Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  Briefly he peeked along the kitchen wing to check on Zane. The oldest of the new recruits, a few days shy of his fourteenth birthday, sat with his back against the outside wall, legs thrust out before him. A fierce scowl marred his freckled face. His broom stood propped against the wall.

  Nimbulan guessed Zane was trying to make the broom work for him. He quickly noted that the apprentice had instinctively placed himself against the wall closest to the pool of ley lines in the central courtyard. How much power could he feel?

  The guardian had effectively masked the massive well of magical energy so that even masters like Nimbulan could draw only normal amounts of power from the radiating ley lines.

  He watched the boy for a few moments, praying that he was one of the few magicians who could learn to weave the Kardia into his spells.

  The broom wobbled. Zane leaped to his feet with a whoop of triumph. He scowled at the broom again. He closed his eyes. His fists clenched at his sides. His shoulders rose nearly to his ears as he fought the inertia of the broom.

  With a small smacking sound, the broom dropped to the floor, refusing to move.

  Zane rubbed his temples, clear evidence of the headache beginning to form. He’d be craving sweets, too. Nimbulan’s mouth watered at the thought of the candied coneroot Quinnault’s cook had sent them this morning. When the boys took a break before the evening meal, he’d make sure he shared the treats with them.

  One day soon, the boys would learn that magic took more effort than sweeping. But most adolescents, with their bodies growing and maturing so rapidly their minds and emotions couldn’t keep up, exhibited a weird mixture of curiosity and laziness. The two made Zane ripe to discover many things about magic. Powwell was not far behind him in age and discovery.

  Nimbulan turned back to the library wing to watch Haakkon perform his chores. The dark-haired lad leaned against the library doors, his ear pressed close to the wood panels. His broom lay forgotten on the floor beside him.

  A faint murmur of voices drifted down the corridor. From the library. Nimbulan drew a little power from beneath his feet up into his ears to catch the words.

  “You’re supposed to list and sort the books by author and title, not stop and read every s’murghing one of them!” Ackerly’s affronted tones rose almost loud enough to hear through normal senses.

  Why was Ackerly in the library and not at the market searching for a permanent cook?

  “This text distinctly contradicts accepted magic theory. It claims that Rover rituals give a single magician the combined powers of all those involved in the ceremony,” Quinnault de Tanos replied. “I think it’s important we set it aside for closer study.”

  Ah, so the lord had discovered the same text Nimbulan scanned last night.

  Quinnault de Tanos had taken to spending part of each day helping about Nimbulan’s school however he could. He couldn’t perform the smallest of spells, so he couldn’t demonstrate magic lessons for the boys. He knew nothing of cooking or cleaning. But he knew ancient languages and magic theory flowed from him in precise detail, even if he couldn’t work a spell.

  Nimbulan wished he could spend his afternoon hours poring over the books and discussing ancient and modern practices with de Tanos. In a few moons perhaps, when everything was set up and other magicians taught and observed the apprentices, he’d have the time to indulge in long afternoons in the library.

  Lyman and the five older boys were qualified to tackle the monstrous job of sorting and cataloging the books. Only Nimbulan knew how to watch the new boys for signs of major talent. The ability to weave the Kardia into their spells wouldn’t settle in the boys until they passed through puberty and the trial by Tambootie smoke. Until then, their magic would be erratic.

  “Hear anything interesting?” Nimbulan whispered to Haakkon.

  The boy squeaked and jumped away from the door in surprise.

  “You won’t have to be so obvious in your eavesdropping, Haakkon, once you learn to do it with magic. However, magic takes more effort and the normal way works just as well . . . as long as the door remains closed.” Nimbulan pressed his own ear to the door panels.

  The voices came through muffled, but he could still discern Ackerly’s words. “Time enough for study after we know what is here and we’ve sorted the junk from true work.” The sound of a book being slapped against a table echoed through the door panel.

  Nimbulan could almost see his assistant’s tight-lipped control of his face. Ackerly would never lose his temper in the presence of an anointed lord, but Nimbulan heard his vexation. Time to intervene.

