An image of Myrilandel’s fair skin and pale hair flashed before him. He longed to reach out and caress the lavender shadows around her eyes, to feel her gentle, healing touch on the most intimate part of his body.
Myrilandel had run away. She’d never be his mistress or his apprentice.
Nimbulan tried opening his eyes again. Three concerned adolescent faces stared at him.
“Uuughhh,” he groaned again.
“Quick get the chamber pot. He’s going to heave.” Haakkon lifted his master’s head and shoulders so he wouldn’t gag on his own vomit.
“Cold,” Nimbulan ground out between clenched teeth.
“I know you’re cold, sir. You’ll feel better as soon as you get rid of whatever’s making you sick.”
“Cold water. Towels. Need cold.” What he really needed was to get rid of the aching pressure in his groin. Lacking a woman, a cold plunge in the river might work.
Powwell scuttled out of the room and returned in moments with several thick towels. He left a trail of small puddles in his wake.
Blessed chill engulfed Nimbulan’s face. The throbbing in his head subsided. He held a second soggy cloth against his chest and neck. His hands felt as if he’d plunged them into a snowbank. The cold crept down his body, reducing the swelling.
He sighed in partial relief and turned his gaze to his cold hands. More than just his penis had become engorged by the overdose of Timboor. His fingers were double their normal size. Red splotches ran up his arms, and he guessed they ran onto his chest and face.
“Thank you, boys,” Nimbulan said as he pressed the cold towel over his eyes again. “Your quick thinking may have saved my life. I ask two easy chores of you, then leave me to rest and recover on my own.” And get rid of the last of the uncomfortable swelling without their curious eyes watching his every move.
“Anything, sir,” Zane said. The other two nodded their agreement.
“First, ask cook to prepare a sweet yampion pie for our supper. The sugar in the root restores much of what magic depletes. Remember that as you progress with your magic lessons. Candied coneroot for dessert will help too.”
“And the second chore, Master?” Powwell asked, licking his lips with an eager tongue.
“The second lesson is much more important. The basket in the corner is filled with berries. Green-and-yellow-striped, oily berries of the Tambootie tree. Study them carefully so you will know them in any form. Then throw them into the river and never ever touch one again.” The essence of Tambootie was too strong in berry form. Too alien in its affects on the body. Power lay within the oils. Power so strong it couldn’t be managed by mortals. He had to find a different method for joining thoughts and powers. At least he now knew the first steps toward joining magic.
“But Tambootie is supposed to help magic,” Powwell protested, rolling one of the berries between his fingertips.
“When I was a little boy, younger than you three, my father’s great-aunt told me that only dragons can eat Timboor and survive.”
“Then you must be part dragon, Nimbulan, if you ate the berries and lived to warn the boys about them.” Old Lyman stood in the doorway, arms crossed, face frowning in disapproval. “Off with you three. Your master needs rest and privacy.” He shooed the apprentices out of the room.
“Part dragon, indeed,” Nimbulan snorted as he dragged himself to his knees by clinging to his chair. He must have fallen off of it at some point.
“Do you have a better explanation for surviving a lethal dose? I didn’t think you stupid enough to try those berries at all. Perhaps I should have taken you into the void to discover your past existences.” Lyman cocked his head as if listening to a voice in the far distance. Then he scratched his neck with fingers longer than normal with purple shadows on the tips.
“Get into the privy, even if you have to crawl. Then we’ll discuss your experience.” Lyman grasped Nimbulan’s arm with the long, long fingers that looked more like talons than human digits.
Myri eyed the rapidly rising waves with skepticism. Amaranth struggled in her arms to be free of the encroaching wet. She held him closer to keep him from escaping. The moon had pulled the tide to its lowest point in many weeks. A storm hovered just over the horizon, sending large erratic waves.
If she and Televarn didn’t dawdle in crossing the slippery, broken rocks of the lowest point of the headland they might make it to the next cove unscathed.
