Confident of Ackerly’s miserly instincts to cut the best bargain possible, Nimbulan returned to the river and a lazy mind trip back to the islands at the mouth of the River Coronnan.
Briefly he circled the buildings on the big island. If he could find Ackerly in so distant a place, surely he could sense Quinnault. The lord’s mental armor might be unconscious, but it also had a pattern of light and dark that swirled in a confusing whirlpool.
Only people with the placid concerns of farm chores and housekeeping met his soaring mind. Into the keep and up the single stairwell his otherself flew. At the top of the stairs, he hesitated. Would the lord be in the public reception room to the right or in his private chambers to the left?
Mentally shrugging his shoulders, Nimbulan listened to the left. Quinnault’s quiet breathing betrayed his presence. Quickly, the magician slid into the mind of his patron. A thin barrier blocked his entry. He pushed gently. A little harder.
A worn parchment scrawled with numbers swam before his vision. Smudged and worn spots that had been scraped free of ink blurred the new ink. Column after column of entries tangled and straightened to make some sense. Nimbulan saw the ledger through Quinnault’s eyes!
He felt the lord’s quill pen in their hand. Heard the sound of the pen scratching across the parchment. Knew the rhythmic intake and expulsion of air through lungs younger and stronger than his own.
Black swirling numbness rose up before him, blocking the sight of the ledger. Physical sensation ceased.
Where was he? Who was he? Endless darkness stretched before him. No light. No sound. No body to feel with.
Ackerly swatted in annoyance at the soft buzzing beside his head. S’murghin’ flies. The city was full of the filthy pests today. He’d never been bothered by them like this on his previous visits to Sambol.
The soft flutter near his right temple brushed past him again. He tried to ignore it. His business in Sambol was more important than the annoyance of an insect.
He fished the fifth gold coin out of his purse reluctantly and placed it in the outstretched palm of the pottery vendor before swatting at the persistent fly.
Silently he gloated at the number of coins left in the purse. Nimbulan had given him twenty pieces of gold with instructions to use it all if necessary to purchase the necessary Tambootie. Overuse of the drug had rotted the Battlemage’s mind. Tambootie rarely cost over three coins and never more than eight. Even when the wars and trade embargo inflated prices, and the only sources were in the black market, he could always bargain to a reasonable level. Who else would want it but the decreasing number of great mages?
Nimbulan didn’t think logically anymore because of the drug. What he didn’t know about prices helped Ackerly. His employer would never miss the remaining fifteen coins.
Well, he might miss fifteen coins, but not another five or eight. Maybe ten.
If Nimbulan had wanted to save money, he should have given him copper and lead. Base metals were for spending. Gold was for saving. Gold was for hoarding. Gold was for polishing and counting.
Ackerly always collected stipend from Kammeryl d’Astrismos in gold and he never spent it. He spent Nimbulan’s money, adding a few of those coins to his hoard as a commission for making good bargains. He never spent his own money.
A wave of resentment washed over him at returning any of the leftover coins. He argued with himself that some, at least, had to be returned to avoid suspicion and keep Nimbulan believing in his bargaining ability.
The fly buzzed again. Only this time, Ackerly recognized the pattern of the sound as a summons spell, not a disease-ridden insect. He touched his glass in his pocket. It remained quiet. Then he touched each of his other pockets to make sure he hadn’t tucked a crystal or other arcane equipment there that could attract a stray spell. Nothing.
The wizened old pottery seller lifted a medium-sized, handleless jug from the back of his stall and placed it carefully into Ackerly’s hands. The old man acted as if the jug weighed more than he did, so Ackerly was surprised at the lightness of his purchase.
Cautiously he lifted the lid. The crisp-sweet fragrance of dried Tambootie leaves caressed his senses. The old man hadn’t cheated him. These were prime leaves kiln-dried while still fresh and full of the essential oils. This jug with its contents was worth much more than five coins to a magician who was addicted to the drug. He chuckled to himself as he felt the heavy purse safely resting in the pocket inside his tunic.
