“I ordered armed guards to escort Moncriith and his motley cult from the camp. He won’t trouble you again. Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos agreed to my orders.” He smiled slightly as his eyes held hers in a gentle gaze.
“You think me safe while I am under your protection. But what happens when I leave?” She broke the eye contact after a moment, uncertain of his intentions. The voices had promised her a home in the east. How much longer must she travel to find it?
She rolled to her side and tried to sit up, eager to be gone. Amaranth protested her movement with a squeak. Her stomach bounced and pain stabbed between her eyes.
“You aren’t going anywhere for a while.” The magician eased her back onto the mattress. His hand lingered on her shoulder. The strength in his fingers reassured her where his words hadn’t. “I estimate at least a week for you to recover enough to get out of bed and move around a little. In a moon or more we will discuss your homeward journey—if the roads are still passable.” His green eyes begged her to agree with him.
“No. I must leave before nightfall.” She tried to sit up again but couldn’t lift her head from the soft pillow. This time she didn’t break the eye contact with him.
She’d heard much of this man’s argument with Moncriith, though she’d been deep within her trance at the time and couldn’t respond. Nimbulan, chief Battlemage for the lord. He and his ilk had directed the battle, determined who lived and who died. Many of the injuries in the hospital came from magic. She’d stayed away from those men, unsure how to help them. She knew only how to heal wounds inflicted by accident.
“I think you will stay, Myrilandel. I will train you to use your talent properly. Coronnan has need of healers.” He stepped behind the shielded candle. His face and aura fell into shadow. “I have other duties of some urgency to attend to now. I’ve left you a little clear broth and a mug of wine. Don’t drink too much too fast. I’ll be back to check on you and bring you solid food when you have rested. Some yampion pie, perhaps?” He smiled with the charm of a little boy trying to wheedle sweets out of a stern parent.
Myri wanted to smile with him. Stewed yampion roots blended into a sweet custard of goat’s milk and eggs was one of her favorite foods.
Dizziness attacked as she lifted her head to watch him leave. The same dizziness she’d felt as she ran from the village toward the battle. The sight of women dancing around the Equinox Pylon with only children as partners and a single drum for accompaniment haunted her.
“Magician,” Myri called to him as he backed into the shadows. “You asked not why I came here, only where I came from.”
“Why did you come to this particular battle scene when we have been at war for three generations?” He stepped into the light once more. He raised his palm again, almost as if he gathered information through it. His aura glowed blue with honest concern for her. She wanted to trust him. Didn’t quite dare.
“I was sent.” She had to deliver her message and leave. The voices would guide her to a home where she would be safe from Moncriith and others who needed to hurt her.
“Who sent you?” His hand jerked closed into a fist then opened again—as if caught in a spasm.
“I had a vision. I was sent to remind you of the cost of these battles. In the village three ridges south of here, the women must honor the Equinox in unbalanced numbers. There are no more men to partner them. No more men to father new lives, to plow and plant, to fish or hunt. No more men. They have all died in your battles.”
“Stargods! The Stargods have sent you?” He crossed himself in the accepted manner and closed his eyes as if in prayer.
“I think that you as a magician, a man who needs rituals to perform magic, are the one I must tell of this terrible perversion of nature. You know rituals must be performed properly or not at all. The imbalance of dancers and drummers means the coming year will bring famine to all, including your precious army.”
“This news troubles me. I must think on it.” The magician turned without another word and faded into the darkness. A puff of wind from the doorway told her that he had left the pavilion.
Relief at his absence relaxed her clenched fists and tight neck muscles. Such a vibrant man. His aura filled the tent, with no room left for her own. And yet his departure left her with a curious sense of emptiness. Loneliness. She wanted to look into those vivid green eyes of his and read his secrets.
“I will sup and rest, but then we must leave, Amaranth.” She stroked his fur, making certain his wings remained concealed. “You will have to hunt for me on the journey. I’m not strong enough yet to forage for myself. Moncriith may come back. Nimbulan and his Battlemages cannot tame my talent. They will demand I give up my life to heal the men they order into battle if I stay.”
