The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  Nimbulan closed his eyes and concentrated on the flames that bounced and separated with each wave of seawater. When he looked again, all traces of witchfire had winked out. The sudden darkness soothed his eyes but not his soul. He’d cleaned up the last spell of the battle. He could rest now.

  “Speaking of treaties of friendship, there are several offers of marriage alliance to consider.” Quinnault changed subjects in mid-thought—not uncommon for his keen intelligence. “I’ll need your help with a letter to King Lorriin of SeLenicca. I really can’t marry his sister. She’s ten years older than me and a barren widow. But we have to word the rejection to sound like I am not worthy of her beauty rather than that she is inadequate to be my queen.”

  “And how old are you, Your Grace?” Nimbulan raised one eyebrow skeptically.

  “You know, as well as I, that I’ll see my twenty-eighth Winter Solstice a moon hence.”

  “A mere infant.” Nimbulan frowned at his king. “That makes the Princess of SeLenicca thirty-eight. She’s been widowed for many years. Perhaps she hasn’t had the opportunity to bear children.”

  “I can’t take the chance. I need a young and fertile princess. And I won’t have just any well-born lady with the proper dowry and political connections—there are three offers for those. She must be intelligent and have a sense of humor. If she’s easy on the eyes, so much the better.” Quinnault paced, left hand behind his back, shoulders hunched. With his long face and hair in wild disarray, his silhouette resembled that of a young dragon.

  How many of his draconic mannerisms were natural? Some of them could be a result of his magical link to the dragons established at his coronation. Nimbulan didn’t know how much of the link remained since Shayla had declared the Covenant broken. King Quinnault didn’t talk about it.

  Every thought of dragons brought Nimbulan back to his missing wife, Myrilandel. Shayla, please take care of her for me, he pleaded with the sole female dragon in the nimbus and Myrilandel’s mother. I miss her more than I thought possible.

  Nimbulan’s age and loneliness weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had to convince his king to allow him to leave the capital immediately so he could begin his search for Myri. He’d forsake the much needed rest if he had to. But not his meal. He’d get nowhere fast without food. And soon.

  “We’d best get busy. I’m certain General Ambassador Jhorge-Rosse will be demanding an audience at first light.” Quinnault turned sharply on his heel at the end of his serpentine route.

  “You seem to have a disgusting amount of energy left after a full day of work and a full night of battle, and an injury, Your Grace.” Nimbulan surveyed his king. He smelled of salt spray and sweat, of tar and fish. The grin on his face rivaled the setting moon in brilliance.

  “I have won a battle on my terms, with weapons I know—the cunning of men and small boats. I respect myself much more tonight than I did when I ran my sword into Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ gut.” King Quinnault frowned slightly at the mention of that grisly battle. “Time to eat and rest, my friend. Then it’s back to work for both of us.” He slapped Nimbulan on the back in comradely affection.

  Friend, indeed, Nimbulan thought warmly. Surely Quinnault would recognize Nimbulan’s need to go in search of Myri and grant him permission to leave. The quest should be his own. No other man had the right—or the desperate need—to find Myrilandel no matter his age or responsibilities in the capital.

  Jaanus, the journeyman who had been dispatched on the search for Myri didn’t know how to look for the elusive witchwoman. Only Nimbulan could find her. He was sure of that now.

  “You must see a healer before you begin reorganizing the world, Quinnault. Coronnan can’t afford for you to be laid low by some hidden injury that flares up later.”

  “I’m glad I made you my chief adviser, Nimbulan. I can’t envision governing without you at my side. Why don’t you move your quarters into the palace where you are close at hand?”

  And under the king’s constant eye.

  Nimbulan sighed, wondering if he’d have to risk losing the king’s friendship and trust by running away. The Commune’s influence in the new government had been based upon Nimbulan’s relationship with Quinnault.

  Surely the new king wouldn’t remove the Commune from advisory positions because he was angry with Nimbulan. Quinnault was fairer minded than that. Several of the lords on the Council weren’t so generous. Konnaught led a faction that preferred the old way of ruling where personal privilege of the lords was more important than the welfare of the country.

