The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  “What did you want to show me, Master Lucjemm?”

  “On the far side of the island, closest to the Bay and farthest from the city islands,” he said quietly. His glance noted how absorbed Miri and Chastet had become with the luscious fabrics. Gentle pressure of his arm guided Linda away from them.

  She resisted, leaning close to Miri’s ear. “Remember to listen for gossip about a drought, or unrest among the people.

  Miri nodded slightly.

  “You may wander off with him,” Miri replied, cocking her head ever so slightly toward Lucjemm. “We will not be far behind.”

  “Let him think he’s won a victory over you in getting you away from us,” Chastet muttered, barely moving her lips.

  Linda swallowed her smile.

  Curiosity and a need for adventure gave Linda the courage to step away from her ladies and follow Lucjemm. She knew they’d stay out of sight but close-at-hand should Lucjemm become overly familiar.

  Chatting amiably, they wandered the maze of shops and open stalls. Linda tried to memorize the path they took, but quickly abandoned the task as hopeless. Chastet would remember. But how lost could she get on an island of seven acres? All she had to do was follow the river upstream to the next bridge.

  As they progressed, the aisles and alleys became narrower, the cobbles less firm with wider gaps between them. The permanent store buildings became fewer; temporary stalls and tents dominated, and they became smaller, less gaudy, more tattered. The goods they offered grew less costly, less desirable, more used and less new.

  Accents varied from the sharp clatter of Southern rural reaches to the lilting singsong of foreign ports. Then one voice cut through the cacophony. “Rivers to the south running higher than normal spring runoff. But here, can hardly get a canoe through some of the island passages.”

  That didn’t sound right. Linda craned her neck to look at the River Coronnan, the lifeblood of the continent. Too many people and buildings stood between her and the water. Later. On the way home she’d peer more closely at the water levels beneath the bridges.

  Linda glanced around for traces of Miri and Chastet keeping close under the guise of fingering a frayed ribbon or gaudy painted metal cosmetics jar. There. To her right she caught a flash of green brocade, the same color as Miri’s gown.

  Finally, she and Lucjemm fetched up before a plain canvas tent a little larger than its neighbors, a little cleaner, but still not as fine as the ones left behind nearer the city islands and bridges.

  “What could you possibly want here?” Linda asked, almost afraid to examine the lackluster gems, tarnished metal pots, and threadbare cloth.

  “This,” Lucjemm said, picking up a black wooden box the size of a loaf of bread. The boards looked clean and polished. The lid had been inlaid with other colors of wood, also polished to a smooth and gleaming surface. It surpassed all the other goods in a ten-tent radius in quality, and probably in price.

  “I’ve seen others similar to it from more reputable merchants.” She wrinkled her nose at the dominant smell of stale fish and drying seaweed, always prevalent this close to the Great Bay. She tugged on his arm, indicating they should retreat back the way they came. “Miri and Chastet will be wondering where we have gone.”

  “But those other boxes offered by wealthier merchants are usually empty and of less value,” he insisted, drawing her closer to his side, and to the table holding the box.

  “What does this one contain?” She had to admit that her curiosity was getting the better of her good sense.

  He flipped off the hinged lid easily with one hand. They both peered into the interior, lined with layers of fluffy raw wool over a layer of dry straw. A flick of his finger removed the soft nesting fleece to reveal a black egg as big as her two clenched fists. Red lines swirled angrily around the surface.

  Linda drew back, repelled. It was as if that strange egg smelled bad. But it had no smell at all. If she reached out to touch it, she knew it would burn her hand.

  The black lines crawled over the red surface, twining, seeking; growing the power to enthrall . . .

  Linda closed her eyes to break the connection the egg sought. A snap and whir lanced through her mind, like a taut bowstring clumsily released and scraping a burn across her arm.

  Lucjemm cradled the egg easily in his two hands. His eyes glazed as if in deep prayer, or a trance, the soft brown irises darkened with hints of red lines lancing across them. “Father bought one like it for me three years ago. But it . . . This one sings to me. It needs me,” he whispered in awe.

  Linda turned and ran back the way they’d come, to the safety of her friends and the bright gaiety of the real market, not this slovenly and disreputable stall on the edge of the island and probably the law.

  My lovely needs this egg. She says it will give us a strong male worthy of becoming her consort. I remind her that I too need a consort, my princess.

  My lovely remains silent. I do not think she likes Princess Linda. She sees her as a rival for my affections. This is not so. My lovely will always be my first love. My loyalty and protection are hers to command. But I am a healthy man. I need a female of my own.

  The princess will bring us political power. The three of us will rule this land together, united in a common desire to make the land and the people stronger through the changes my lovely and her consorts bring. If they thrive, the land and the people thrive. She needs only a few blood sacrifices to maintain her authority over them.

  Over me . . .

  My mind jerks free of the connection. Something is wrong there. I’m not sure what. But I will have my princess with or without the approval of my lovely. I will ask my father to unite me with my princess. He will see the advantages of the match, even if my lovely is jealous.

  My lovely . . . my lovely loves me as my mother never could. Not my real mother who abandoned me at birth or my adopted mother who rejected me. Only my lovely truly loves me.