Chapter 5
Nimbulan paused outside his pavilion. The witchwoman’s words troubled him. He needed time and privacy to meditate on all that had happened since Keegan’s death.
“What will it cost me to retain you as my personal magician and adviser?” Quinnault de Tanos greeted him without preamble.
“I am not like other magicians, for sale to any lord with the right price.” Nimbulan pulled his attention away from the problems of a demon-hunting Bloodmage and the mysterious witchwoman who commanded more magic than any three of his assistants combined.
Magic combined. If only . . . No. ’Twas impossible. Or was it? He stared past de Tanos at the water clock. His vision in the void beckoned him once more. The crystal all color/no color umbilicals of life reminded him of Myrilandel’s white-blond hair, visible only after he’d removed her kerchief. . . . He’d never encountered those particular umbilicals before. Both the pulsing symbols of life and Myrilandel’s hair reminded him of Quinnault’s coloring, but the lord’s hair was darker and coarser. Impossible to tell for sure in the wavering candlelight.
“I swore loyalty to the clan of Astrismos eighteen years ago. My oath is important to me,” Nimbulan replied instead of voicing his speculations. He sank into his comfortably padded folding chair. Someone, probably Ackerly, had placed hot flannels in the backrest. Just what his aching back needed. Now to ease his aching mind with meditation.
“I do not believe that Kammeryl d’Astrismos deserves your loyalty,” Quinnault said.
“He’s the best choice among many bad ones to lead a united Coronnan. He is fair to his followers, unyielding to those who betray him. Strong in the face of enemies. People flock to his side . . .”
“For protection because he is strong,” de Tanos interrupted. “Not because he is loved. What kind of leader will he be when there are no wars?”
“There are always wars.” Nimbulan heaved a weary sigh. War had reigned throughout Coronnan for three generations. He’d never known life without war. “If we do not fight other armies, then we fight the weather, famine, disease.”
When the numbers of dancers and drummers are unbalanced famine will follow, the girl had said. No more men. A headache pounded behind his eyes to the rhythm of the last phrase. No more men.
Would his remaining apprentices have the chance to grow up to be men?
“Speaking of hunger, I must finish my meal and sleep again.”
The Peacemaker didn’t seem to understand the broad hint. Nimbulan wondered if he’d have to risk rudeness and ask Lord Quinnault to leave. He desperately needed to think on today’s events. He also needed to check the boys, make sure they were all safely tucked into bed.
“You proposed that all magicians band together and refuse to go to war.” Quinnault de Tanos leaned forward. A jumping pulse in his neck betrayed eagerness to pursue the subject.
“An idea only, not thought through to a conclusion.” Nimbulan’s headache pounded. No more men. Unbalanced rituals.
“Think out loud, Nimbulan. Your reputation for wisdom is almost as legendary as your prowess with magic. Coronnan needs whatever small possibility of peace you can offer.”
“I prefer to say no more until the idea has been thought through.
Tomorrow I may have something to offer you.” He watched the clock again. Involuntarily, his palms turned upward on the chair arms, opening to new thoughts and ideas. His awareness of reality vanished. He saw only the clock’s symmetry and motion.
Symmetrical rituals. Lords pulled away from the perfectly balanced dances by magicians enticing them into chaotic patterns and violence. . . . Equinox dances falling out of symmetry without enough men to fill the places. . . .
“Twice in the last hour I have been accused of perpetuating the wars,” he whispered. “By Moncriith and by the girl. Are they right?”
“I leave tonight. We need to talk now,” Quinnault interrupted his meditation.
Nimbulan blinked rapidly, trying to grasp the present reality rather than his vision. “In the teeth of this storm? Your steed will be mired before you travel a league. I don’t need to look into the fire through my glass to foresee a dangerous chill at the end of such a journey. If you complete it alive.”