  Nimbulan shuddered in memory of the chaos that had run rampant through Coronnan when Konnaught’s father had proclaimed himself king.

  The ties keeping him in Coronnan were almost as strong as the ties that pulled him to search for Myri.

  Chapter 11

  The Kaalipha and her guard stared at Myri from a frozen tableau. The flaring torches and uncanny yellow ceiling panel lights cast conflicting shadows around the room. An aura of evil followed the shadows.

  “Promise me, Kalen, that if Yaassima kills me, you will care for Amaranth. You will keep her from the clutches of the Kaalipha. And if—no, when—you escape, you will keep her away from Moncriith and Televarn. Guard her with your life.” Myri clutched at her daughter’s sleeve. Her long fingers wound around the girl’s thin arm, clenching with a grip as tight as the one Yaassima had used on Golin.

  “Let me take your place, Myri. They won’t kill me.” Kalen looked up at Myri with her wide gray eyes, all innocent and trusting.

  Behind the familiar mask of näïvete’ lurked cold calculation. Myri wondered when in the last three weeks Kalen had lost what remained of her innocence. What went on in Televarn’s slave pens? Had her virginity been stolen, too? She feared so and grieved that her daughter hadn’t had the opportunity to learn joy in sex at an Equinox Festival.

  Too early Kalen had figured out that every adult in her life used her—and her talent—for their own benefit. She used her mask of childish trust as a blind while she thrust her own will upon those around her. Myri doubted she had ever been innocent and trusting.

  Myri addressed her adversary rather than her daughter. “No, Kalen. This is not about sex or punishment. It is about control. Yaassima cannot control my love for Nimbulan, so she seeks to destroy it by making me feel soiled and unworthy. If I allowed you to take my place, I would feel even more worthless. I refuse to be manipulated by her.”

  Yaassima maintained her steady gaze at Myri, saying nothing. A malicious smile crooked one corner of her mouth upward. Her eyes showed no trace of amusement. The manacles lay between them in mute challenge to both their wills.

  “But in raping me, or watching you, Kalen, become her victim, my sense of self-worth would shatter. That is not in her plans. She no longer has an heir of her body, and so she seeks one who bears dragon blood to rule this city when she is gone. Dragons are long-lived, but they do die. Sometimes they are killed. Amaranth and I are her only possible heirs. I do not think she will live long enough to see my baby grown and ready to assume the title of Kaalipha. She is older than she looks. She has many enemies who lust for her power, including Televarn and Moncriith.” Myri didn’t drop her gaze from Yaassima.

  “Your logic is very good, Myrilandel, but not perfect,” Yaassima said. “Have you forgotten that dragons always mate with three or more consorts? The more fathers, the larger and stronger the litter. I should think you ready to welcome the attentions of these men.” She gestured to the incorruptible guards who watched the battle of wills between Myri and Yaassima. None of them had left to fetch the women.

  “Dragons can only mate once every two years. If conditions are not perfect, they will wait longer, much longer. They choose their consorts from among the males they can tolerate dealing with day after day. And they never mate while still suckling their young. I will not allow you to control me, Yaassima. Seek your sport with another.”

  “Your foster daughter is willing.”

&n
bsp; “Kalen is barely eleven summers. She doesn’t know what she offers.”

  Some of the guards shuffled their feet a little. Myri sensed their embarrassment. Elite assassins they might be, but they maintained their own rough code of honor among themselves. Raping young girls violated even their code.

  “I think the child knows precisely what she risks.” Yaassima narrowed her slightly uptilted eyes. An extra lid fluttered down, obscuring the pupil from external view while she looked out on the world from a different perspective. Myri didn’t have that extra dragon eyelid. Her body hadn’t been born dragon—merely borrowed by a dragon. The dragon personality had forced the body to exhibit some draconic characteristics, but not all. Her spinal bumps were barely noticeable compared to Yaassima’s.