  CHAPTER 7

  DA! GLENNDON SUMMONED his father the moment Jaylor ducked through the shimmer in the air that marked the magical barrier protecting the family clearing. He came from the direction of the University, on the far side of the kitchen garden from the cabin, leaning heavily against his twisted staff as if tired—almost collapsed in on himself. His long auburn queue needed re-dressing, badly. Clear evidence that his day in closed session with the Circle of Master Magicians had been grueling. The staff gleamed in the afternoon sunlight, almost quivering on its own, the aftermath of the many, many spells channeled through it within the last few hours. The wood grain had twisted and braided back on itself a dozen times over in a unique pattern—Da’s magical signature.

  In the background, his mother’s gentle and ever-present song faded to a long wistful note and her magic closed the barrier with a snap. She made magic every time she trilled a note. A simple magic reserved for women who nurtured a family. But Mama made it something more, something powerful and awesome.

  Da lifted his head and smiled at her sweet song. His muscles seemed to fill out again, like dried fruit soaked in brandy resuming their natural shape. Mama did that to people. Gave them back to themselves with a song.

  Da . . . da . . . ah . . . ah! Glenndon winced and covered his eyes with one hand as his telepathic hail bounced off his father’s psychic barrier and back into his own brain with the force of a flaming arrow.

  His grip weakened on his heavy ax as his father’s grip on his staff firmed. Slowly, Glenndon placed the blade on the ground, rather than drop it and dull the edge or chop off his own foot.

  “You have to say the words, with your mouth and your throat, Glenndon,” Jaylor said. Again. For the twenty thousandth time. “Not every person has the power to receive or project thought as you do. Not everyone will understand you.”

  This is important!

  So far,
everyone at the University of Magicians and every visitor to the home clearing had understood Glenndon. So far, every person had received his communication, and those who could not reply the same way, spoke. He understood spoken words.

  But forming them? The scars blocking his throat grew thicker every time he tried, making him feel the need to cough and hack them out. But he couldn’t. They were permanently buried inside him.

  He’d tried. Every day since he’d broken free of the epidemic fever. He’d tried and tried again until he spat blood. He was afraid to let the words jump from his mind to his throat and out his mouth. So much easier just to think his words and send them outward than risk the choking and bleeding.

  “If it is important enough you will speak,” Da said wearily, rubbing his eyes. “The healers tell me there is nothing wrong with you anymore.” He made to move past Glenndon toward the hut and his supper.

  I don’t understand how to do it. Help me to understand. Glenndon nearly shouted. The blast of his mental voice made Da cringe and lean more heavily on his staff.

  “I can’t, Glenndon.” Da gritted his teeth, still trying to rub away the pain behind his eyes. “I’m not a healer. I can’t do anything more than I have.” Anger turned Da’s face red and his voice rose. That happened a lot lately. And not just with Glenndon. Any apprentice or journeyman magician who faltered in set tasks risked Jaylor’s wrath and certain punishment; the nastiest, dirtiest, most disgusting chore he could think up—like cleaning up after journeymen who’d celebrated a tricky achievement with far too much ale. Or sluicing out the University drains.

  Glenndon backed up three paces. Not that he ever thought his father would resort to blows. But he let Da know that he feared and respected the Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University.

  “The best physicians in the realm tell me there is nothing physically wrong with you, Glenndon. The scarring is fading to near nothing. Why won’t you speak?”

  Who wanted to hear the inarticulate and painful croaks his throat made after hearing the music and laughter in his mother’s voice?

  Glenndon shrugged. Finally he formed the question. “The dragons?” he mouthed. They need our help!

  But no sound emerged.

  “The dragons have spoken to me. Your conversations with a juvenile can’t have as much information as Baamin, the venerable blue-tip. Learning to speak clearly is more important than anything Indigo told you.”

  But . . .

  “But you and Lukan have traded chores again. He should be chopping wood, building up his muscles. Magic is hard work. We need strong bodies as well as strong minds and talent. And you should be working with the three newest apprentices, not him. Go to them, now. Teach them the proper use and preparation of protective circles by sunset. Two hours from now.” He looked up at the position of the sun just at the top of the tree canopy surrounding the clearing. “If those three mind-blind brats can’t make you speak I don’t know what will.” Da sighed and his shoulders slumped in defeat.

  Apprentice work. I’ve been completing journeyman duties for two years! At least let me have a staff, Glenndon pleaded as he nodded toward his father’s essential tool of magic.

  “You’ve been doing master work for half a year without a staff,” he said evenly, looking toward the cabin rather than at his son.

  Will you make me a journeyman? Glenndon asked hopefully.

  “Not until you learn to speak. You belong neither on journey nor in the Circle until you can speak out loud. Now go work with your new students. They might surprise you with what they can and cannot do, if you teach them correctly.”