If you can leave, so can the lovely witchwoman. Before she answers all my questions.
“D’Astrismos won’t discuss a treaty. Perhaps Hanic will, if I catch him before he walls himself into his fortress for the winter.”
Nimbulan peered at his companion. If only he could see something of the man’s aura. . . . But he couldn’t. Trust must build on other information. Reputation and tonight’s brief acquaintance.
After a long moment he gave in to the impulse to confide in this austere man. The day’s events had been too disturbing for him to sort through alone. “When you studied for the priesthood, before your family died and you assumed the lordship, did you have enough magic to access the void?”
“Only by clinging to my tutor’s aura; never on my own.”
A cautious answer. Every priest of the Stargods had to have a least a little magic talent to qualify for the revered calling. Few great magicians—those able to draw power from the ley lines welling up from the core of Kardia Hodos—stayed in the priesthood. Spiritual vows confined their power too much to satisfy them. On the other hand, minor magicians either became assistants to men with major talent, as Ackerly had to Nimbulan, or they became priests. Was Quinnault de Tanos a strong magician practicing in secret, or a very minor talent who had left his studies to assume lordship of his clan as he claimed?
The girl spoke the truth. We have wasted generations of men on these wars. If there is to be peace, I must grasp this opportunity while I have it. The girl and this lord are connected somehow. Is it their destinies or their pasts that mingle?
“Lord Quinnault, you have seen in the void how past, present, and future become one. You have known your soul stripped of masks so that every thought and plan is revealed, even those you did not realize you possessed.”
Quinnault nodded. His mouth turned down, and his eyes took on a hard glint. De Tanos’ experience with the symbolic life-path choices apparently had been unpleasant. Shadows played over his angular skull and once more took on the illusion of an otherworldly creature. Was his umbilical an iridescent crystal or some other more natural color?
Nimbulan wished for the strength to whisk Quinnault into the void and see for himself who and what the lord was. Until his body recovered, however, he’d have to rely on words and instinct. He couldn’t help Myrilandel either until he replenished his reserves.
“While I liberated Keegan’s ghost, I discovered some disturbing symbolism—which is the only way to view life while in the void. I believe Hanic was ready to negotiate a peace.” The reluctant figure who was dragged out of the dance but kept trying to regain the symmetrical patterns wore Hanic’s colors. The magician who pulled him away from harmony seemed young and overeager. “Keegan instigated this last battle in order to prove his superiority over me, his teacher.”
Where had he gone wrong in training Keegan? Grief made the next words difficult. “Most of Hanic’s troops were illusions. Very good illusions drawn from blood magic. Moncriith, the Bloodmage, wasn’t present until later. Only Keegan could have conjured those troops. I trained my apprentice well in devising spells. But ethics, honor, and discipline meant nothing to him.”
“ ’Tis not unusual for a lord to listen to the advice of his magician over common sense. We have to make Hanic see sense now.” De Tanos frowned again.
“Yes, we must.” The civil war had lasted three generations and more. Magicians guided the lords every step of the way—first to find the best among the barons as a new king when the last one died without heirs. Later they managed the battles, tipping the balance of strength and resources unnaturally. The vision in the void became clearer; symbolism dropping away to reveal the truth beneath it.
“We must end the wars before Coronnan is destroyed completely and her people overrun by greedy neighbors,” Lord Quinnault said as he stood to leave. His shoulders sagged as if his tall body no longer had the strength to support all of him.
“What if two or more magicians, who shared the same dream of peace as you, found a way to combine their magic to overcome another magician?”
“If such a thing could happen, and I know enough about magic to realize it can’t, then the magicians could be controlled, the battles would depend solely on superiority of men and weapons and tactics. Lords would be more cautious about starting battles. They might even listen to talk of peace. A few of them have listened to me, but they are intimidated by stronger lords like Kammeryl and Hanic.” Quinnault sighed heavily, then straightened with new resolve. “But magicians can’t combine their powers. As lord Kammeryl said, we might as well wish for dragons and flywackets. Peace must be found in other ways.”
