The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1

by Irene Radford

  Glenndon looked up, following the line of Fred’s pointing finger. A bright ball of blue and gold magic roiled across the sky, just beneath the light cloud covering. It continued south, traversing the land without anything to block it or break it apart.

  If Da sees that he’ll come after us and knock me senseless.

  “Your father is there, just crawling upward.” Fred shifted his point to a tall man with silver-tipped gold hair. He had managed to get to his hands and knees, shaking his head clear of the magic backwash. Beside him stood a dark-haired girl about the same age as the twins.

  She shifted position, scouting the field of fallen soldiers and frightened steeds trying to break free of their restraints. Her feet shuffled until they rested atop the same ley line he had tapped. Did she know she did that?

  Then the sun caught new highlights of color in her hair. No two strands seemed to be the same. An aura as multicolored as her hair, in shifting shades of rust, gold, and brown encircled her. A lovely girl, graceful in every movement, confident in her carriage.

  His heart flipped over as he drank in the sight of her.

  Who’s that? He couldn’t be sure he sent that thought correctly. He was so tired the ideas slurred and blended together.

  “There, beside your father, my boy, is your sister, Princess Royale Rosselinda de Draconis.” Fred steadied Glenndon, making sure he could stand on his own before heading off toward the king and his daughter with long strides. “I think you’ve got some explaining to do,” he called over his shoulder.

  Did I save Shayla?

  No one answered.

  He took one cautious step forward, then another. His stomach growled and ached with emptiness. Chills crept up his spine from his belly, befuddling his brain. He needed food, and fast. Absently he pawed through his pack for the emergency rations all magicians carried. Throwing magic was a lot of hard work. His fingers closed around a packet of jerked meat mixed with berry pulp and some hard journey bread. One bite tasted like the best food ever concocted. The second bite eased the chill. He’d eaten half the rations by the time Fred reached his king and helped him to his feet.

  Should he save the rest for the next emergency? He didn’t know when he’d get the chance to eat again, and his mother wasn’t here to provide for him.

  His mother.

  His middle ached even more at the thought of leaving her behind.

  He looked at the bread and decided to save it. He needed the jerked meat to replenish his body now, or he’d never walk as far as the center of the vale to meet the king, let alone back to the city.

  He was just about to begin the trek down the hillside when the soldiers began to recover. Three of them, more richly dressed then the bulk of the men and each carrying a sword instead of a crossbow or pike, turned to face him. Angry scowls marred their faces.

  He needed to get out of here, now.

  He had no magical reserves. Another transport spell was far beyond his strength.

  “You there! Who are you and what did you do?” a robust middle-aged man called. He kept his sword at his side, neither sheathing nor raising it.

  Glenndon here. His greeting left his mind in a bright flowery image designed to assuage any fear or mistrust. He made sure the image was clearer than usual and carried the scent of fresh roses.

  It careened back into his mind in a blinding flash of shattered crystals.

  He winced and dropped to one knee, clutching his temples and clamping his eyes shut. That didn’t help much.

  What had happened? It reminded him of when Da had put up a psychic barrier to block his thoughts and force him to speak. The barrier in this man’s mind was stronger. More like a blank cliff of reflective rock.

  “I asked who you are and where did you come from! What’s the matter with you? Are you too stupid to know what I say?” the man shouted as he stalked toward Glenndon.

  Glenndon opened his mouth to reply. A weird croaking sound burned the back of his throat. He shut down the impulse to speak before his throat burned raw and bled.

  “An idiot!” the man sneered and sheathed his sword. “Harmless.” He returned his focus to the still dazzled soldiers. “On your feet, all of you. We need to sort this out. Did anyone wound or kill that ravening beast?”

  “Shayla is not a ravening beast, Lord Jemmarc.” A new voice, cold and disdainful. “You all still live. You wouldn’t if Shayla wanted you dead for any reason, including defending herself from those who would execute her without thought or reason. Be grateful that her flame only burned the arrows shot at her.”