Might. Each time a wave rushed to the shore, a deep boom warned her of the dangers. She counted the waves, edging across the sharp rocks, one step for each wave. A ninth wave, bigger than its fellows sprayed water above their heads.
The ninth such wave would signal the turning of the tide. They hadn’t much time.
Amaranth mewled plaintively, burrowing his head beneath her arm. His damp tail lashed at her side.
She risked this trip to the next cove and the Rovers only so she could consult a different healer about his bruised back. Myri had given the flywacket strict telepathic instructions to keep his wings hidden. Despite her misgivings about meeting the Rovers, she knew Amaranth needed help. He should have healed by now, with or without her aid.
(You draw your magic from the Kardia. I need healing magic that floats in the air,) Amaranth told her again. He’d been saying that for over a moon. Myri didn’t understand what he meant.
If she’d spent more time with her familiar, rather than in Televarn’s arms, maybe she’d know how to help him. She caressed the flywacket’s fur, feeling guilty for neglecting him. But . . .
Why did Amaranth mistrust Televarn so? The Rover promised her everything she wanted most out of life—a home and a family, people to love and be loved by.
Memory of Televarn’s extreme interest in Amaranth and his wings before his fall haunted her for the first time in the moon she’d been with him.
How much of their meeting and his subsequent fall did he really remember?
She banished the thought. I love Televarn.
(You love his body and his tender lovemaking,) the voices in the back of her mind reminded her. They had been silent since she’d found the cave—letting her remain there for the winter. Why did they plague her now with doubts?
“Silly cat. Hiding your head won’t keep you dry.” Televarn brushed his hand along Amaranth’s back.
“Hssst!” Amaranth lashed at the Rover with unsheathed claws.
“Dragon’s spawn!” Televarn raised his scratched hand to strike back.
Myri reared back in surprise and loathing, pressing her body against a jagged outcropping. The waves continued to pound the land just below them.
At the height of its arc, Televarn stopped his hand. He narrowed his eyes in speculation, then lowered his wrist to his mouth. He sucked on the bloody scratches a moment, never taking his eyes off Amaranth.
“He’s in pain. Of course he’s temperamental. Watch your step, Myrilandel. That strand of wavebulb will be slippery.” A calculating smile lit his face, but not his eyes.
Myri’s unthinking count of the waves registered eight. They needed to move or be overcome by the tide. Amaranth needed another healer. She needed to understand Televarn’s true motives. She’d never trusted her own judgment before, always relying on the guiding voices.
I need to be strong enough to think for myself.
Did Televarn truly long to return to his own kind for Amaranth’s sake? Or had he tricked her with his vulnerability and charm to steal her familiar?
Those couldn’t be her own thoughts. They had be echoes of the voices.
Amaranth mewled again, reminding her of the encroaching waves.
Televarn blocked her retreat back to her cove. She’d never survive a swim to freedom among the rocks and vicious surf of this headland. She had to move forward.
A ninth wave crashed two finger-lengths from her already cold and wet feet. She turned her eyes away from the fascinating pulse of pale purple blood through the dominant veins of her instep. She’d slung her winter
boots around her neck so her bare feet could find the best toeholds across the broken rocks. She tasted salt and felt the sting of the icy water on her face. The next ninth wave would cover them with enough force to drag them into the churning water. The next ninth after that could crush them against the headland.
She threaded her way through the first low boulders beside the sand and swirling waves. The wind slackened as she rounded the prominence of the headland. A drop in the elevation of the rocks and a stretch of wet sand came into view. The end of the trek was in sight.
Sharp spines of volcanic rock lacerated the soles of her feet as she hurried toward safety. She barely felt the pain due to the cold. Her gray-green cloak flapped in a rising wind. The wet hem of the long garment tangled with her ankles. Televarn pressed his hands against her back, urging her to hurry.
Hurry away from the tide. Hurry toward a camp of Rovers. Rovers who never worked at honest labor; who stole and cheated to make their living.