“Some of the men think they saw a dragon on the field. I might very well find flywackets hiding in the clouds,” Nimbulan chuckled.
“Have you experimented with combining magic?” Quinnault leaned over Nimbulan’s chair. His excitement stripped years of care and worry from his face. He was younger than Nimbulan thought.
“The battles must end for the winter. I have five moons or more to experiment. I need a place of safety to work and train my apprentices, to recruit other magicians who are weary of war. . . .”
“Change your allegiance to me, Nimbulan, and I will give you one of my islands. An ancient monastery, abandoned before the beginning of these wars, stands fast against time and the elements. You’ll have safety and privacy there.”
“Isn’t the peace of all of Coronnan worth lending that island without having me dishonor my previous vow?”
A smile lit Quinnault’s eyes and banished the odd shadows. The candles blazed brighter and warmer.
“If you had given any other answer, Master Nimbulan, I would always doubt your loyalty. The island is yours for as long as you need it. Find your students and begin your experiments.”
Moncriith watched Ackerly, the short assistant magician, through narrowed eyes. No aura of great power surrounded the square-built man, and yet he associated freely with the Battlemages.
“Take the provisions, Moncriith. I offer them freely, without obligations.” Ackerly held out a bulging saddlebag. “It’s not much but it should see all of you to the next stronghold or village.”
“Thank you.” Moncriith bowed his head. The humble gesture allowed him to watch Ackerly through his lowered eyelashes.
Ackerly squirmed a little. Moncriith bit back a smile at the magician’s discomfort.
“I accept your gift of sustenance freely. But I do not understand why you give me aid when you serve Nimbulan, the man who exiled me from the hospital and my righteous quest.”
“Harrumf,” the guard tugging at Moncriith’s elbow cleared his throat. He shuffled his feet, anxious to escort Moncriith and his followers two leagues beyond the camp perimeter. Five more heavily armed men encircled Moncriith’s two dozen, very ragged followers.
Moncriith turned a warning gaze upon the impatient guards. They resumed staring into the distance. Watching elsewhere didn’t close the men’s ears though. In the army, every man must report to his superio
r officers. Many men stood in the chain of command between one sergeant and the chief Battlemage, Nimbulan. Moncriith wondered what the men would report and how soon.
“No man should be turned out into a storm without provisions. I don’t care if the warlord and his mage disagree with your views. You’re a magician and should be respected.” Ackerly stopped shuffling and stood straight.
Moncriith stiffened in indignation. “The priests have rejected my vision from the Stargods. Demons have invaded even the hallowed temples. The priests and their puppet magicians have cast me out rather than face the demons who pervert their magic. According to them, you owe me nothing.” Every time he thought of the humiliation heaped upon his head by the pompous elders of the temple, anger boiled up within him. His spine stretched taller. Blood swelled within his neck and face. His heart raced while his lungs panted and overfilled with air.
Ackerly stared him directly in the eye. “You and I have a lot in common, Moncriith. Neither one of us can weave the magic of the Kardia into our spells. Because of that we are relegated to minor positions serving those who can. No one is willing to give either of us credit for intelligence or other skills simply because we lack that one talent. Well, you’ve broken out of the mold this world cast for you and found a different way to work magic. I admire that. I’ll never have the courage to do anything but what Nimbulan orders.”
“In a perfect world, mundanes, who outnumber magicians one thousand to one, would rule. Magicians should be servants not commanders.” Moncriith replied. “Our talent is a gift. But demons control Coronnan now, not mundanes. Demons led by Myrilandel.” Only magicians can root them out and turn the chaos that will follow into order. And I am the only magician who can see the problem.
“Hanging around the army will only get you killed. Now take the food and seek more followers among those who aren’t dazzle-blinded by magicians and their tricks.”
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 6
