, not food.” The king summoned a map with a snap of his fingers. Two servants dashed to obey his order.
“My magicians, your fisherman, and every able-bodied person we can gather will have a long hard day ahead of them, but we have a chance, Your Grace.” Nimbulan breathed deeply, seeking calm. He had a battle to organize, when he’d thought his days as a Battlemage were over.
He had to stay and fight when he’d rather leave on his quest to rescue his wife.
When his thoughts fell into order, he continued the breathing exercise—in three counts, hold, out three counts, triggering a light trance for the summons spell. No time to return to the school for magical tools and a treatise on naval warfare. He’d have one of the apprentices bring them from his private study. He couldn’t levitate them through the locked door. Stuuvart, his steward, had a key.
Nimbulan finished his summons, then marched into the courtyard and the stairs to the top of the palace walls and the roof of the keep. He didn’t bother to pocket his glass. He’d need it often in the coming hours. His head spun with ideas and plans, as it had in the old days when he prepared for battle nearly every week of the campaign season.
“Merawk!” The sharp cry of a large bird screeched through the glass, piercing Nimbulan’s ears and mind.
“Mewrare.”
“That sounds like Amaranth.” Nimbulan ran up the stairwell. As soon as he opened the trapdoor to the watch-tower he looked to the partially cloudy sky for signs of the half-cat, half-falcon he’d last seen in Myri’s arms.
“Perhaps your wife’s flywacket responded to your seeking vision, coming to you with word of Myrilandel.” Lyman poked his head through the opening right beside him. Nimbulan scanned the bowl of the heavens rather than question how the old man had appeared so suddenly.
They both searched through a long moment of silence. Only a few fluffy white clouds broke the unending blue sky. Cold and crisp now. Beyond the horizon, a fierce winter storm gathered energy. The tide raced ahead of the storm, swelling the bay so that even the deepest-keeled ship could sail into Coronnan City.
At last, Nimbulan spotted Amaranth’s silhouette, far out over the Great Bay, black against a white cloud. Wings stretched wide, Amaranth could have been any large black bird outlined against the sky.
“Merawk,” the flywacket cried. He banked and circled lower.
Nimbulan triggered his FarSight with a tendril of stored dragon magic. There wasn’t much of it left. He had to conserve it.
The flywacket’s cat-face came into focus within his glass. Amaranth searched back and forth as he flapped his falcon’s wings, seeking the air currents to keep him aloft. His black fur seemed to absorb light, robbing the clouds of their share of sparkling sunshine.
“Here, Amaranth. Come to me.” Nimbulan held out his arm as an inviting perch.
“Merew,” Amaranth acknowledged the command. He stretched out his legs in preparation for landing.
“He’ll tear your arm to shreds with those talons.” Lyman draped his cloak around Nimbulan’s outstretched arm.
“No, he won’t. He’s very gentle when he lands,” Nimbulan protested. But he didn’t remove the cloak. His fine linen shirt and sleeveless leather tunic wouldn’t offer much protection if Amaranth didn’t retract his raptor’s talons to normal cat claws in time.
A shaft of light off to the right distracted Nimbulan. He peered in the direction of the next island in the Coronnan River delta. Movement in a pattern contrary to the passage of wind in the shrubbery betrayed a presence. No unnatural colors revealed a silhouette, only the movement and the light.
“Someone is hiding over there.” Lyman looked through his glass, aiming it at a shaft of sunlight to trigger the magic. “A man, dressed in green and brown and maybe black. I can see his aura but not his face or a signature color.”
“Not a magician, then.” Nimbulan turned his gaze back to the flywacket.
The light flashed again.
Amaranth
screeched and faltered.
Nimbulan covered his ears against the high wail of sound that assaulted all of his senses, physical and magical. But he didn’t shift his gaze from the flywacket.
Amaranth grew at an alarming rate. His black fur and feathers paled as he seemed to explode into a dazzling display of silver and purple. All of his black fur and feathers released the light they had absorbed until he reflected the sunshine away from his crystalline skin and hair.
