A STORM IN THE DESERT
Dragonlinked Chronicles, Volume 3
by
Adolfo Garza Jr.
For the dreamers.
Table of Contents
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Epilogue
Dragonlinked Chronicles
About the Author
Pronunciation Guide
Copyright and License Notices
Prologue
“Did you have a vision?”
Dellia turned to her husband. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to wake you.”
He blinked in the light of the lamp. “What was it about? Should I send a message to someone?”
“No, no. It was a fairly pleasant one, actually.” She turned back to the small desk and slid the shield on the lamp a little more closed. “About Ulthis, I think. There was a crown of lightning.” She shrugged. “I’ve just been trying to get it down on paper.”
“Some of those poems you’ve written about the visions are pretty good, at least to my mind.” He yawned and turned over. “You should think about publishing them.”
Dellia blinked. Publish them? She glanced at the small leather case where she kept all her scribblings.
It was easier to record the visions in poem form, because they were as enigmatic as poetry could be. The ability to record shifting ‘scenes’ and link them into a whole served her well when trying to make sense of them. Though, if she were to publish the poems, they would need titles.
She looked down at the sheet of paper before her. What would this one be called? The other poems she could name later. She and Methon were at their home, the caravan wasn’t on the road during the winter, so there would be plenty of time for that.
What to title it? How about, Dellia’s Dream? Yes. That suited it well.
In a luminous ocean of brilliant stars,
‘Neath a halo of lightning—his silver-forked crown,
A mysterious figure watches and waits.
Will the bestowal be accepted or at all found?
Seemingly cold, impossibly distant,
Yet passion exists, joyous mirth to relentless fury.
So dread looms large. Would there be thunderous ruin,
If the gift be cast off in its glory?
Seekers of hope, knowers of hearts,
The pure, blazing truth theirs to see.
So avail you not of masks, hoods, or cloaks,
Nay, revel in who you’re meant to be.
Fill your head with boundless dreams,
Of futures perfect, bright and bold.
Be true to your center, be true to yourself,
And the soul-bound gift you’ll hold.
But remember this, and remember it well,
His boon brings with it a price.
Should you be one whom the glorious gift chooses,
A good heart on its own won’t suffice.
You will need to be brave, you will need to be strong,
For your deeds may be dangerous and frightening.
But you’ll not be alone, you’ll have his gift,
And the grateful Bearer of Lightning.
Chapter 1
Sulday, Decimy 24, 1874.
Mid-day.
No one had followed down the dim, twisty hallway, so he passed the toilets, quietly opened the door at the end of the corridor, and exited the rear of the Lazy Badger.
Each breath was visible in the winter air as he scanned the yard. It appeared empty. He pulled the coat tighter around him and moved off. A horse nickered somewhere in the stable as he passed. Stepping out of the yard and into the alley, he glanced back at the tavern.
Still alone.
He’d occasionally felt as if he were being trailed on his return to Delcimaar, but perhaps it had been nerves or lack of sleep. At any rate, it was good to be back home. Once he stashed the items he could come back and finish his ale. The Badger served the best beer in the city, and it had been sorely missed.
A few narrow alleys later, the Bank of Delcimaar towered before him. Even the back of it was impressive. Tall, its granite walls and pillars rose eight stories, the building was topped every few feet with gargoyles. They sat above the pillars, carved eyes in stony horned heads gazing malevolently down at passers-by. When it rained, the down-spouts they perched upon made it look as if they were pissing on those they held in contempt.
That matched the personality of some of those inside. Only a little money? Don’t bother entering our doors. He’d overheard more than one clerk speaking ill of those they considered below them. Alas, the bank was one of the few places in the large city where belongings could be stored relatively securely. Of course, he couldn’t do so as himself. With a few forged documents, though, and clothing selected to create the right ‘look,’ a convincing enough persona could be created.
Leaving the rear yard for the side, he noted no guards or anyone else. As there were no entrances to protect and no windows for five stories, guards were not needed in the side yards. And, too, not many people used anything but the main front entrance. All this generally left him walking alone here, as he was now.
Flipping his coat inside out revealed a fine, if somewhat rumpled, jacket of a fallen highborn. He buttoned it up to the neck and used a leather cord to pull his hair back into a tail. Passing an ornamental bush, he selected a wilted winter flower from among the new blooms, plucked it, and tucked it into the lapel. His fingernails were just grimy enough and unkempt, and his face hadn’t been touched by a razor in three days. Perfect.
His gaze took in everything as he walked in the front doors and into the lobby, the middle of which was an open atrium for four floors above. Two guards at the door, five in the lobby, and he noted others walking past on balconies above. Not all of them were dressed as such, many wore plain clothing. Still, guards they all were. A fair number were sorcerers. Absolutely no evidence of martial ability, but, like their visibly-or-not armed compatriots, their gazes held absolutely no doubt, only the surety of someone who fears very little.