  Glenndon felt the anger rolling off the tall blond man who strode up the hill with Fred and the pretty princess in tow.

  The king. His father.

  But not his Da.

  “Your Grace, I beg to differ . . .” The richly dressed man bobbed his head in some kind of greeting. Not the formal bow Glenndon’s mother had taught him.

  Something was very wrong here.

  The king’s eyes locked on Glenndon. A half smile tugged at his lips. “Lord Jemmarc, take your ragtag army of second sons, nephews, and younger brothers of the lords back to the city.”

  Jemmarc, the man who had called Glenndon an idiot, defied his king for the space of three heartbeats before issuing orders to gather the steeds.

  “P’pa,” the princess tugged at her father’s sleeve. Then she tilted her head in Glenndon’s direction.

  “Leave two extra steeds for us,” King Darville ordered, still not taking his eyes off Glenndon. “And those who dared shoot at a dragon under the protection of the crown will lose rank and pay. They will also walk back to the city. Their steeds will do quite well to transport my bodyguard and our guest. I am in a merciful mood today.”

  Finally he broke his fixed gaze upon Glenndon and transferred his attention to his daughter. The smile he gave her reminded Glenndon of the loving way Da gazed at the twins when they weren’t looking.

  Glenndon didn’t have to read the man’s thoughts to know how much he cared for her, or to know how complex his emotions were at this moment. Even through all that, the king’s mind worked, calculating, assessing, thinking ahead, planning and discarding plans as rapidly as Glenndon gathered spells—when he was well-fed and rested.

  “Fred, take Princess Rosselinda to the next rise and return with our steeds, please.”

  “Yes, Your Grace.” Fred bowed properly and offered his arm to the girl with the fabulous multicolored hair.

  She tossed her father a reproachful glance as she traipsed off ahead of her escort.

  “Your chance will come, Little Lindy. I would meet with Glenndon privately a moment,” the king called after her.

  How do you know that I am Glenndon?

  “You couldn’t be anyone else. I can read your thoughts because even though the original treaty among the Provinces forbids a monarch from having or using magic, we all have inherited a small amount. It is how the Coraurlia and the dragons recognize us. Do not expect anyone else at court to be able to understand you, not even Fred. He’s good at guessing what people think from their posture. You must speak to communicate.”

  Glenndon nodded, not knowing what else to do. His glance strayed briefly toward Jemmarc. So, the backlash of his communication was the reaction of a truly mind-blind man.

  The newest trainees at the University looked to have more talent than any of the lords.

  “Yes I know that you have not spoken aloud since you were ill at the age of three. I also know that the healers have pronounced your throat clear and clean,” the king continued. “Perhaps when faced with the mind-blind day in and day out you will overcome your reluctance,” the king said quietly. “I escaped the worst of the epidemic, but I was sick and I know how much it hurt to talk, how hard it was to force myself to stretch my throat back into working order. It must be one
hundred times worse for you.”

  Glenndon’s heart warmed a bit, pushing aside his resentment. At last he’d found someone who understood!

  The soldiers and minor lords spread out across the hills and vales, chasing steeds that shied and pranced away from any movement toward them. None of the men appeared to be listening, or interested in the king or . . . or his guest.

  “I had hoped our first meeting would be . . . more peaceful, if not private. Nothing at court is truly private.” The king took one hesitant step forward, hands extended slightly, as if offering a more intimate greeting but not sure how it would be returned.

  Glenndon wanted to accept the king’s affection. He relived a moment of the fierce and intense hugs his parents and siblings passed around at any excuse. Valeria’s slender fingers touched him most deeply because she depended upon him for so much. But this man, the king, was not family. He wanted to claim Glenndon as a son.

  Glenndon was not ready to name him father, despite that moment of understanding.