Amaranth represented a rare prize. How many gold pieces would a magician like Nimbulan pay for a real flywacket?
(Nimbulan would cherish a flywacket as a wonder. The Rovers will only sell Amaranth.) The familiar voices echoed hollowly around her mind.
Tears started in Myri’s eyes. She turned to face her lover, desperately needing to know the truth of his motives before she met his people. Why hadn’t she listened to her doubts before venturing onto this dangerous headland?
She opened her empathic talent to him, making his emotions her own—something she never allowed herself to do except during a healing.
A flood of greed washed over her, colder than any storm-tossed wave the Great Bay could throw at her. She shivered the full length of her spine down to her toes.
Move, s’murghit. I don’t want to get killed before I have a chance to spend the gold.
His thoughts came to her as clearly as if he’d spoken aloud.
Pressing her balance forward, her shoulders lifted and her free arm spread away from her body. Her cloak caught the wind like a wing.
Amaranth leaped from her embrace to the cliffside, scrambling up the rocks with agility beyond a normal feline’s.
“You lied to me, Televarn,” Myri said quietly.
“Not now, cherbein. The tide will catch us. Tell me all your doubts when we’re safe and dry.” He placed a hand on her shoulder in an effort to turn her around and move her closer to the end of their treacherous journey.
“You did not armor your thoughts against me, Televarn. I know your scheme. I know your lies. You compelled me to love you so that you could capture and then sell my familiar. The fishnet that snared him was yours!” She thrust his hand off her.
“Myrilandel, this is not the time. I know you are shy about meeting strangers. But we must get away from the tide. Now.” He grasped her arm in a fierce grip. His fingers crushed her skin through the protection of her cloak and clothes.
“Let go of me.” She pulled her arm away from him.
His grip tightened. Blood rushed to the bruises already forming on her arm, swelling them painfully.
A wave sloshed their feet. She counted it as the sixth.
Myri pried at his fingers with her free hand. “I said let go.”»
“When we safely reach the next cove. Now call the flywacket and move!” He pushed her toward his goal.
“I will not go with you.” She raked her fingernails across the bloody scratches Amaranth had given him earlier.
He jerked his hand away in pain.
The eighth wave wet them to their knees.
Myri reached over her head for the nearest handhold.
“You’ve come back at last, Televarn. We wondered how much longer you’d allow your new companion to distract you,” a man said from behind her. Strange hands clasped her shoulders.
Startled, Myri paused in her instinctive seeking of a high place to hide.
“Come now, we’ll carry you to safety. We’ve a fire and dry blankets in the caves to warm you. Our healer will take care of those rock cuts on your feet.” The speaker lifted her free of the rocks.
Myri’s hood folded over her eyes, preventing her from seeing who carried her away from the waves.
Or aided Televarn’s betrayal?
She batted the cloak away from her face to see who laid hands upon her. An older man with Televarn’s intense dark gaze and thin straight nose smiled at her. She squirmed to be set free. His grasp on her tightened and his stride across the sand lengthened.
“Come, now. No need to be shy, pretty lady. We’ll take care of you.”
His voice washed over her in soothing cadences. Her body relaxed in his grip. Her mind urged her to fight the compulsion to be still.
“Never mind her,” Televarn shouted behind them. “Get the flywacket!”
“The creature will come to her when it is ready. We have all winter to wait.”
“Let go of me!” Myri struggled to be free of the man who carried her. “I’ll not stay with thieves and liars.”
“I promised you a home and family, Myrilandel. You belong to us now, and we keep those we claim. Forever, cherbein. You and your flywacket belong to my clan of Rovers now.”
Chapter 16
Nimbulan listened to the rising wind as it whipped around his new School for Magicians. That’s what the locals called the old monastery now. The same locals were much more accepting of the school than the people he remembered living around Druulin’s tower. But then Nimbulan and his students aided the locals in building and repairing homes. They also helped with minor healing. None of his boys would consider setting fire to fields and homes as part of a lesson or experiment.