  “Kalen has been Televarn’s hostage for over three weeks now,” Yaassima said. “He always samples his female slaves before selling them to traders in SeLenicca within a few weeks of capture. But only after he tires of them. He likes training young girls for life in the brothels. The male slaves, he sells to the mines. But he has not sold this girl, nor her foster brother. Why? What sport do they offer him?”

  “Televarn captured hostages, not slaves, when he laid a trap for us among my villagers,” Myri replied. “He hoped I would come to his bed willingly in return for their freedom. You thwarted his plans by claiming kinship with me.”

  Myri closed her eyes briefly, trying to banish the images of the nightmarish day when Televarn had burned an entire village, murdering those who stood between him and Myrilandel.

  Yaassima threw back her head and laughed long and loud. The sound rose in pitch and shrillness, echoing around the Justice Hall. Myri was reminded of the deafening sounds made by dragons when they communicated among themselves.

  “Your defiance speaks well of your ability to lead the ungovernable filth who inhabit this city,” Yaassima said when she gained control of her mirth. “You must be strong of will and ruthless of action to remain alive. I will find another, more willing, victim for my men tonight. Kestra, I think, since she was willing to break my rules to have a man inside her.” She waved her hand and the ceiling panels dimmed. The flickering shadows of the torchlight replaced the too bright directionless glare.

  The band of guards visibly relaxed. One of the black-clad men slipped out, presumably to fetch the woman.

  Stiffly, Myri turned to leave. Wariness overshadowed any sense of relief.

  “Tell me, Myrilandel,” Yaassima called to her. “Do you reject these men because you loathe them specifically or do you prefer the touch of women?”

  Myri froze in her tracks. Truth had served her well so far on this dangerous night. Would it be strong enough to continue to defend her?

  She looked over her shoulder at the tall woman with white-blond hair and unnaturally long fingers and toes. Her instincts told her to find safety in a high dark place, become invisible and slip away unnoticed. Alone.

  She couldn’t. Baby Amaranth, Kalen, and Powwell all depended upon her.

  The sense of belonging to her children banished her lingering thoughts of becoming a dragon. She wasn’t a solitary creature anymore and she never would be again.

  (Nimbulan must be part of the circle.)

  A dragon thought? She hadn’t heard the guiding voices in her head since the kidnap. Why now? She didn’t have time for questions, only relief that the dragons hadn’t completely deserted her.

  “No dragon would ask that question, Yaassima. Mating is for the purpose of begetting young. The rest of their lives are solitary, without thought of another of their kind. Why waste the effort of a mating flight on a fruitless passion?”

  “Yet Moncriith tells an interesting story of how you murdered his father when you caught him in the arms of your guardian, Magretha. Why would you kill the man with witchfire and permanently disfigure Magretha if not out of jealous rage? You were eleven at the time, the same age as Kalen.” Yaassima raised one eyebrow. The gesture often replaced a laugh or a smile.

  “Moncriith manipulates history to suit his purpose. He threw the ball of flame while waiting in line for Magretha’s attention. I was but six and saved the woman who raised and protected me.”

  Myri clutched Kalen’s hand and left before the Kaalipha could think of another dangerous question.

  “Do you think she takes women to her bed?” Kalen asked as they hurried back to Myri’s bedchamber. Her eyes reflected a fascinated revulsion.

  “I do not believe Yaassima shares passions with anyone but herself. In that, she truly is descended from dragons. She loves no one and lives her life alone. But unlike dragons, sex has become a weapon for her, or a tool to control and intimidate people.”

  Myri slammed the door of her chamber closed as soon as she and Kalen were safely within. She leaned on it, needing to reinforce the barrier between herself and Yaassima. Maia stirred on her pallet to look up at the disturbance. Myri gestured the Rover woman back to sleep.

  “I must walk carefully in my defiance of Yaassima. She must believe me under her spell until after I’m gone. Our only hope of escape lies in her belief that no one dares defy her.” Myri placed her daughter in the cradle. She lingered there, touching the baby’s fine hair and delicate skin.

  “I wish, Kalen, you had your familiar, Wiggles, with you now.” Myri drew a long breath.