His senses tingled once more, as if a summons had gone astray and brushed against every magician, seeking a recipient. But the buzzing ceased. Had Nimbulan’s magic decayed to the point he couldn’t send a simple summons?
With one arm wrapped tightly around the expensive jug of Tambootie, Ackerly fished in his trews pocket for his glass. The smooth edges of a journeyman’s oval mirror fit neatly into his palm. He hesitated to bring it out in public. Clear glass was so rare and hard to come by, only magicians owned it. The appearance of the piece in his hands would mark him—either as a target for abuse from war-weary citizens or as a magician to be kidnapped by mercenaries for sale to the highest bidder. Not that the buyer would gain much from Ackerly. He was only an assistant, destined never to throw battle spells, only to hold them together and assist a true master like Nimbulan.
He almost showed the glass openly in perverse defiance of his fate. Anyone who kidnapped him was in for a big disappointment.
Reality reasserted itself, and he sought the closest open flame to receive and channel the summons through his glass. The young woman selling chestnuts roasted her wares over a small brazier. He smiled up at her. Her mouth curved up in invitation as she offered him a peeled nut from her gloved hand. Maybe when he finished the summons, he could persuade the young woman to roast his nuts in bed.
He liked provincial women better than the jaded camp followers in an army camp. Provincial women brought an innocent delight to bed. Ackerly grew warm in anticipation of unlacing the girl’s bodice. She laced it from top to bottom with the ties at her waist, as did any properly modest woman. He licked his lips in anticipation of coaxing her out of the bodice. Only whores placed the ties at top for easy access.
He had to answer the summons first. Crouching down as if warming his hands at her brazier, he held the glass before him. The glass magnified one tiny flame licking the hot coals.
He emptied his mind to receive the message from the sender, expecting Nimbulan’s face to flash into the clear surface. The precious piece of glass remained empty. No vibration thrummed through his fingertips.
Had the summoning magician given up? Nimbulan knew he was engaged in business and might not be able to answer immediately. Who else would call him?
He looked around furtively. What if Kammeryl d’Astrismos had hired a new Battlemage who sought to neutralize Nimbulan? More likely the new mage would try to lure his predecessor’s assistants and apprentices away, with the hope of learning some of Nimbulan’s tricks and spells.
Abandoning his plans to seduce the chestnut seller, Ackerly scuttled back through the winding streets of Sambol to his inn. Someone watched him with magic. He had to hide his gold before the watcher spied on him again.
Myri paused a moment in her dash through the rain to the lean-to she and Televarn had built against the cliff. Thoughts of the meal she would make vanished. She forgot the three fish tucked into her basket.
Instead, she watched a dark squall line dance across the roaring surf. Iron gray clouds played shadow games with the green-gray of the water. Highlights of creamy surf swirled in an intricate mosaic over the top. Waves rose, crested, and crashed in rounded undefinable shapes and sent a bubble of poetic magic through her soul. She wanted to Sing the images into an indelible memory.
(Come up to the dry cave before you catch a chill,) Amaranth said from the lip of the high opening in the cliff. (Autumn is full upon us. The rain is cold.)
She danced in a circle for the sheer joy of being alive, of bonding with a precious
flywacket, of knowing Televarn’s love.
Maybe she should climb up to the cave and spend some time with Amaranth before returning to Televarn in the lean-to. Amaranth couldn’t fly yet. His wing was still bruised bone deep. One of the fish in her basket was for him.
I must return to Televarn. The thought inserted itself into her mind, blocking the idea of climbing up to the cave where Amaranth waited for her.
(He lies to you. He is not worthy of you,) Amaranth reminded her.
“Come to me, Amaranth. We’ll dance in the rain together. I’ll take you to Televarn.” She held out her arm to the flywacket, not certain why it suddenly seemed important that Amaranth be in Televarn’s arms.
