The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

by Irene Radford

  Televarn’s obligation to lend his slaves to Yaassima for this work irritated his pride. He should make the decision where and when his slaves worked. He should be the one running the city and raiding rich caravans for food and other necessities rather than supervising work parties.

  “Erda, where have you hidden Kalen?” He grabbed the old woman’s sleeve to detain her.

  Erda glared at his hand, reminding him of the effrontery of touching an Erda without permission.

  Televarn’s irritation made him reckless. He left his hand in place.

  “Televarn seeks the one who is dangerous. Your death I see in her eyes.” She didn’t pull away from him, just continued to stare at his hand on her arm, reminding him of his trespass.

  Televarn jerked his hand away from her arm as if she offended him, rather than the other way around. “The girl child is important to my plans. Where is she?”

  “Seek her where you want her to be,” Erda spat at him and continued into the fenced area where twenty hungry slaves awaited their meal.

  “What is that supposed to mean?” His words echoed in the cavern. He’d broken the oldest rule of etiquette within the clan by shouting at Erda.

  Erda shrugged and plodded on.

  “Stubborn old bitch. I’ll find Kalen and make her my chief adviser and wizard. There will be no place for old crones who spout nonsense and call it wisdom when I rule Hanassa.”

  Erda didn’t reply.

  “Seek her where I want her to be,” Televarn mumbled to himself, stroking Wiggles into submission as he paced the cavern once more.

  “I want her at my side, reading minds and magically lifting weapons away from my enemies. Kalen isn’t by my side. But she might be reading minds and lifting weapons away from my enemies. My biggest enemy is Yaassima, in the palace. Myrilandel is also in the palace. I’ve waited too long to claim her.” He ran his hands through his thick hair, grooming it for his imagined reunion with his former lover.

  “Erda, is the witchchild in the palace?” he asked politely.

  The old woman pretended not to hear him. He knew she had. She heard everything that happened among the Rovers.

  “I can’t get into the palace. I don’t know that you could either, Wiggles,” he mused.

  He took a deep breath, reluctant to admit he had only one way to contact Kalen. He had to touch her mind. When she’d first become his ally—back in Coronnan before he’d taken Myrilandel through the dragongate—Kalen had made him promise never to read or control her mind, like he did with all the members of his clan. She had never participated in the rituals designed to bind every Rover to him.

  Promises had never bothered him before. Why did he consider respecting this one to Kalen?

  Because the child was dangerous. The promise was for his own safety as well as her whims.

  He had to risk it. He’d completed the first stage of his plans with Nimbulan’s death and the elimination of Amaranth. Myrilandel was now alone and vulnerable, ripe for his plucking. She had nothing left to bind her to her old life in Coronnan. But he had to get her away from Yaassima before he could reclaim his lover and bind her to his will.

  Myrilandel had to see him as her rescuer. She had to witness how tenderly he cared for Kalen, her adopted daughter, how he planned to honor the witchgirl and allow her the freedom to maximize her talents—something Nimbulan couldn’t do for her in Coronnan where witchwomen were exiled. He expected loyalty from Myrilandel. He knew better than to expect anything from Kalen that didn’t suit Kalen.

  He and the child were well suited to each other.

  He sought his dark and quiet corner of the cavern, way in the back. Years ago he’d scraped away the debris and made a soft meditation nest of furs and pillows. Plain colors, without Erda’s distracting embroidery, soothed his eyes and comforted his body. In one fluid motion, he crossed his legs and sank to the floor.

  Wiggles squirmed out from beneath Televarn’s vest and stretched along the length of his right thigh, head resting on his knee. He stroked the ferret’s fur as he breathed deeply.

  A light trance settled over him. Resentment churned in the back of his mind. He shouldn’t have to work this hard to touch the mind of one of his own. Every member of the clan was connected to him, mind, body, and soul, by the magic rituals unique to Rovers. Only Erda could dissolve bits and pieces of the control.

  Kalen had steadfastly remained outside of those rituals for several moons before Televarn laid the trap for Myrilandel. Even Nimbulan had been easier to control than that willful child.

