“Get this over with. Quickly, before Amaranth stops breathing,” she ground out through her nearly paralyzed jaw. She edged over to Yaala and Maia, putting a little more distance between the baby and the paralyzed men.
Nimbulan nodded briefly to his wife. He forced down the panic of haste. He’d only be able to complete the task safely if he mastered his own emotions.
“When do you march across the border into Coronnan?” he addressed the mercenaries.
“Tonight, as soon as word arrives that King Quinnault has married the Princess of Terrania,” the sergeant replied in a monotone.
Terrania! Was Quinnault totally insane?
“What about the troops coming to join you from Hanassa with Lord Moncriith?” Nimbulan forced out the words while keeping his rage and fear under control. If he vented his emotions, his daughter would suffer.
“They will have to catch up with us in Coronnan.”
“Why not wait?” Nimbulan asked coolly. Through the silver cord, he sensed Myri using his emotional control of his magic to counteract the overwhelming fear within the mercenaries. Her muscles relaxed a little. Amaranth’s breath continued uneven and difficult.
“We raid and pillage randomly. No pitched battles until we confront Quinnault’s army near the capital. By then he won’t have a populace to draw troops from.”
S’murghit, how did one fight dozens of small battles without a single man directing the whole? Nimbulan needed masses of men to direct in an overall plan. He had no skill interpreting battle on the level of a single patrol.
“King Lorriin, when does he march?”
“He takes the city of Sambol tonight. Then he sails down the River Coronnan to take the capital, raiding as he goes.”
“S’murghit!” Nimbulan said aloud this time. Guilt began to creep upward from his gut to his mind, clouding his thinking. “When did Quinnault have time to woo a princess and sign a marriage treaty? I knew I should have sorted through the offers for him before I left the city.”
“The marriage negotiations took place in secret over many moons, led by Nimbulan, the king’s magician,” the sergeant replied as if the question had been addressed to him.
“That is interesting news to me.” Nimbulan raised one eyebrow, biting his cheeks to keep from laughing at the ridiculous rumor. Nervous laughter.
“Quickly. We have to leave now. I don’t like Amaranth’s breathing.” Myri bounced the baby in her arms, trying to break the empathic link between the infant and the men.
“Yes, we will leave. Scarface, can you arrange a delayed release from the thrall for these men? Powwell, set up a summons to Lyman at the Commune.”
Powwell looked at his feet. Red tinged his cheekbones.
“I’m sorry, Powwell. I forgot you never mastered that spell before Televarn kidnapped you. I’ll do it, as soon as we are away from here.” Nimbulan, too, looked at his boots. If Powwell had been able to work the spell well enough to keep in contact with Nimbulan during the first few moons of Myri’s exile from the capital, Nimbulan would have known of her pregnancy. He would have broken away from his responsibilities in the capital to be with her.
Instead, he had deluded himself that all was well with her because he did not hear otherwise.
That thought sobered him. Did he love her enough to sacrifice his work in the capital and with the Commune to be with her for her own sake, or only for the child of his own body he had wanted so desperately?
He’d waited until Shayla had broken the Covenant between humans and dragons to seek out the cause.
“Maybe the gate has opened again,” Yaala said, still staring at the grouping of rocks and trees that had been their portal from the heart of the volcano. “I’ve got to find out what happened to Yaassima. Hanassa should be mine, not left to whatever riffraff decides to step in.”
“The sequence and the timing of the dragongate are random,” Powwell said harshly. Embarrassment at his failure to work a basic communication spell still tinged his face. “It needs an arch shape to solidify—even if only a shadow. Maybe the sunlight changed the opening. Maybe Kalen fell into a different location when the gate couldn’t open here.” Hope brightened his eyes.
“We have to get safely away before these men recover,” Nimbulan reminded him. “I have to get this information back to Quinnault immediately, before he enters into this disastrous marriage. I won’t leave you behind like I left Rollett. It’s a long walk back to the capital.” He stretched his arms as if gathering his little band into a herd.