(I do not trust him.) The flywacket turned his back on her, retreating deeper into the cave.
Myri held out one of the fish as an enticement, suddenly anxious for her familiar to come to her. Come to Televarn.
Amaranth ignored her and the fish.
A blast of cold air against her face told Myri of the rapidly advancing squall. She resumed her run for the shelter of the lean-to before the rain drenched her.
Amaranth’s continued rejection of her lover darkened her mood. Televarn promised her a home and family. The voices that had sent her east promised only a home. Couldn’t Amaranth see how important the beautiful man was to her? To them both.
I have to love Televarn. She couldn’t question the need deep inside her to love him without hesitation.
Her stomach growled, and she laughed at the ridiculous noise.
“Come in out of the rain, cherbein.” Televarn tugged at her arm from beneath the driftwood angled against the cliff where it curved into the headland. Amaranth’s cave was well above them and closer to the opposite headland, commanding a full view of the curved beach.
Their bed of moss and grass sprawled across the center of the shelter, inviting her to stretch out there with Televarn at her side. A small fire burned brightly against the cliff at the back of the lean-to.
She laughed again at the pleasure his touch gave her. As his arms folded around her, she traced the shiny embroidery on his vest, delighting in the symmetrical design. She continued laughing in delight at the beautiful contrast of the silver and gold against stark black.
“I don’t understand you, Myri. You laugh at everything. I thought witchwomen were supposed to be solemn, predicting doom and gloom.” He dropped her hand and retreated to the warmth of the fire.
Some of Myri’s joy deflated with the separation he put between them. If she had climbed up to the cave, Amaranth would have warmed her and showed his contentment with his purr.
Don’t think about leaving Televarn, ever.
“Witchwomen are women first. We laugh. We cry. And we love like any other woman.” She placed her basket of fish beside the entrance and knelt on the bed next to him. “Mostly we love life and the men who give it meaning.” She kissed the side of his neck.
He enfolded her in his arms. The fierceness of his grip startled her. Usually he was more gentle and teasing in his passion.
“What would I do without you, Myrilandel? My life began the moment I opened my eyes and saw you bending over me, your black cat cradled against your shoulder.” He continued to hold her close. “All my life before that, my family, my travels, my other lovers, are all meaningless without you.”
Myri’s muscles twitched with the unaccustomed stillness of remaining in one position so long. Gently she wedged her hands between them.
“I need to cook the fish. Did you find any of the wavebulbs to go with them?” She squirmed for release.
Televarn dropped his arms from her body slowly as if he were reluctant to let go.
“I’m getting tired of fish and wavebulbs. We’ve eaten nothing else for weeks.” He sighed heavily as he reached for his own rush basket. “My mouth waters for bread and meat and yampion roots.”
Myri examined the five wavebulbs inside the basket, looking for soft spots where rot would make them inedible. The green globes were all fresh and ripe. They had dense skins that would roast to a delicious tenderness. The thick liquid inside, bitingly bitter when raw, became sweeter with cooking. Dried or fresh, the long flat leaves of the seabed plant prevented many ills and gave an interesting, salty flavor to their food. She longed for heartier fare also but dissmissed the notion. Her life was here, on this beach with Televarn.
“We’ve nothing else to eat, but what the sea gives us, love. The tides have been so high, we can’t go around the headland in search of paths inland,” she reminded him. Not that she wanted to meet his tribe of Rovers camped in the next cove. She could climb the steep cliff near the cave where Amaranth sulked, but she didn’t want to without Televarn. He hadn’t the sense of balance or extra length in his toes and fingers to climb with her.
“You’ll feel better after we’ve eaten.” She busied herself spitting the gutted fish and wrapping the bulbs in wet leaves before placing them in the coals.
“As much as I love you, Myrilandel, I’m lonely. Even your cat won’t come out of his cave to break the monotony. I have always been around other people. I need to know my people are safe.” He slammed his fist into a support beam. A shower of aromatic bark drifted into the fire.