  This “ragtag” army answers to me. None other. Someone else pays them, but they understand me. I too am less than a legitimate first son and heir. They know my motives and agree with my plans. None of them shall suffer for shooting at the dragon. I ordered the deed. I alone shall walk back to the city. I alone shoulder the responsibility. But only as far as my army can see. No one else must know who leads here. Not yet. But soon.

  CHAPTER 13

  JAYLOR RAN HIS FINGER down two lists of names. Master Robb had proposed five apprentices ready for advancement. For the first time Glenndon’s name appeared on the annual review of student progress. He let his finger linger on the name, should he run a line through it? Ritual required the candidate be present during the annual ceremony of giving the gifts of a medium blue robe to replace the light blue, a slightly larger piece of glass for scrying, and a journey to complete the training.

  Glenndon could not appear for the ceremony. Nor had he learned to speak.

  On the other list, Marcus had put Lukan’s name at the top. Jaylor agreed that his second son—he could not get it out of his head that Glenndon was not his first—had accomplished enough over the last year to advance. Though not as strong or imaginative as his brother, he completed his assignments within allotted time periods. No better or worse than his classmates. Still, was it fair to advance the younger boy before his brother?

  He raised his head from the list, listening to the air and touching his own Master-sized scrying glass, praying for word, from any one of half a dozen sources, that Glenndon and Fred had arrived safely at court.

  Nothing.

  But there was a firm step and clatter of boot heels in the corridor outside his office.

  “Guess what I found!” Robb announced with glee. He strode in without knocking or asking permission. He’d always been precise in concocting a spell and in protocol. Until he and Maigret had gone adventuring on their own journey to explore the Big Continent and ports unknown. Marcus was the freewheeling, free-thinking, rely-on-his-luck magician in his youth. Then he met Vareena and settled in to be an excellent husband, father, and teacher. Best friends, Marcus’ and Robb’s talents and personalities complemented each other.

  “It had better be good, and interesting,” Jaylor growled. He had no need to worry about Glenndon. But he did, and worry always made him snappish.

  “It is. Oh, it is very good.” Robb plunked himself down in a chair facing the desk without invitation. Tall and lean—though not as tall as Jaylor—he was dressed in mud- and sweat-stained dark blue leathers—master blue—as if just returned from his latest outing to conquer the Krakatrice where they nested. Beneath his arm he cradled a painted wooden box. Garish red, blue, green, yellow, and purple designs flowed around the container, oblivious to the restrictions of corners and angles.

  “Rover designs,” Jaylor muttered, less angry with the world as he surmised the contents.

  “Rover designs indeed, straight from the hands of Zolltarn, their chief. He’s getting very old, by the way, and probably won’t rove much longer.”

  “Zolltarn would rather die in his boots on the road with the wind in his face than peaceably in his bed—which would be inside one of their sledge conveyances. Stargods! He was older than I am now when I first met him twenty years ago. He is nearly ancient. So what did he give you?”

  “Sold me. When has a Rover ever given away anything?” Robb cocked his head mischievously. “I’ll ask for reimbursement, seeing as how the gold came out of my own pocket . . .”

  Jaylor reached for a pouch he kept hidden behind him among a stash of scrolls and empty inkwells. Then paused. “What is in the box?” he demanded. Though he thought he knew.

  “This!” Robb lifted the lid to display the contents: a dozen finely flaked spear heads in glistening obsidian, the black volcanic glass nearly glowing with remainders of the heat of its forging.

  “At last,” Jaylor sighed in relief. “Did you retrieve the spearhead I gave you this morning?”

  “Of course. These things are too dear to let even one of them get lost. Broken maybe, but not lost.”

  “And did you kill the latest Krakatrice?”

  “Barely. Very tricky situation.”

  Jaylor’s spine tingled in warning.

  “The villagers had decided an orphan girl of about twelve was a witch. She had no family to defend her. So they let the hatchling snake feed off her fresh blood.” Both men shuddered. “Maigret is working a healing spell and smothering her with motherly love. Vareena will take her in. My house is already full with our own two boys and half a dozen girl apprentices. If anyone can banish the hideous memories, those two can.”