  “So do I. I miss him.” Moisture gathered in Kalen’s eyes in true regret. “But you didn’t like him. Why do you want him now?”

  “I didn’t like his sneaky ways. He stole eggs and hid in strange places. His smell was almost enough to drive me out of the cottage. But if you had him with you now, you could use him to make contact with Powwell. We have to get him out of the pit. Soon.”

  “I think I can link my mind to Powwell’s without a familiar.” Kalen’s eyes wouldn’t meet Myri’s, a sure sign she was telling the truth. Only when she turned the wide trusting gaze upward at an adult did she lie. Except for a moment ago when she allowed tears to gather.

  “Good.” Myri was too tired to figure out Kalen’s complicated behavior and motives. “Please, Kalen, find out where he is being held. Tell him not to worry or give in to despair. We’ll plan our escape after the next sunset when the guards are sated and sleeping heavily. Yaassima may have done us a favor with that horrible orgy in the Justice Hall.” She shuddered at the thought of how close she had come to falling into the Kaalipha’s trap and becoming another victim of her “justice.”

  Powwell stumbled over the rough ground leading downward. Pain lanced through his shoulders as a guard on either side of him grabbed his arms and hauled him along in their rapid course to the pit. The uniformed men before and behind didn’t check their stride or look at him.

  The pit was death, as certain as the executioner’s ax. If the narrowing tunnel didn’t kill him first. The lowering ceiling seemed to push all the air out of the cave complex. Powwell thought he felt the weight of several miles of Kardia piled on top of this tiny, tiny cave.

  He gasped, willing his lungs to breathe in more air. Each inhale became more painful and shallow.

  A blast of heat hit him in the face. Unnatural yellow light glowed along the tunnel walls.

  He stumbled again, falling to his knees. Fear set his chin quivering and his limbs shaking. Televarn had led them through the pit from the dragongate to the palace that first day in Hanassa. Powwell remembered only heat and noise and overwhelming despair. No one survived the pit for long.

  Not the pit! Not the pit, his mind played the words over and over. The fire is burning up all the air.

  The people of Hanassa told him of the undead who walked the endless labyrinth of caves deep within the Kardia. They never died, couldn’t live, and so they haunted the caves and bled the life from the living guards who were unlucky enough to draw a shift guarding the pit. Hellfires burned day and night. The Kaalipha’s magic grew there.

  He’d suffocate from his own fears before the undead and the magic robbed him of sanity. He was sure of it.<
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  He was dying already from lack of air. Underground places never had enough air for him. Thorny tried to climb out of his pocket. His ruffled quills poked Powwell’s chest. Powwell broke the defeating circle of his thoughts long enough to urge his familiar back into hiding. No one knew he’d brought the hedgehog with him from the clearing. No one suspected that the animal’s keen sense of smell might lead him back to the dragongate and home. He had to keep Thorny hidden from the guards.

  A guard prodded him with a boot to his lower back. Powwell fell to his knees, careful to protect Thorny. Another boot connected with Powwell’s ribs. He collapsed onto his other shoulder and side. The pain barely registered in his mind. Better to die here than face the pit. Thorny could escape and seek out Kalen. She would need a familiar since Wiggles had deserted her about a week after they arrived in Hanassa.

  The guards grabbed his arms and roughly pulled him to his feet. Somehow he found the strength to stand on his own. They resumed their march forward to doom.

  Take heart! a voice whispered into his mind. The brief contact slithered in and out of his head. He heaved a momentary sigh of relief and filled his lungs with air.

  “Kalen?” he asked aloud, wondering if, in his despair, he had imagined her voice. But he had air to breathe. Kalen knew of his problems when underground. Her presence helped his lungs relax and use what little air he found.

  “Shut up, prisoner,” the guard to his right shoved a fist into his damaged ribs. “You can gibber all you want once we deliver you to the pit.” Quickly he unlocked the gate with one of the hollow wands.

  Kalen? Powwell cast out with his mind in search of the girl’s light mental touch.

  Stay alive. At all costs stay alive. I will rescue you!