Myri watched the small pieces flare and coil into smoking tendrils. Her mind drifted with the smoke.
“Are you listening to me, Myrilandel? Why doesn’t your cat like me? He won’t let me touch him. It’s almost as if he’s afraid of me.”
“Amaranth became tangled in a fishnet and hurt himself just before we met. He doesn’t want anyone touching his back and side until he’s fully healed.” Her three attempts at healing had slid right over Amaranth without penetrating to the core of his pain. He needed a different kind of healing that she couldn’t offer. Otherwise the bruise might take all winter to fade.
The dangerous fishnet must have come from one of the Rovers. But why had it tangled so insistently?
Televarn had never mentioned that first meeting. He claimed his memory of it had been knocked out of his brain when he fell from the cliff. He remembered only climbing over the headland into her cove and nothing more until he awoke after the fall. If so, he didn’t know that Amaranth flew.
“The cat’s healing seems to be taking a very long time.” He looked at the knife slashes in the beam he had just slapped. One for each day they’d been together. Myri’s ten fingers filled a slot three times over plus an additional three. “You may be a witchwoman, but I’d like another healer to look at him. We need to find a better shelter before winter settles in.”
“Amaranth doesn’t need another healer. All he needs is time and me.” Something close to panic clutched at her throat.
Trust Televarn. Myri looked sharply to her lover, wondering if he inserted that idea in her head or if her own instincts did.
“You can’t see that Amaranth needs someone else because you love him so much you won’t let yourself believe he might be damaged. The moon will be dark tonight. Tomorrow’s morning tide should be low enough to get around the headland. We might not have another chance to find another healer for him. To find my family in the next cove. Don’t you see, Myrilandel, we have to go now. We have to take Amaranth to my family.”
You have to love me, now and forever. Trust me without question, Myrilandel.
Chapter 15
“Master!” Nimbulan heard the voice in the distance. The directionless, sense-robbing blackness jerked and righted. A feeling of up and down blasted him into the realization that he lay prone upon a hard surface.
“Master, what happened?” The voice—voices?—echoed around him, still defying specific direction.
Pain assaulted him next. More an ache than pain. Above him. That must be his back and neck. Longer. His knees and feet where he made contact with . . . with stone.
“Master, wake up.”
Rough movement irritated the discomfort in his back. The ache throbbed and spread outward to his arms and hands.
“Arrr
rgh.” Was that his voice?
“Thank the Stargods he’s alive. Help me turn him over.”
Several hands lifted and supported him. More than one person. As many as three. A sensation of floating robbed him of his precious sense of up and down.
“Uughhh.” This time he knew the inarticulate sound came from his own throat. The throbbing in his head increased.
“Open your eyes, Master. Please.”
So that was why he couldn’t see. He willed his eyes open a tiny slit. The effort almost sent him reeling back into the void.
“Light the lantern. It’s too dark in here to see if he’s injured.”
Light filtered around the edges of his perception.
The voice sounded familiar. He didn’t dare open his eyes again. He should know the speaker. Youthful, peasant tones. Ah. Haakkon.
A giggle followed the onslaught of light. Two more young people. Powwell and Zane. None of the new apprentices’ voices had changed yet.
“Whisst your nonsense,” Haakkon ordered his classmates!
What was so funny about the master passed out cold on the floor of his room? Why were they laughing at all of the aches and pains left over from his astral flight with the aid of Timboor?
Ah, the flight! He’d found a way to merge his thoughts and aura with another’s. But at a terrible cost. No magician would willingly endure this aftermath for the sake of joining magic with another.
All the aches centered in his groin. He needed to empty his bladder. Desperately. A bigger itch plagued him. He needed a woman. Any woman. Camp follower, noble-woman, or peasant. He didn’t care. Just so the pressure in his groin found an outlet.
No women resided on the island. The only women on the island were Quinnault’s servants, most of them married. Even in this anxious state he wouldn’t stoop to forcing another man’s mate.
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 15