  “Ackerly, I need you a moment.” Nimbulan opened the door just enough to poke his head through.

  Behind him, he felt Haakkon withdrawing. If the apprentice could melt into the shadows, he would. Nimbulan risked a quick glance over his shoulder. A concealing shadow crept up from the floor, wrapping itself around Haakkon.

  Good. He’d found a way to use magic for a simple thing. Later, the magic would obey his will as easily as his instincts. Nimbulan turned his attention back to separating clashing personalities in the library.

  “Ackerly, I am almost ready to begin experiments. But I am concerned about our Tambootie supplies.”

  “Can’t gather the leaves this time of year. But now is the time to collect and dry the wood for burning.”

  “My personal supply of dried leaves is dangerously low and the time has come to begin lacing the boys’ cider with small bits. Breathing Tambootie smoke is too intense until they’ve learned to handle smaller amounts first. We have to find a new supply soon.” An edge of anxiety crept into Nimbulan’s voice. He tried to hide it with a judicious cough.

  “You had five pounds of dried leaves, Nimbulan. The foliage of nearly a whole tree, sun-dried to perfection. You can’t have used it all up so soon.”

  “I . . . I don’t know.” But he did know. He’d used it all, in ever larger doses that worked with less effectiveness in inducing the proper sensitivity to magic. He wondered why. He didn’t remember using so much Tambootie since settling on the islands. Maybe Lyman had been dipping into the supply. Ackerly never used it.

  “We’ll have to find more. Soon.” Ackerly pulled at his lower lip in thought. “Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos has a stand of Tambootie two leagues from his fortress in a sheltered glen. Perhaps we can salvage some of the leaves still clinging to the trees and the recently fallen ones.”

  “But Kammeryl has forbidden us to return to his lands. He calls us deserters. He does not forgive disloyalty easily.”

  “You have to have the Tambootie, Nimbulan. I’ll make sure you get some.”

  Myri ran her sensitive fingertips over the Rover’s skull. His thick dark hair tangled in her fingertips. The temptation to linger with a caress kept her from trailing her hand down his throat to his nape to check his spine for injury. In repose, he was even more beautiful than when animated.

  She settled her eyes on the long fringe of eyelashes brushing against his cheek. Beneath a dark tan, his skin showed an unnatural pallor.

  A cold wave rushed around her feet and Televarn’s head. He groaned as the shock of the chill water brought him to partial consciousness.

  Quickly, Myri scanned his neck with all of her healing talent. The soft sand had cushioned his fall. No broken bones. She could drag him safely away from the encroaching tide. With a hand around each of his ankles she tugged his body back toward dry sand.

  Another wave sucked at his weight. She pulled harder, digging in her heels. The quagmire of drenched sand released him. Myri pulled him clear of the next wave.

  “I . . . can . . . walk.” Televarn’s words came out slurred and slow.

  Myri released his ankles and moved behind him to help him up. “You won’t drown in the next two minutes. But you will get wet and cold.” She placed one hand under each arm and heaved while he flailed his feet to gain some leverage.

  His legs seemed unconnected to his body, sliding in all directions. He had no ba
lance.

  Myri heaved him upward, using the strong muscles of her thighs for leverage.

  At last he stood with his arm draped around her shoulders. He was only slightly taller than she and the bend of his arm must have been awkward. His knees visibly trembled. He placed his free hand to his right temple. “Wh . . . what happened?” He swayed, not moving forward.

  Another wave slapped against Myri’s ankles.

  “You fell. Now walk.”

  “Fell? When? Why?”

  “Move your feet, Televarn. You can flap your mouth later, when I know you won’t drown.”

  “Who’s Televarn?”

  “You must have hit your head harder than I thought.” What would she do with him? He couldn’t climb to her cave in his present condition. “I’ll settle you in the curve of the cliff, away from the wind, and build a fire. Once you’ve rested and supped, your thoughts will straighten out.”

  She hoped. He’d never manage to climb to her cave for shelter. Until then, she’d keep him close to this headland and away from the other where her cave nestled.