“You won’t leave me behind, but you’ll desert Kalen. You’ll let her die because you won’t budge to help her. Just as you deserted Myri when she was pregnant and needed you most,” Powwell said bitterly.
Chapter 32
Quinnault watched Katie march up the three steps of the dais, rolling her eyes in disbelief. His gut turned cold in despair. Visions of his solitary life stretched before his imagination. Having given his heart to her, he couldn’t imagine marrying anyone else. Without this marriage he’d lose the port, he’d lose his credibility with his Council. He’d lose the stability of an heir.
She had to pass this test. She had to survive and become his wife!
He had fended off assassins last night. He only wished he could intervene with the dragon for her.
“Where is Nimbulan, Lyman? He should be here, presiding, advising. Helping,” he whispered into the old magician’s ear.
“He’s off being a daddy and restoring the Covenant with the dragons. We’ll know if he’s done that if a dragon responds to my summons.”
“Myrilandel had a baby? Why didn’t Nimbulan tell me he’s a father? I’d have given him leave to go to my sister moons ago. But I need him here now.” Joy for the new life warred with his irritation that no one had told him.
“He didn’t know himself until after he left.” Lyman continued to scan the skies.
“Then why didn’t you tell me? You seem to know more about it than Nimbulan. You always know more than you tell.”
“It wasn’t my secret to tell.” The magician shrugged enigmatically.
“You also seem to know more about the dragons than anyone, including Myrilandel—who is half dragon—and myself with my magical bonds to them through the Coraurlia. How, Lyman? Tell me now.” Quinnault studied the old man.
“Because of Myrilandel, you know that purple-tipped dragons have special destinies. They are always born twins but only one may remain a dragon, the other must seek a different form to fulfill its destiny. My twin deserted dragonkind and sought his own life path, forever separated from dragonkind. It was left to me to live both lives.”
“You were born a purple-tipped dragon!” Quinnault stared with his mouth half open. Quickly he recovered and checked the ring of lords and magicians to see if any of them had heard the astonishing confession.
“Look. There. Nimbulan must have succeeded in saving Myrilandel and her baby.” Lyman pointed eastward, toward where the sun rose over the Great Bay.
“We will discuss this later, Lyman,” Quinnault said, also looking across the bay.
A small shadow blocked the growing sunlight for a moment, then the light burst forth brighter, shimmering with rainbows. A dragon approached.
Quinnault shaded his eyes with his hand and looked toward the east for signs of the huge beasts that had blessed his coronation by flying over this courtyard at the moment the priests placed the Coraurlia on his head. His eyes slid right and left, dazzled by the light. He breathed a sign of satisfaction that warred with his concern for Katie. The dragons were as much a part of him now as Katie.
“There, look!” Lyman pointed higher than the rising sun on the stretch of the bay. “Lords of the Council, you should be able to see the dragons now.”
Gradually the rainbows faded and revealed a vague outline of wings and spinal horns. All colors swirled into no color around the outline. The male dragons sported a primary color along their wing veins and horns. This, then, must be Shayla, the female leader of the nimbus.
Quinnault’s eyes wanted to slide around the flying form, giving the dragon an illusion of transparency.
At this distance she appeared no bigger than his sister’s flywacket. But Quinnault knew Shayla would fill the courtyard. Her head was as high as two sledge steeds and her body as broad as two more.
A harsh judge who had announced the breaking of the Covenant. Quinnault knew the heat of guilt. He had exiled his sister, Myrilandel, the chosen intermediary between dragons and humans. Did Shayla hold a grudge?
He shifted his gaze to Katie. She, after all, was the point of this demonstration. She stood in the exact center of the dais, slim and tiny against the larger backdrop of the unfinished courtyard and the Bay beyond. The morning breeze pressed the thin fabric of her pure white shift against her body, outlining her breasts and legs. She seemed unconcerned by the immodest revelations of the simple garment. Her gaze wandered across the Bay, not focusing on the dragon even after she shaded her eyes with her hand.
She probably couldn’t see the rapidly approaching dragon because she didn’t yet believe in Shayla’s existence.