  He suppressed his anger before it rent great holes in his trance.

  Slowly he released a thin tendril of magic. It resonated against the mineral deposits in the volcanic rocks of the cavern. He heard the magic shift its vibrations until it hummed in harmony with the Kardia. He matched his voice to the solid note. Maintaining the one-note chant, he built a picture of Kalen in his mind. Her brown braids laced with auburn came easily to him. He traced an outline of her hair in the air before him.

  Bright green lines followed his finger, leaving a bare sketch of a head behind. He added wide, gray eyes and a snub nose. With tender care he dotted a spray of freckles across her nose. The last detail eluded him. How to draw her mouth and chin? They faded from his memory. All he could see in his mental picture of the girl were her eyes, big, innocent, gazing up at him with awe.

  Enough. The eyes were more important in identifying her. They were also a place of entry for his probe. He withdrew his tracing finger and attached his magic to the drawing.

  Then he willed the magic to find the one whose image he had drawn.

  The magic uncoiled into a slender arrow and darted through a crevice in the cave walls. Wiggles leaped from his lap, following the probe into the depths of the mountain.

  “S’murghit! There goes my only true link to the girl.”

  Myri tugged at the heavy necklace Yaassima fastened around her neck, careful to make her movements sluggish. The gold links, each the diameter of her little finger, settled against her collarbones and wouldn’t move from there. The dragon pendant rested firmly between her breasts, tightening the fabric of her gown to outline their shape. She started to lift the necklace over her head. A painful whistle sounded deep within her ear.

  She dropped the necklace and grabbed her ears, trying to block the sound that stabbed at her mind like a knife.

  The dragon pendant glowed brightly.

  The whistle and the pain ceased as soon as Myri dropped the gold links. All traces of eldritch light faded from the crystal dragon as the gold links quietly caressed her neck.

  An audience of guards and servants paused in their routes through the palace to watch the spectacle of the Kaalipha’s favorite receiving an unprecedented gift. Yaassima grinned at them, obviously enjoying her display of power over Myri. Kalen was nowhere in sight.

  Myri looked at the pendant where it settled between her breasts as if it belonged there. With one finger she flicked it until it swayed. Her skin burned through her shift and bodice as if pierced by a branding iron wherever the beautiful jewel touched her. The only time she was comfortable was if she ignored it.

  “You needn’t bother trying to remove it.” Yaassima draped Myri’s hair over her shoulders, creating a frame for the jewelry. “My great-great-grandfather had it made for his mistress after she tried to run away. The next time she attempted to escape, the necklace kept shrieking inside her mind until blood vessels in her brain burst and she died.”

  Myri ceased moving, stopped thinking. The purple-tipped dragon, Amethyst, had only been able to take over Myrilandel’s body because the little girl was thought dead from bleeding in the brain. The dragon’s vitality had allowed the little girl to heal the broken places. Myri’s innate healing talent knew the vessels were still weaker than normal. The necklace would kill her quicker than most humans.

  “Now that the necklace has found a home on your beautiful neck, Myrilandel, no one will be able to remove it until you
die.” The Kaalipha let her hand linger on Myri’s cheek.

  Myri forced herself not to jerk away from the caress. Yaassima had trapped her with a magic-infested slave collar. No matter how beautiful the jewelry, it still branded her the Kaalipha’s possession, without freedom or control over her own life. She’d never taste fresh air and open skies again.

  She had to. The necklace was just one more obstacle to overcome.

  She looked frantically right and left. The gathered servants blocked any route of immediate escape from Yaassima.

  “Don’t consider killing yourself, Myrilandel, by deliberately crossing my boundaries. Suicide is forbidden by your Stargods,” Yaassima cooed, reaching to run her hand across Myri’s breast.

  The corridor wall pressed against Myri’s back. No place to run.