  “And did the village men . . . did they force their favorite ‘cure’ for witchcraft upon her before they fed her to the monster?” Jaylor didn’t want to think about the cruelty of ignorant peasants who took the law into their own hands to satisfy their own lustful and violent needs.

  “I thought we disproved that ancient prejudice long ago,” Robb muttered. “Magicians do not lose their talent or powers if they engage in sex before achieving master Status.”

  “You and Marcus certainly didn’t,” Jaylor said on a smile. He had to look hard for anything good that might come of this situation. He had too many refugees who either had no talent or had had it abused out of them by torture. More and more, angry villagers declared evil and sorcerous any person they couldn’t control, or who had no one to defend them.

  “Seems like I remember you disproved the old saw long before Marcus and I did.” Robb laughed, but he ended on a yawn and wince as he shrugged his tired shoulders. Clinging to a dragon and then fighting a giant snake—even a young one—was hard work. “So what’s the news from Coronnan City?”

  “Nothing yet. Glenndon has only been gone a few hours.”

  “If I remember the capital rightly, he’s going to be so overwhelmed with new sights, sounds, smells, and wonders he won’t even think about notifying you that he’s safe.”

  “Let’s hope. In the meantime, are you serious about advancing him to journeyman?”

  “Wouldn’t have put his name on the list if I weren’t.”

  “Let me think on this a bit.”

  “Not too long, or you’ll lose him as both a son and a magician. The same goes for Lukan.” With that, Robb levered himself to his feet, stretched his back, and left without any formal or polite good-byes, yawning all the way.

  Half an hour later, a huge ball of blue magic rolled across the sky above the clearing. Jaylor watched in wonder as the fire within wove threads of magic. All kinds of magic. He saw the glittery power of the dragons, all colors and yet no color at all, just like Shayla, the dragon matriarch. Ley line blue coiled around that, seeking, questing connections to each other, and trying to find a ground into the Kardia beneath his feet. And something
else. Something he’d never seen before.

  “What’s happening?” Lillian straightened from digging weeds in the tuber patch. She shielded her eyes from the glare of magic and light with one grubby hand.

  “Can’t you see it?” Valeria asked her twin.

  “I can’t see anything beyond the sun’s glare.” Lillian bent back to her task.

  Jaylor watched his daughter a moment as she pulled leafy greens with long roots from her own section of the garden as well as Valeria’s. Lillian frequently shouldered her twin’s chores to spare her strength.

  Valeria raised her arms, palms flat, thumb and little finger slightly curved to gather as much of the power within the fireball as she could. A thin tendril of the magic twined and spat straight down into her hands. Her body grew taller, fuller, more vibrant with the flow of energy, like parched ground absorbing rain. Some of it spilled off and rerooted into the land, where it belonged.

  Jaylor watched the purple shadows around her eyes fade and pink flush her skin as her lungs filled with air. She relaxed her knees and let her feet flex and rise in their own dance of thanksgiving. The chronic drag of fatigue vanished.

  He worried about the girl. Never strong, she only flourished when in physical contact with her twin or when drinking in wild magic.

  His frown deepened, as much in frustration at not knowing how to help Valeria as the weirdness in and around that massive fireball.

  He turned his attention back to the ball of magic because he might be able to do something about that. As he watched, it began to fragment and weaken. Only then did he see other elements of power. Unnatural red fire that should be the green and lazy tendrils of something gentle and nurturing.

  Did he hear music in the distance? Not unusual. Brevelan sang all the time, weaving her own nurturing magic into their lives. Stargods only knew if he’d have survived this long without her calming his erratic heartbeat and cooling his rush of temper. But this was different, a chiming melody that did not spring from a human throat. More like the Kardia and the sky exchanging a joke.