Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  “Ahhck!” the man groaned again, almost coughing. Ripples of the muscles along his body told her of the pain that came with the effort to make even that little noise.

  “Do you live, stranger?”

  “I’m afraid so.” He choked out the words, rolling to his side, hands still clutched to his middle.

  Myri looked at him as a person and not as a patient for the first time. An auburn beard shot with silver covered most of his face. His hair, dark auburn streaked with gray, hung in limp tendrils about his shoulders. Tentatively, he brushed a lock out of his eyes. He clenched his eyelids closed as another spasm of pain crossed his face. Finally, he opened them. He took a moment to focus on her. Deep green, the color of Tambootie leaves in spring, before they turned almost black in midsummer.

  She’d seen those eyes before. Ages ago, last autumn. That time, the lines radiating out his eyes had shown fatigue, but the eyes themselves had been bright with intelligence and curiosity. Now they were clouded with pain.

  “Hello, Myrilandel,” Nimbulan said. “I knew we’d meet again someday. But I didn’t dream you would rescue me.”

  “I had no choice. I don’t like you, Nimbulan. I wouldn’t have chosen to help you because when you are well you will try to enslave me and my talent. But I have no choice. Until you are healed, I must stay with you.” A shiny silver tendril of magic ran from her heart to his. Her talent refused to sever the connection. As long as that cord existed, he had control over her mind and her talent.

  Nimbulan awoke gradually to the realization he was no longer cold or lost in darkness. Nightmares of a freezing hell lingered long after he knew he had survived Televarn’s knife thrust. He shivered in memory of the ice that had invaded his gut. That slight movement sent sharp pain in a broad band across his belly just below the ribs.

  Myrilandel’s healing had not been as complete as the miracle she had worked on Sergeant Kennyth last autumn. She’d stopped the bleeding and saved his life, but hadn’t done much more to the wound.

  He stilled his muscles with conscious effort. The pain receded to a constant but tolerable level. Very carefully, with sensitized fingertips he explored the region. He discovered a bandage wound tightly around him. From the way his skin felt stretched and pierced, he guessed the witchwoman had resorted to fine stitches to close his wound.

  Such barbarity! Only the untamed tribes of the northern most regions of Kardia Hodos resorted to such primitive methods of healing. Or a young woman without enough training to control her healing trances. She must have withdrawn from the spells before the work was done in order to save herself.

  Where was she now? Had she deserted him again?

  Loneliness washed over him, bringing a momentary tear to his eye. Clear evidence of his weakness. Without magic to speed the process Myrilandel had begun, his recovery could take weeks, moons.

  Slowly, lest he jar the wound again and bring a new wave of pain, dizziness, and nausea, he turned his head. A small campfire, burned down to coals, gave off a soft glow of warmth to his right. On the other side of the fire Myrilandel’s strange cat blinked at him. Its dark eyes looked almost purple in the growing light of early morning.

  The creature blinked at Nimbulan several times, then heaved itself up, as if incredibly weary or bored, and sauntered over to him. Without asking permission, it climbed onto his upper chest and settled into a doze. Its paws kneaded gently into the cloak that covered Nimbulan’s body from neck to toe. The cat’s gentle purr spread instant warmth and calm through Nimbulan’s body and soul. The tiny desire he’d entertained of getting up or moving left him.

  “If you are here to nurse me, Cat, then your mistress can’t be far away.”

  Then he saw the silver tendril of magic running from his heart and remembered briefly that it had remained after she removed herself from the healing. Had she left him weak and vulnerable so he couldn’t break the cord? She’d have almost total control over his mind and body through it.

  A moment of panic skittered through him. Moncriith had warned them all about her demons controlling the souls of those she yanked back from their next existence.

  “I’m here. Are you hungry or thirsty?” Myrilandel was beside him, sounding incredibly weary.

  He turned his head to find her lying with her back against his side. His cloak covered them both. Her cloak seemed to be beneath them.

  The panic receded. He’d watched her heal Sergeant Kennyth. No evidence of a magical connection remained after that powerful spell.

  “I’m thirsty, and I need . . . I would like . . . um. . . .” How did he broach the delicate subject of needing a privy? Some things were more important than demons controlling his soul.