  Yaassima squinted her eyes nearly closed. Age lines, spraying outward from her slightly uptilted eyes marred her otherwise flawless complexion. “I think you might welcome my gentleness when Nastfa and Golin finish with you. Just remember, they will do you no harm until you try to escape. And don’t try to make friends with them so that they will aid you. Through the crystal dragon, I will hear every word you speak. Don’t give me a reason to have the jewelry stab into your brain until you die an ugly death.”

  The Kaalipha flipped her hand in a quick rotation. She pressed her thumb against the ring on her little finger. The whistle shrieked inside Myri’s head once more.

  Myri fought to keep from cringing from the pain.

  Darkness encroached on her vision from the sides. A white tunnel opened before her eyes. At the end of the tunnel she saw Coronnan, beautiful, cool, green Coronnan. Blue skies invited her to soar free through the fresh air. Her home. Numbulan’s home. Freedom!

  But she had to transform to win free of Hanassa. Once a dragon, she wouldn’t have a human body to come back to. Amaranth would have no mother—only Kalen and a Rover wet nurse.

  She allowed the blackness to overwhelm her, praying that Yaassima wanted her alive. Her knees buckled.

  Abruptly the whistle ceased. Her eyes cleared. Hot, desert air filled her dry mouth and lungs. Her tongue tasted sour from fear.

  “Remember this little lesson next time you defy me.” Yaassima stalked back toward the staircase that led to their suite. “Nastfa and Golin are waiting for you in your chamber, Myrilandel.”

  Nimbulan hastened away from the gate into Hanassa before the guards changed their minds and arrested him. He searched the mountainside for an alternate route up the steep slope above the gateway. He had to find another way into the city. Myri needed him. Old legends and a few unreliable reports from Televarn said that Hanassa was within the crater of an extinct volcano. The ridge line above him should actually be the rim of the crater. Once up there, he’d try dropping into the city from above.

  He spotted a scraped stone next to a prickly bush that seemed to be missing four branches. Upon closer examination, he decided the missing branches had been nibbled off by some browsing animal. The scrape marks came from hooves.

  He dug his boot toes into the rocky soil and stood beside the bush. Above it, he saw a line of other plants that might have been lunch for the same animal. He followed the grazing pattern upward, finding footholds that weren’t visible until he was almost on top of them.

  Rollett angled farther north to see if a better trail existed.

  The sun rose higher, more intense here in the desert than it ever shone in the river valleys of Coronnan. Sweat dripped down Nimbulan’s back and between his thighs, despite the winter season. His hands and neck sunburned rapidly in the thin mountain air.

  He drank from the waterskin Seannin had made him fill before leaving Coronnan. He wanted more, but the top of the mountain seemed very far away. Perhaps he’d best conserve his supplies until he was inside the city.

  Rollett? He sent a query to his journeyman. Any luck?

  Nothing, came back the reply.

  Conserve your water. We may be out here a long time.

  They had to remain strong enough to rescue Myri once they managed to drop below the crater rim. And Nimbulan hadn’t slept more than a few hours since before the battle. For weeks before that his rest had been troubled by worry over Myri. He wondered if Rollett’s more youthful body had rebounded after the grueling battle and the preparations before that. The young man had been almost as depressed over Haakkon’s drowning as Nimbulan had, further depleting energy resources.

  Hopefully the crater’s slope into the city would be climb-able or not too far a drop to the roof of some building.

  Myri. Oh, Myri. I miss you so. Stay safe until I can come for you, he pleaded with every scrap of telepathic talent he possessed.

  An hour later, the top of the mountain seemed no closer. Rollett was out of sight around the curve of the slope. Flies pestered Nimbulan’s face, crawling into his ears and nose. He swatted at them. Five flew off, replaced by ten more. His pack grew heavier with each step, and he longed to drain the waterskin. He dragged out his staff and used it as a prop to pull himself up one more step.

  A small puddle of shade beneath a narrow outcropping enticed him forward. His eyes welcomed the protection from the glaring light, though the temperature didn’t vary significantly. The flies continued to plague him as his sweat dried to a salty crust.

  Go home. You’re too old for this kind of an adventure. Go home where life is safe and comfortable, a small voice in the back of his mind whispered.