  “I think I know you.” Televarn paused in his shuffle toward the cliff. Gently he traced the curve of her cheek with his fingertip. He hesitated as he caressed the outline of her lips. “I sense that we belong together. Are we mates?”

  Myri gasped, more from the sensuous appeal of his touch than the audacity of his question. “No, we are not mates.”

  “Then we are meant to be. Soon.” He lifted her chin with his caressing finger. Slowly, he bent his head to touch her mouth with his own.

  Heat exploded in Myri’s breast. Her lips grew soft and moist under his kiss. She parted them, eager for his questing tongue as she longed to open her thighs for a more intimate thrust.

  Televarn enclosed her in his strong arms, pressing her tightly against his body. She rose on tiptoe and tangled her fingers in the springy curls of his dark hair. He’d lost his kerchief in the fall. She didn’t remember when hers had blown away. His hands reached down to cup her bottom, caress her back, pull her closer yet to his wonderful body.

  Her dreams of a home and family took firmer shape in her mind as she molded her body to his.

  (You must come east to find a home and safety.)

  Her knees melted with the fire of his kiss. I’ll stay with him for a while. Until he’s healed.

  A cold wave shocked them both back to reality.

  “You will be my mate as soon as I can arrange it, cherbein, ” Televarn whispered, nuzzling her ear. “We are meant to be together forever.”

  The foreign endearment grated harshly in Myri’s ear. “I never met you until today. We cannot wed until next Vernal Equinox. After we have been paired at the Festival Dance. ’Tis custom so old it has become law.”

  “I cannot wait that long, cherbein. Tonight you will be mine. Tonight and forever.” He kissed her again, claiming her mouth harshly, as if to brand her his possession.

  The fierceness of his desire awakened new sensations in Myri’s womb. Her instincts clamored for her to join him in a ritual far older than law, right here on the sand. Right now, with the cold tide creeping up on them.

  (Forget him. He lies. Come east. Now.)

  He is injured. I must build him a shelter and light a fire. I cannot leave him.

  Chapter 13

  Moncriith shivered within the meager shelter of his lean-to. The first autumnal storm had given way to clear skies and chilling frosts. He dared not light a fire to ease the ache in his bones. The witchwoman would flee at the first hint of his presence.

  She had escaped him at the village. He couldn’t let her go free again. Her kind were poison to Coronnan. Only when she and all her demon-possessed magicians had been purged from Coronnan would he be safe.

  She must come here. Demons and their magicians fed upon the Tambootie. This sprawling grove of the toxic trees was the only stand left between the River Coronnan and the foothills of the Southern Mountains. Moncriith and his followers purged the land of the evil trees as they progressed across Coronnan each spring and summer. If they eprived demons of the food, they would be weaker, more vulnerable.

  Myrilandel had to come here to feed her demonic powers.

  He stared at his small ritual knife. Cleansed by fire and guarded by a silk sheath, the instrument offered the means to draw Myrilandel and her demon consorts to this exact spot. Briefly, he contemplated his choices. If he used the knife to slit the throat of a small animal, the death of the creature would attract Myrilandel more quickly. If he drew blood from himself, the spell of attraction would be stronger and more focused.

  Before he could change his mind, he slashed the sharp blade across his cheek. He welcomed the familiar burning pain. The initial flush of power that always followed the pain tingled through his body. His eyes lost focus, then abruptly cleared to sharper, narrower vision. He squeezed the wound with his fingertips until he felt the warm flow of blood dripping from his jaw. Cautiously he caught the drops on a fresh Tambootie leaf he had ready. Then he leaned over a nest of specially prepared herbs and magical powders.

  His blood mingled with the ingredients for the spell. Pungent fumes rose to fill his head with clear images of what he needed the spell to accomplish.

  “Bring Myrilandel, obedient and docile, to stand before me for judgment.”

  When cold sweat dotted his brow and the pain swelled into his left eye and ear, he staunched the flow of blood with a square of white linen dipped in a special powder. Then he dropped the bloodied Tambootie leaf and the cloth on top of the nest.