“He’s transforming into a dragon!” Nimbulan cried. “Why, Amaranth? Why go back to your natural form?” Once before he’d seen the flywacket burst free from the confines of his familiar shape. He’d flown to join the dragon nimbus as they hovered over the last battle of the Great Wars of Disruption—last spring.
“He’s hurt. He’s dropping fast!” Lyman shouted. “The light. It must have been some kind of magical arrow. No normal shaft would penetrate his hide at this distance.” The old man began searching the other island, looking through the glass into a wisp of witchfire on his fingertip. “Nothing. No aura, no silhouette, just a ferret running in circles. It’s as if the man vanished into the void. Or took the animal’s form.”
The silvery dragon wings caught an updraft. Amaranth stretched and banked into the soft air, slowing his descent. Only then did Nimbulan see the black spot on his hide, near his heart. The wound spread rapidly across the dragon’s chest.
“We haven’t time to investigate the assassin. Send Quinnault’s guards. We have to take care of Amaranth,” Nimbulan said, stretching his arm wide again in invitation.
“They search for one assassin already. Perhaps it’s the same one.” Lyman turned back to the trapdoor and called something down the stairwell.
Nimbulan kept his eyes on Myrilandel’s familiar. “Easy, Amaranth. Land slow and easy.” He turned to Lyman. “Get a healer. Quick. We have to save him. He’s our only link to Myri.”
“There isn’t enough time,” Lyman replied, already hastening down the stairs to the wide courtyard in front of the ancient keep. Nimbulan followed.
“Will Amaranth talk to you, Nimbulan?” Lyman cleared the courtyard of guards, servants, and courtiers with a gesture and a stern look.
“I hope so. He knows me. He’s my wife’s familiar.”
“But do any of the other dragons talk to you?” As they emerged into the courtyard, Lyman whistled sharply, encouraging Amaranth to come to him. The noise pierced Nimbulan’s ears like dragon speech. “That’s right, Amaranth, come to me. I’ll help you,” Lyman coaxed.
Amaranth seemed to heed the man’s advice and aimed for the court. He faltered and rocked.
Nimbulan sensed his pain and uncertainty. “He’s losing consciousness. Moments of dizziness, then a brief recovery.”
“You’re in rapport with him. He’ll let you touch his wound. Maybe he’ll let you heal him. I’ll seek his thoughts.” Lyman stepped back as the wind from the dragon wings blasted dust into their faces.
“Do you speak with the dragons?” Nimbulan asked, amazed. He only heard the telepathic communication from the great beasts when they had something specific to say to him.
“My link to the dragons is—different from Myri’s,” Lyman said. He offered no further explanation.
Amaranth landed bellyfirst, scraping his muzzle on the packed dirt of the courtyard. The almost mature spiral horn on his forehead bent at an odd angle near the blunted tip. Wearily he lifted his nose a little and collapsed, wings half furled.
Nimbulan rushed to the dragon’s side. Gingerly he probed with his fingertips to the center of the spreading black spot, over Amaranth’s heart. With his left hand, palm up and fingers slightly curved, he pressed under the wing joint, seeking a major blood vessel. Almost instantly his mind moved inward, seeking the source of the wound. Dimly he watched with physical eyes as Lyman placed both hands flat against the creature’s skull at the base of his single spiral horn.
This spell has to work. Stargods, please help me do this right.
The silver cord that bound him to Myri sprang to life. It tugged at his heart almost painfully. The hair on the back of his neck stood up, sensing danger. He didn’t have time to reflect on its sudden reappearance. Amaranth was dying.
Blackness as deep as the void between the planes of existence invaded Nimbulan’s inner vision from Amaranth’s wound. He pushed it aside, seeking healthy blood and energy to combat the growing infection. Down, down, he sought a beginning place. He needed a fragment of healthy tissue near the wound to strengthen and begin pushing back against the disease-ridden magic. He hadn’t the specific healer’s gift, but a lifetime as a Battlemage had taught him much about field surgery for physical and magical wounds.
The blackness raced ahead of him. Propelled by magic, the evil grew thicker as it spread, slowing his probe. He pushed harder. Like wading in freezing honey, he forced his vision forward to the strong wing muscles, hoping the magic would follow him there and stay away from the vulnerable heart.