  “Not without Myri. I won’t leave this place until my wife is by my side once more. And not without finding an end to the murdering of my apprentices,” he called to the four cardinal directions and the four elements. When he finished this quest, he’d make a home for Myrilandel on one of those little islands in the Great Bay that Quinnault wanted to use as a ferry station and loading dock. That would put her outside of Coronnan and still allow him access to his work in the capital.

  He crouched within the shallow confines of the shade until his back protested the unnatural hunch. He sat, curling his legs tightly against his chest and rolling his hips slightly toward the back of the overhang. If he stretched out so much as a hair, the sun beat down, burning him through his clothes. Extremely uncomfortable, he closed his eyes and thought of Myri and the clearing.

  He thought about recording his impressions of Hanassa in his journal, but didn’t want to waste his energy. His eyes were very heavy and the sun too bright.

  He awoke to find the shadows had lengthened. Rollett stood in front of him, hands on hips, trying for an intimidating posture. But the weary sag of this shoulders and neck belied his expression.

  “Take a drink, and we’ll be on our way, Rollett. Our entrance might be safer after dark,” Nimbulan said.

  “Cooler anyway. We’ll need our cloaks within minutes of sunset. And there isn’t much twilight in this desert air.” Rollett continued to look around, seeking a way up to the top.

  The water refreshed Nimbulan enough that he thought he could finish the climb before full dark. He stretched cramped and aching muscles and stood up slowly.

  Thoughts of holding Myri in his arms once more filled him with determination. A few more hours and I will be with you, beloved.

  Stretching shadows obscured the faint game trail he had followed earlier. Rollett picked it out, feeling for it with the tip of his staff—a trick Lyman had taught the young man—to seek the lingering life-vibrations of the last being who had climbed this way with the sensitive staff. They plodded upward, grasping bushes and rocks for balance as the slope steepened.

  Nimbulan dug his staff into the sandy soil as a prop when the bushes weren’t close enough. His thighs grew as heavy as his pack, and his head felt as light as the waterskin.

  The shadows deepened. The sun set behind the mountain. Chill air dropped dramatically upon them. Stars burst alive in the blue-black sky all at once. The tangy smell of desert plants sharpened in the cool air.

  Nimbulan looked up to the rim of the crater. Starlight gl
immered against a shiny network running along the crest. He narrowed his eyes, looking for signs of magic. Nothing extraordinary met his gaze. He dragged himself up the last few steps and reached with his left hand, palm outward, fingers curled, for the source of the now sparkling obstacle.

  He jerked his hand back, pain stabbing his fingertips. Close inspection revealed tiny punctures where he had met the obstacle. Blood oozed from the cuts He inspected the barrier again, more cautiously, with all of his senses.

  A long line of rusted metal fencing, barbed with sharp wires twisted at close intervals, ran the full circle of the crater rim. It stood nearly double Nimbulan’s height.

  “This fence stretches for miles,” Rollett whispered. “I can’t sense an end to it, as if it makes a full circle with no beginning and no end.”

  Two hundred feet below them, down a nearly straight precipice, Nimbulan saw the city. The rising moon, just past full, illuminated the haphazard streets and jumbled huts. Even without the fence he’d not be able to climb down the cliff into the city. Too steep to climb, too far to jump.

  The barred gate was indeed the only entrance and exit to Hanaassa.

  Chapter 18

  (When in doubt, stall!)

  The idea persisted in Quinnault’s mind. He dismounted slowly, thinking furiously. As he slid down Buan’s side, he was briefly out of sight of the Varns. He palmed his belt knife and loosened his short sword in its sheath. He’d never undergone the intense weapons training of a warrior. But he knew the business end of his blades.

  His years of studying to become a priest, before his entire family was wiped out by the wars and the plagues and famine that always followed in the aftermath of war, had trained him to negotiate.

  “Tambootie has become a valuable commodity since the advent of Communal magic.”

  The Varn leader turned his head region to the column of fluttering mist on his left. A moment of silence ensued. Quinnault wondered if they consulted telepathically, as magicians sometimes did.