  With a stick cut from a Tambootie tree he drew circles around the mixture, each one smaller and closer to the center than the previous one. As he completed each circle, he drew a special rune of enticement. He knew the spell would only work after she started her journey toward the grove. But she had to come here to feed.

  Energy streamed up the vibrating stick into his hand and arm. Each of his senses came into sharper focus. He saw the distinct outline of every tree, branch, and leaf within the grove. The scent of wet dirt and decaying leaves permeated his nose. He heard the small rustlings of nocturnal animals below the louder stirring of the wind in the high branches.

  A spark of witchfire ignited his mixture into one brilliant flash. The circles came to life with writhing flames running around and around the perimeter, working ever closer to the core of his spell. The runes glowed into fire-green sigils.

  As suddenly as the flames sprang from his fingers, they died. All was still. He looked up, expecting to see Myrilandel standing inside the outermost circle.

  “S’murghit! Where is she?” he cursed. His eyesight still hummed with super-sharp vision. No one but himself waited inside this grove.

  He’d wait another hour, then light a fire and curl up in his blankets for the night. Perhaps tomorrow she would come. Tomorrow, when the moon was dark, his spell would be stronger. She wouldn’t be able to resist him tomorrow night.

  Mist and shadows drifted through the wild trees. He shivered again. Ghosts ran icy fingers up his spine. He dismissed them. The lost spirits of the dead couldn’t hurt him.

  He concentrated on his vision of Coronnan free of the witchwoman and magicians who provided host bodies for demons. The fire of his resolve replaced the blaze he longed to light at his rapidly chilling feet. As the power drained out of him, the cold night air attacked him anew.

  None of his followers had ventured away from the barns and village pubs where they sought shelter for the winter to join in his ritual. Glumly, he realized their zeal for a demon-free Coronnan, united under one priest-king wasn’t as strong as his own.

  The thin slice of the moon rose higher in the night sky. He waited until chills numbed the burning pain of the cut on his cheek and set his teeth chattering. When he could stand the discomfort no longer, he stood to prepare his bed and a small fire.

  The faint slurping sound of people walking among the fallen leaves sent his attention off to his left. He stilled every muscle in h
is body.

  The spell had worked after all!

  Patiently, he calmed his wandering mind and erratic heartbeat as he reached for his larger knife. He must kill the witchwoman quickly, before she could summon her demons to shred his soul and take over his body. No one else was near enough to distract the demons. He’d have gladly sacrificed one of his people for the opportunity to end Myrilandel’s tyranny once and for all.

  “S’murghit,” a man cursed.

  A man? Which man had Myrilandel seduced into following her blindly to feed from the poisonous trees? He had no doubt that she corrupted innocent men. Magretha had betrayed lover after lover until she eventually died for her crimes against men.

  Something heavy plopped onto the ground, followed by a squirt of moisture hitting a tree trunk.

  Thick, oily Tambootie leaves rotted into a sludgy mess that inhibited undergrowth and made for treacherous footing. Only Tambootie seeds could grow beneath a Tambootie tree, unlike honest trees whose leaves decayed into fertile dirt.

  The footsteps came closer and amid muffled profanities. Several people wearing heavy boots, not a solitary witchwoman who ran barefoot until deep winter. He enhanced his TrueSight, looking for traces of Myrilandel. He sensed only males in the grove. Two men. Lord Kammeryl’s men?

  No. They would carry torches or shielded lanterns. These intruders must be magicians who needed no light to steal the Tambootie. Magicians Lord Kammeryl did not control, or they wouldn’t need to steal.

  Moncriith shifted position, ready to attack. The death of one of Myrilandel’s consorts would bring her in a hurry.

  A smile crept into one corner of his mouth. Perhaps he should hurry to the nearest village and send messengers to Lord Kammeryl. The warlord would want to know who invaded his land in the dead of night. Kammeryl d’Astrismos guarded closely all that was his. The captured magicians would die, but only after confessing all under torture. Moncriith would derive much power from the men’s pain and blood.