  “Can you wait until you’ve had a little broth to strengthen you?” She heaved herself up with more effort than the cat had exhibited.

  Upon closer examination, her skin looked so pale it was almost transparent.

  “Are you all right, Myrilandel?” Concern for her well-being overrode his pain and he rolled to his other side in preparation of rising. The movement drove spasms of agony from his chest to his gut and back along his spine.

  “Merow!” the cat protested, climbing onto his side rather than be displaced. Or was the cat keeping him in place? Nimbulan didn’t care anymore. He wasn’t going to be moving again soon.

  “No, I’m not all right,” Myrilandel spat at him. “All my strength is in you right now.”

  “Thank you for saving me. But my life isn’t worth the loss of yours. Why didn’t you let me die?”

  “I couldn’t.” She turned her back on him to rummage in a pack. “I’ll be back in a moment with water and kindling.” She set off into the thick woods, her feet dragging and her shoulders drooping.

  When she came back carrying a pot full of water, bright color splotched her pale skin, as if she’d dashed icy water on her face to revive herself. Perhaps fever burned her cheeks. Her eyes looked dull, and she still shuffled as she walked. She poked the fire listlessly. Finally, she set the pot on a rock next to the blaze and sat back on her heels to rest.

  “All I have is some jerked meat and dried fruit. I’ll boil the meat for a broth for you. I’ll eat the meat.”

  “The fire isn’t hot enough to boil the water. We’ll need more wood.”

  Her shoulders drooped further and she dropped her gaze to the few branches beside her. Clearly the effort to gather more was too much for her. If they were to survive and recover, he had to help.

  Bracing himself to endure the pain he gathered his knees beneath him and rose to all fours, back arched to keep his abdominal muscles moving as little as possible. “I can’t wait any longer. I’ll bring a few sticks on my way back.” He gritted his teeth and crawled into the underbrush.

  Chapter 25

  “ I suppose it’s too late to warn the village,” Nimbulan mumbled into the horn cup Myri had fished from her pack.

  “Warn them of what?” Myri couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the trek back down the hill to the village she had left . . . was it only yesterday? She’d be content to sit and watch the birds flitting through the branches of the everblue trees. A flock of a hundred or more tiny kinglets had gathered to serenade the world.

  “Rovers. They planned to raid the storehouse last night during Festival,” Nimbulan said.

  “They won’t find much but torn fishing nets and broken bay crawler pots. The winter stores have been exhausted and the fishing sparse. The villagers probably didn’t notice the raid until this morning. They were quite intent on making a good Festival in hopes of a bountiful summer.” They needed a fertile Festival. Nearly half of last year’s Festival babies had died within a few days of birth. Several of the mothers had also died despite Myri’s best efforts to save them. All of them might have succumbed had she not been there to midwife them. Experience and hard work often worked better at birthings than magic. Not always. She could not save all of them. She hadn’t been able to save Granny Katia, beloved by the entire village.


  Mourning families tended to remember only the losses. How many of them blamed her for the deaths?

  If the villagers followed her, Nimbulan would be in danger, too. She looked at the slender silver cord of magic that connected her heart to his. He’d only crawled a few yards into the woods before the cord stretched thin and tried to yank him back. Her trip to the creek hadn’t been much farther away. They were bound together, probably for a long time. Whatever fate followed one, would involve the other. Concern for him overrode her resentment at the implied control he had over her through that cord.

  “Televarn seemed to think this village rich, with adequate stores left over.”

  “Televarn! Stargods, we have to get out of here.” Frantically, she gathered together her few possessions. The cooking pot, the water jug, her knife . . . Amaranth!

  “Neither of us is in any condition to move, Myrilandel.”

  “And less prepared to defend ourselves when he comes looking for me and . . .” she almost said “my flywacket.”

  “He thinks I’m dead. And I would be if you hadn’t come when you did. Televarn has no reason to return.”

  “Unless he questioned the villagers or overheard them talking about me. We have to leave. Now!” This time she stood and kicked dirt over their little fire. Should she scatter the remnants and obscure all evidence of their presence?