As for ordinary people, customers stood queued in lines at some of the tellers, waited on benches for some service or another, sat in chairs before desks, or walked about the building on their business. Clerks, tellers, and the occasional manager sat at desks, sat behind windows serving queues, or wandered the floor.
Noting nothing out of the ordinary, he walked over to the deposit box clerk.
“Master Gilfin, so good to see you.” The clerk smiled at him. A genuine smile, too. “How goes the research for your book?”
“It goes well,” he said. “I’d like to put more pages of my manuscript in the safe deposit box, actually.” He patted the leather satchel at his side.
“Of course, of course. This way, if you please.”
His scuffed leather shoes, they fit in well with the persona, made nary a sound on the marble
floor as he followed the clerk. The young man led him down a set of stairs and through a wood-paneled hallway. They passed three guards that he could see, and another, hidden but casting a bit of shadow around a corner, before they entered the separate vault. The walls within were lined with rows and rows of little doors, each with two keyholes.
They stopped before his little door, number 1012.
“Your key?”
He fished the small thing out of his pocket. The four tiny numerals stamped into it were shinier than the dull, worn surface. He inserted his key into the lock on the right, and the clerk inserted the left key. They glanced at each other and turned them simultaneously. After pulling open the small door, the clerk removed the metal box from within and handed it to him.
Once the clerk left him alone in a small viewing room, he opened the flat container. The only contents within were a small plate of metal, which happened to weigh as much as perhaps a hundred sheets of paper, and the pad of leather upon which it sat.
He opened his satchel, removed the items, and placed them within the deposit box. After a last glance inside, he let out a breath and closed the lid. He updated an entry in his investigation notebook, tucked the small leather journal away, and called for the clerk.
At the side of the bank—still free of curious eyes—he removed the faded flower and discarded it. He reversed the jacket and then untied the leather cord. With a shake of his head and a pass through his now freed hair with a hand, he entered the yard behind the bank and made for the alley.
Back at the Lazy Badger with only half an hour passed, he returned to his ale. One last task and he could head home.
“Boy,” he called to the youth serving tables.
The lad ambled over. “More ale for you, sir?”
“I want to place a dog wager.” He pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and dug through them. They weren’t easy to see in the muted light of the tavern, though the numerals engraved on their faces shimmered softly. He slid a 5 pale across the table, its denomination glowing silvery-blue. “Burnt Toast to win the first race, the second race, and the third race.”
The oval coin vanished into the boy’s pocket. “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir, but that’s a fool’s bet. A dog winning three races in a row? And, too, only a desperate owner would enter their dog into three races one after the other.”
“Just place the bet, lad.”
“As you say.” The boy shrugged and left.
The excellent ale was good enough company while waiting.
Stepping outside, he crumpled the wager ticket and tossed it. The meeting was set. A sudden gust made him shiver. It hadn’t snowed here recently, based on what little there was on the ground, but winter would hold for at least another month, maybe two. Lifting up his collar, he unhitched his horse and headed for home.
A carriage approached along the cobbled road, and he reined Misty to the side, out of the way. When beyond it, he got her up to a trot. He’d been gone for months. It would no doubt be freezing in his place. A roaring fire would take care of that. Then he could sleep in a soft bed in glorious warmth. No sticks, twigs, and rocks poking through a thin camp bed. No cold winds chilling bones despite a campfire. No wolves chasing and stalking him. Yes, he would thoroughly enjoy this night. Then there would be the meeting in the morning where he’d reveal his suspicions.
Brows drawn together, he thought about what it would mean if he was right. It was a direct threat against the nation and just as dire as physical danger, as war. The events following the recent equine flu proved that. All the evi—
Someone was watching him. Not close by, but they were there, somewhere.
At the next cross-street, he nudged Misty to take a left. A casual glance revealed nothing. There were people on foot and on horseback, drivers atop carriages whose metal-shod wheels clacked along the cobbled road, and newsies hawking the Delcimaar Daily News, but no one appeared to be following, and no one made note of him.
He frowned. Had he been mistaken? Shaking his head, he returned to his thoughts and continued out of the city.
By the time his cottage appeared ahead, he’d gone over all his findings again, just as he had nearly every day on the way back. Whatever he thought of the evidence, tomorrow he’d get fresh eyes on it and a fresh perspective. Then they could go from there.
After stabling Misty—he fed, watered, and blanketed her—he cleared soggy snow from the woodpile and grabbed an armload of mostly dry wood for the fireplace. He didn’t want to have to leave the soon-to-be warm house for any reason that night.