Resentment rose in his throat against the men of his Council who had arranged this test to satisfy their own lust for power. Quinnault recognized their motives now, not caution against an unknown princess, but the desire to prove their king in error and thus increase their own power within the Council.
The assassin must come from a different source—someone less subtle, more desperate.
Who stood to gain from the death of this unknown princess?
He dragged his gaze away from Katie to survey the reactions of the men in the court. Lyman, still at the foot of the dais, seemed unmoved by the approach of the dragon. Indeed, a small smile played across his ancient mouth as if this entire exercise was a big joke. The other magicians smiled, too. But differently. They experienced a great joy at the sight of Shayla, much as Quinnault did. They almost swelled with pride and happiness as they filled with dragon magic. He’d seen them do this before whenever a dragon was present.
The Lords of the Council reacted differently. Most with the slight cringing of men faced with their fears but too prideful to run. Some closed their eyes and mumbled prayers. None of them reacted to the dragon with joy—though they had called Shayla to preside over this test.
Slowly, as if moving in a world that measured time differently, Shayla dropped into the courtyard. The bulk of her massive, crystal-like body barely fit between Quinnault and the dais, yet somehow she managed to land gracefully with only a minor breeze to ruffle the king’s hair. Lyman scuttled adroitly out of her way, moving much more quickly than a man of his years should.
Good morning, Shayla, Quinnault greeted the dragon. I hope the demands of my Council did not disrupt your day too much.
(The selection of your queen is important, Quinnault Darville de Draconis. Unlike dragons, humans are not meant to live alone.) Shayla dipped her head in greeting to him. Then she turned her steedlike muzzle toward the small woman on the dais.
Katie stood stiffly, unmoving, as if frozen in time. Her mouth hung partly open in awe. Quinnault saw her perfect white teeth and pink tongue caught in mid-gasp. He was enthralled by her vulnerability. He hadn’t recognized that quality in her before. Her small frame was filled with so much strength and humor there shouldn’t have been room for this weakness. His heart swelled with the need to protect her.
(So, this is the thing you humans call love,) Shayla chuckled in the back of Quinnault’s mind. (My daughter possesses almost too much of it. I can no longer expect her to live the solitary life of a dragon. You must not force this on her.)
He wanted to smile with the shared emotion. He didn’t quite dare. Katie was still vulnerable to both Shayla and the Council. I will do what I can to make sure that my sister, your daughter, is no longer alone. Why had he promised that? He had no idea how he could reverse the edict of exile for Myrilandel and not other rogue magicians.
(Tonight, I will mate with my consorts as you mate with yours. The nimbus will be strong once more. ’Tis the wrong season, but a necessary symbol of our ties to you.)
What I feel for this princess is more than lust of the body, Shayla. I need her at my side every day of my life. I need to share the big decisions and the small daily trivia with her. My life is incomplete without her.
(It is the same, King Quinnault. I am no longer a solitary dragon, but part of a greater whole. Without my consorts and my children, I am less than I am now. Myrilandel has taught me this.) Shayla cocked her head as she examined Katie.
Quinnault sensed puzzlement in the dragon. Then, Shayla turned her attention to Lyman.
“Princess Maarie Kaathliin of Terrania,” Lyman said in a stern and commanding voice.
Katie shook herself free of her paralysis and flicked a glance at the old magician. Her eyes returned quickly to the dragon before her.
“Princess, the mental armor you have erected to block out any chance of illusion is very strong. If we cannot poke holes in your barricades to communicate with you telepathically, then we cannot create an illusion for you. The dragon is real. Touch her and know the truth.”
Katie paused indecisively a moment, shifting her gaze from Lyman to the dragon, over to Quinnault and back to the dragon. After an interminable moment, she lifted her hand and stretched it forward, stopping a finger’s length from Shayla’s muzzle. She bit her cheeks and closed her eyes. Then, resolutely, she stretched the extra distance. Her fingertips brushed the soft fur, then jerked back as if burned. She opened her eyes wide and collapsed into a heap of white linen and tangled limbs.