His shivers were as much part of his memories as the chill air. Each gust found new cracks and crevices to invade the shelter. Old cold had deeply penetrated the stone walls over generations of abandonment and now dominated every corner of the ancient building. Fires in the large hearths did little to dissipate the frigid air.
“I think it’s colder in here than in a campaign tent in midwinter,” Nimbulan said to the assembled apprentices without expecting an answer. They were all huddled in the kitchen area, cradling mugs of hot cider between their palms and wrapped in whatever quilts and blankets they had scrounged from the farmers who hid out among the islands. More refugees moved to Lord Quinnault’s lands every day, seeking relief from the famine and plague left behind by generations of war.
The islands had a reputation for being sheltered and relatively untouched by the wars. Lord Quinnault de Tanos had earned a reputation for dealing fairly with his people and not conscripting them to serve in any army.
A lot of the settlers had served in one lord’s army or another. They were prepared to defend their new homes. Nimbulan wondered if the influx of settlers wasn’t really part of Quinnault’s plans to unite the lords in a mutual defense pact against the aggressions of the warlords.
Whatever Quinnault’s plans, Nimbulan and his boys were part of the island community now. They were as much a family as any of the more traditional hearth groupings. Old Druulin had never sat with his apprentices around a warm fire with an extra mug of cider before bedtime. Nimbulan cherished these gatherings. The boys shared their little triumphs and frustrating defeats with him. They shared their hopes and dreams as well. He talked of peace and his own dreams of a community of magicians.
If he should die tomorrow, one or more of his apprentices—probably led by Rollett—would pick up that dream and carry it forward. He couldn’t wish for more if they were sons of his body.
Lyman had chosen to remain in the library tonight, gaining warmth from his own love of the myriad books still uncataloged. The other war-weary magicians who had come here to teach had retired to their rooms early. They were more than tired of war, they were tired of life and slept away much of their remaining years. The sense of community Nimbulan built with his boys was as alien to these Master Magicians as it would have been to Druulin.
Nimbulan blew steam from the top of his mu
g, as interested in keeping chilblains from his fingers as drinking the spicy brew.
He’d laced the batch of cider with the last of the dried Tambootie leaves he’d scraped from the folds of a pouch. The boys needed to become used to the effects the tree of magic had on their bodies and minds before they began taking concentrated doses to increase their magic.
He had to find the right dosage and combinations to duplicate the meshing of thoughts he’d attained with the Timboor.
One taste of the brew had set Nimbulan’s craving for Tambootie afire. Ackerly had better return soon.
“It’s the damp that makes you feel colder.” Rollett, the eldest of all nine apprentices and nearly ready for promotion to journeyman, stirred the fire in the small baking hearth with an iron poker. The big roasting hearth had been blocked to prevent further heat loss.
“My da was born not too far from here. He used to say that the river mists chilled his bones so deep it took an entire summer to get warm.” An old sadness clouded his eyes. “Da always said the damp would kill him. He was wrong. The wars killed him.”
Nimbulan remembered Rollett’s father, stoop-shouldered with the joint disease while still fairly young. He had reluctantly handed his youngest son to a magician for training seven years ago. Nimbulan had taken the boy with marginal talent more to give the impoverished farmer one less mouth to feed than because he needed another apprentice. But Rollett had proved his worth time and time again. Eager to please and more eager to learn, he’d mastered all his lessons and improved his talent tenfold. The young man had begun tapping ley lines only a few weeks before the guardian spirit sealed the well.
Nimbulan had expected him to become no more adept than Ackerly, who could hold a spell together and feed Nimbulan strength, but couldn’t levitate anything heavier than a small parchment, nor conjure more than a whisper of flame.
Last spring, Rollett had taken a brief respite from his studies to return home for a much anticipated reunion. He’d hoped to help with some of the heavy plowing and planting, maybe use some of his magic to repair the family hut. He could lift a new roof tree by himself with magic, something ten men would have found onerous.
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