On the back porch, he kicked mud and slush free from his boots before setting down the wood. After unlocking the door, the lock turned surprisingly easily, he brought the firewood in and examined the fireplace in the bedroom. It seemed safe enough, no birds or bats had taken up residence in his absence.
Later, with a fire chasing away the chill, he sat in a large chair, feet toward the blaze, reviewing his notes as he leafed through the small book. It didn’t take long to get everything ordered in his mind for the morning’s meeting. And a good thing, too. The ale was hitting harder than expected.
With heavy eyes, he began to change for bed. At the dresser, he emptied his pockets onto the Videns Tray, and then stared. The small promotional button, it had a pin on the back so it could be worn, was glowing brightly.
“Barbs and blades,” he muttered.
It had been given to him by a child not long after he arrived in Stronghold months ago. The boy had been handing them out to passers-by on the street. Several people were doing so while they talked about jobs lost to the horse plague and how the city council needed to do something about it. He’d stuffed the little thing in his pocket and completely forgotten about it. We Need Work was stamped on its front, though the Videns glow made it hard to read now.
Someone was following him. And had been for ages. This button must have been given to the boy, who then—
He shook off thoughts about how he’d been saddled with the tracer item. He had little, if any, time to waste. With his return to Delcimaar, they’d know this part of his investigation was complete.
As he hurried to the main room, he flipped through the small notebook and carefully removed two pages. Wadding them up, he stuffed them in his mouth. If needed, they could be swallowed.
He glanced about the cluttered chamber. Where could he secret the key? Using his normal hidey-holes was pointless. Despite being locked, he was certain his cottage had been thoroughly searched. The lock had been oiled, he now realized, the easier to pick it. And whoever was watching him, they were well-funded. Tracer enchantments were no mere simple spells. One part of him felt deep satisfaction. This proved he was right about where the evidence led. As such, however, he should have expected this level of opposition.
While trying to think of a place to conceal the key, he unshielded a few sconces and a floor lamp. If he was going to have to fight someone, he damned well wanted to be able to see clearly. There weren’t a lot of windows in the cottage, and nightfall approached.
He spotted a tall, thick candle sitting on the floor next to a bookcase. He grabbed it and hastened to the low table in front of the couch. After clearing everything off save the two lamps, he used a quick spell on the candle. Once lit, he tilted it sideways and watched wax drip on the table.
“Come on,” he whispered, watching the molten wax slowly collect.
After a suitable amount had finally pooled, he pressed the small key in its center and dribbled more on top. Once the key was covered, he held the base of the candle in the cooling wax until it hardened enough to secure the lit candle in place. He unshielded the lamps that sat at either end of the long table and stood back, nodding.
That should be enough for Gella, he thought, if worse came to worst.
A quiet, sorcerous chime lived briefly in the room. The intrusion enchantment had been tripped. His shadow would be in the cottage soon.
He quickly tucked the notebook into one of the better sec
ret compartments. It left something to be found, if it came to that, and when found, it might reduce the desire to search overly hard elsewhere.
There was movement behind, reflected in a glass decanter.
Garathel’s great cock, this person was good. There hadn’t been a damned sound!
Before he could even turn, something struck the back of his head and unconsciousness wrapped him in its dark embrace.
+ + + + +
Nesch Takatin sat in Capu Cirtis’s office, watched over by Anais, the Capu’s steward. The woman never looked at Takatin for long, merely long enough to determine what was being asked of her. Still, sitting here alone in the silence with her was annoying.
At least she kept the goblet from going empty. Which was in itself a mystery. How did the steward always know exactly when it was half-empty?
These rooms were larger and more numerous than his own. Fitting, he supposed, for the leader of the Corpus Order. Expensive rugs covered the floor and fine tapestries the walls. Even the chair he sat in was handsome, though it could use some work on the cushion. Years, decades perhaps, of people sitting upon it as they waited for the Capu had flattened the thing. He shifted in the seat, trying for a more comfortable position.
If the gods were good, Capu Cirtis should return from his visit to Daelon’s Shrine soon. Two bells had passed since the start of dinner, and most people would be heading home for the night. The shrine should be emptying.
Takatin disliked going there himself. The number of vendors near the place bothered him. The hawkers gave the place too much of a festival feel. The food and drink vendors weren’t even the worst. It was those selling supposed holy relics that irritated him. And those who purchased from them irked him even more. It was all a little . . . disrespectful.
He took a sip of wine and chuckled.
Me, complaining about—
Anais refilled his goblet.
Damn the woman, how did she know?
A deep, reverberating gong announced the Capu’s return.
“Oh,” the Capu said when he walked in the room. “I apologize for keeping you waiting.” He turned to his pesan, who trailed behind. “You did not tell me we had a meeting with the Nesch.”
A Storm in the Desert: Dragonlinked Chronicles Voume 3 Page 1