Quinnault leaped for the dais. In two strides he crossed the distance, shouldering Shayla out of the way. Mutely he lifted Katie’s limp wrist.
His hands shook so badly he couldn’t find her pulse.
Powwell stumbled over a tussock walking backward. He had to keep watching the portal to see if Kalen found her way through it. Nimbulan watched it as well, as if he expected Rollett to walk through it, too. The gate should reopen again soon. The air remained still, without trace of the hot blast from the heart of the volcano.
Ahead of him, the others walked close together, hurrying away from Moncriith’s mercenary patrol.
Myri and Maia pointedly ignored each other. Myri strolled at an easy pace. Her longer legs kept her physically closer to Nimbulan than the Rover woman. Neither of them ever got close enough to the Senior Magician to allow him to touch them, or help them over the increasingly cold and rough path.
At least they’d been able to take warm clothing and a few supplies from the patrol. They would survive in this low pass through the Western Mountain Range. If they stayed ahead of Moncriith’s men.
What about you, Kalen? Where are you now? Do you live? Powwell prayed that the dragongate had sent her elsewhere at the last minute. He couldn’t forget the sight of the hungry lava burning through the bones of a dead man his first day in the pit.
No, Kalen. I won’t believe that happened to you.
He turned his gaze back to the top of the hill where the trees leaned together to form an arched shadow with the pile of weathered rocks. The sun continued to rise, shrinking the shadow to a slim line.
He stumbled again. Moisture gathered in his eyes. Even if Kalen escaped the pit, she couldn’t come here until the sun rose again in the morning to create that arch. Desperate to get away from the boiling lava, she might plunge into one of the hostile environments of desert, storm-tossed sea, or frozen wasteland and perish before she could get back to Hanassa.
His mind kept shying away from those last moments in the dark and close tunnel. He didn’t want to think of the weight of the Kardia pressing on his shoulders or of the way Kalen had run after her familiar, finding the smelly ferret more important than her own safety. He forced himself to remember all the details, as if he memorized a spell he had read in one of Nimbulan’s many books. He reached for Thorny, forgetting to speak to his familiar before touching. The hedgehog hunched in startlement. Hi
s spines pierced Powwell’s hand. Five drops of blood oozed onto his palm. He sucked at them, letting the sting draw more tears from his eyes.
“Just before we stepped through the portal, the guards said ‘There they are! Get the Kaaliph.’ ” He muttered quietly, dredging the memory out with difficulty along with all of the others. “He said ‘Kaaliph,’ not ‘Kaalipha.’ Yaassima must have been captured or killed by Moncriith.” This time he let the others hear his words.
“I think I would have felt her death,” Myri said, stopping abruptly. “Hers or Televarn’s. I . . . knew them both very well. I watched the pit engulf her in that vision, and I sensed nothing.”
“Moncriith as Kaaliph of Hanassa,” Nimbulan said, tasting the words as if seeking poison in them.
Myri lost all color in her normally pale face. She shuddered.
Kalen! Powwell shouted through the void to his friend. Kalen, please live. You have to live.
No one answered. A cold ache started in his throat and spread outward. “I have to go back! I have to know what happened to her.” Powwell started running back up the hill toward the portal. Scarface blocked his passage. The strange magician held his shoulders tightly, preventing him from going any farther.
Powwell beat at him with clenched fists. Desperation turned his breath to sobs. The hands on his shoulders remained firm but gentle.
“The gate is closed and the patrol is waking up, Powwell. You can’t go back through the dragongate.” Scarface shook him slightly, forcing him to think beyond his immediate desire. “I know what you are going through. I lost my family during the wars. They were attacked by the troops of our own lord. He suspected we harbored an escaping soldier from the enemy. Their Battlemages made me watch, wouldn’t let me help my family. I was spared because I was too valuable as a magician. Later I escaped to Hanassa. It’s a pain you never get over, you just learn to live with it.”
“I can’t leave Kalen in Hanassa!” Powwell added mental blasts to his attack on Scarface.
Scarface only shifted his hold to encircle Powwell’s throat from behind.
The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II Page 68