  Glenndon raised his eyes in alarm. Not one of the newest apprentices had a scrap of talent. But their families suspected they might. Their villages persecuted them and cast them out, because they might. So the University took them in. As they had taken in so many these last fifteen years—including those who brought the putrid sore throat across the country and killed many. Some learned a trade and settled in new places where no one knew them or their reputation. A few, those too traumatized by the persecution and torture to live outside the protective circles of the University, stayed on, working at whatever they could.

  The University grew, out here in the foothills of the Southern Mountains. The wooden buildings were now almost as large and well populated as the stone edifice had been in Coronnan City before . . .

  Before the dragons flew away and took their magic with them.

  The dragons had come back. But the people of Coronnan still hated and feared solitary magicians—those who couldn’t gather dragon magic. In their minds all magicians were rogue.

  Glenndon picked up the ax and split a log. The best way to get out of a hopeless task, like teaching the “mind-blind brats” magic, was to ignore it. Pretend he hadn’t understood his father’s words.

  “No.” Da stayed his arm with a fierce grip. Then he yanked the ax out of Glenndon’s hands. No matter how tall and strong Glenndon grew, his father was taller, broader across the shoulders, and stronger, because he controlled his physical and magical strength.

  “You understood me, Glenndon. I saw it in your eyes and your mind. Get yourself into a clean robe and begin teaching those boys. Let Lukan chop wood for a while. Maybe the physical work will give him an appreciation for patience.”

  Glenndon opened his eyes wide in question. How could Da block out his projected thoughts and yet keep his mind open enough to listen to his private ones?

  “Your old man still has a few tricks.” Da quirked a smile. “Now get to work. Your proper work.”

  An insistent thrum set all of Glenndon’s senses to humming.

  Someone comes.

  Da raised an eyebrow. “Your mama hasn’t said so . . .”

  “Jaylor, Glenndon, someone is coming up the hill. I don’t recognize him,” Brevelan called from the doorway. The waning sun turned her red hair to the color of living flame, hiding the strands of silver nestled in the tidy knot tied at her nape with a green ribbon that matched her gown. Outlined by the doorway that Glenndon and his Da had to stoop to pass through showed just how tiny she was. Glenndon tried to remember when he’d grown a full head taller than she.

  Her youngest children, Jules, age two, and Sharl, age six, clung to her skirts, peeking from behind her. Jules had his thumb firmly planted in his mouth. Brevelan showed signs of expecting another but had said nothing yet. Her seventh. A lucky number. But according to the dragon lore passed from one senior apprentice down the line to the newest, Shayla had given Brevelan a dragon-dream of only six children.

  All of Glenndon’s younger brothers and sisters had either their mother’s bright red hair or their father’s darker auburn. Except Glenndon. He was the only blond in the family. Sometimes he wondered if he truly belonged in this family any more than he did on Journey or in the Circle of Master Magicians. Maybe he was the outside seventh and the new one in Mama’s belly was the sixth that belonged to the family.

  Glenndon waved acknowledgment to his mother. Now if she demanded he speak, he might make more of an effort to break through the barrier between his mind and his throat. But she never asked. She accepted and loved each of her children without question or reservation, allowing each to develop naturally.

  “The barrier around the clearing is tuned to your mother,” Da mused. “When did you start picking up its vibrations before she did?”

  The day I put a crack in it chasing a witchball you made for me when I was three, Glenndon replied.

  “Well, best you go see who invades our privacy.”

  Everyone in the family could pass through the barrier at will. But only Brevelan and Glenndon seemed able to open the portal for others. Da used to do it. But Glenndon had patched it one too many times and now his father’s magic no longer harmonized with its unique vibration.

  With Da close at his heels, Gle
nndon walked softly toward the edge of the clearing, beyond the vegetable and herb garden into a small copse where an ancient everblue tree grew through a split boulder. The marker rock stood as tall as Glenndon’s hip and as big around as a small hut. Close by he heard the creek chuckle as it rushed to tumble over a six-foot fall.

  Glenndon sent out a mental query.

  The image of a stocky man of middling years wearing royal green and gold, with a tight and intricately braided, four-strand court queue shocked him. His purpose in coming lay buried in a sealed letter inside his tunic next to his heart. Grim determination clouded the man’s aura to all other emotions, even fatigue, after climbing the hill from the village. That magic seal fueled his determination.

  Quickly Glenndon flashed the image to Da, uncertain how to react. He didn’t know this man in royal livery. Yet the family counted King Darville as a friend. Mama kept in touch with Queen Rossemikka through a flame and scrying bowl. Glenndon vaguely remembered having met the king once. A long time ago.

  Da smiled. He waved for Glenndon to open the portal.

  Are you sure?

  “We will always welcome Fred, Glenndon,” Da said, the smile still on his face.

  Who?

  “Fred, King Darville’s personal bodyguard.”

  Glenndon didn’t like that explanation any better than not knowing the man’s identity and purpose. He prepared a spell of confusion to throw at this Fred the moment he crossed the barrier. Then cautiously he hummed an agitated sequence of notes.

  The faint shimmer in the air, so ever-present he barely noticed it anymore, faded. Fred leaned on the tree-split boulder, blinking in surprise.

  “Oh,” he said. “I’ll never get used to you people not being there, then suddenly big as life in front of me.”