Thicker and thicker, the black magic encapsulated him, crushing him, robbing him of air. His heart flailed against his chest, fighting against the taint spreading from Amaranth’s body into his own.
The void opened before him. Nimbulan searched the black nothingness for a trace of Amaranth. He might be able to separate the essence of the purple-tipped dragon from the magic that killed it, then return them both to their physical bodies.
(The void is forbidden to users of dragon magic.)
Nimbulan ignored the warning. He had to save Amaranth.
A tiny amethyst jewel winked at him in the distance. Purple, like Amaranth’s wing veins and horns. He dived after the spirit-light. It eluded him, always keeping just ahead of him.
Nimbulan concentrated and reached forward with senses that dissipated in the void. Closer. He came closer to the dragon spirit. A black aura surrounded the jewel-toned light. The blackness of evil magic.
He fought his revulsion and tried to push the blackness aside with his mind.
A blinding flash of pure white crystal erupted between him and Amaranth’s spirit. Thousands of shards of all color/no color light blasted his senses.
Don’t die, Amaranth. Oh, please don’t die, Myri’s unique mental voice pleaded. Each fragment of crystal seemed to vibrate with her need to save her familiar.
“Break it off, Nimbulan!” Lyman shook his physical body. “Let go of Amaranth. He’s gone, you can’t help him anymore. Amaranth is dead.”
With a jolt that nearly robbed him of consciousness, Nimbulan dropped back into his body. The blackness receded from his mind, a little. Pain exploded from every pore in his body. He pressed his fingertips against his eyes. Star-bursts of light appeared on his eyelids. He pushed the pin-pricks of light together until they filled his vision.
At last the blackness fled out of him, unable to withstand the light.
“Myri! I have to go to her. She’s in the void. I heard her. I have to go back to her.”
“No. The void is forbidden to users of dragon magic. You have to wait and find her by other means.”
Nimbulan shook his head in denial. The movement broke his void-induced thrall. The reality of battle preparations crashed into his frayed senses. The need to stay and protect the city warred with his need to go to Myri.
He prayed to all three Stargods for his wife’s safety.
“Amaranth, Stargods! What did they do to you?” he cried.
“He lived long enough to tell me something of Myrilandel.”
Lyman’s words broke through Nimbulan’s emotional dizziness. “Where? Where is my wife, Lyman?”
“In Hanassa.”
Chill raced up Nimbulan’s spine. Hanassa lay deep in the Southern Mountains, within a dry caldera. There, hidden from the rest of the world, outlaws, Rovers, rogue magicians, and other criminals had built a city. Secret passes and tunnels were said to lead into the heart of the mountain. Few people who entered Hanassa, who weren’t invited by one undesirable sect or another, left it alive.
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“Myrilandel was twin to Amaranth before taking a human body.” Nimbulan shivered in distress. Myri’s plea across the void haunted him. “She was happy enough to remain human while Amaranth lived because there could only be one purple-tipped dragon at a time. Now that Amaranth is gone, her instinct will be to return to her dragon form.
“Believe me, I know the instincts that drive her!” Lyman replied. He closed his eyes tightly. The thousands of lines around his eyes deepened.
“I have to find her before she abandons her body and joins the dragons,” Nimbulan whispered through his grief. “I have to leave tonight—no, now. There are others who can lead this battle. Myri is in Hanassa. Televarn was headed for Hanassa last year. Maia and her baby are probably with the Rover clan, too.”
“You have to organize this battle and save the kingdom first,” Lyman reminded him. “As much as the dragons need you to rescue Myrilandel, they also recognize your responsibility to maintain peace in Coronnan. You are the only one with the experience and the wits to win this battle.”
Chapter 6
“Water, the last of the four elements. Equal in strength to its three brothers,” Televarn murmured. He stroked the surface of the small pool in the marshy ground of the small river island near Palace Isle. Kardia and Air were feminine elements. Fire and Water belonged to men. He’d rejected Fire as his source of magic today, too obvious, too visible.
The spell he’d put on Quinnault’s wine had been Water based—though he’d been wearing the delusion of Maia’s face and body at the time. Quinnault should be dead by now. Televarn had delivered the poisoned wine to the understeward over an hour ago.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 43