  “How do you know Televarn?” He grabbed a fistful of her skirt, the only part of her he could reach.

  “He covets something of mine he can never have.” She wrenched her skirt free of his grasp.

  “What?” He stared at the few possessions she crammed into her pack.

  Just then a dark, winged shadow fluttered into the little clear space of their camp. Amaranth landed between them, near the remnants of the fire, a gray scurry clamped firmly in his jaws. He left his wings half-furled.

  Nimbulan stared, gape-jawed at the legendary flywacket.

  “Amaranth!” Myrilandel gasped. “You shouldn’t reveal yourself to strangers.”

  (He’s not a stranger. We trust him.) Her familiar dropped the dead rodent near the fire. He fluffed his wings and tail as he paced circles around the two of them, growling and mewling with every step.

  “He says I must trust you,” Myrilandel said.

  (Televarn is in the village. He questions people in the pub. He knows you were there yesterday.)

  Myri related that bit of information to Nimbulan. “We have to go. We have to hide.”

  “I see why Televarn pursues you so relentlessly. Amaranth is a rare prize. Where do you propose we go?” Nimbulan struggled to his feet. His skin paled as pain and dizziness overwhelmed him.

  She watched him struggle against the impulse to collapse again. Intelligently, he gathered their cloaks as he righted himself rather than risk bending down again.

  “Anywhere away from here. Where do you suggest?” she replied, accepting her cloak from his outstretched hand. She helped him settle his mud-caked outer garment about his shoulders.

  The silver cord strengthened. They must flee together or die together. That s’murghing connection wouldn’t break until he was healed and strong. She couldn’t do anything about that now. She hadn’t the strength or the time.

  “Not back to the road if you are intent on hiding from the Rovers. Though I don’t believe he’s stupid enough to return to the scene of a murder.”

  “No, he’s not stupid. He’s obsessed. If he suspects we are anywhere in the vicinity, he’ll hunt me down. I ran away from him once. He can’t let that happen again. And if he discovers you still live, he won’t rest until he’s completed his quest.”

  “Obsessive. Yes, that describes Televarn well. We’d best rake the leaves and such to remove traces of our camp.”

  “I’ll do it, you start walking. Amaranth, stay with him,” she ordered the flywacket.

  (Of course.)

  “Which way?” Nimbulan cocked one eyebrow up, removing worry lines and lending him an illusion of youth and strength.

  Myri remembered his boyish grin touched with mischief last autumn and longed to see it again.

  She paused to listen to the wind for a suggestion. A gentle “push” from behind. “Uphill, due south. I’ll be right behind you.” As if she had a choice with that magical bond holding their fates together.

  “Where is Kalen?” Ackerly asked her father.

  Stuuvart looked up from counting the sacks of grain in the storeroom. “I have no idea. She’s supposed to be in class.” He returned to inspecting a ragged corner of one of the sacks. Evidence of mice?

  “She is supposed to be with me, practicing communication spells. But she isn’t. I thought she might have joined her family for some reason.” Ackerly took a sudden dislike to the man. Stuuvart managed the school’s resources with efficiency and struck bargains with a brilliant flair for conservation of money. But since the day he had arrived, he’d ignored his own daughter, as if she no longer existed—or wasn’t his.

  “Then ask her mother where she is.” Stuuvart moved into the still room filled with crocks of pickled vegetables and salted meat.

  “I did ask Guillia. She hasn’t seen Kalen since breakfast and she’s worried sick for the girl.”

  All of the children and adults ended up in the kitchen with Guillia at some point during each day. Kalen’s mother proved to be a wonderful cook. She was generous with treats and lent a sympathetic ear to one and all. Her homey domain radiated warmth and love along with the wonderful aromas of baking sweets and savory pies. How could such a warmhearted woman have married this cold and unfeeling man?

  “You seem to have lost Kalen, Ackerly. A very valuable child.” Stuuvart finally straightened from his inventory. He didn’t call Kalen “daughter.” Ever. “You have also failed to keep the wards around my stores to prevent vermin from stealing us blind. I will require compensation for the damage to my reputation for this. Allowing vermin in my storeroom!”

  Was the storeroom more important than his daughter? If she was his daughter. Kalen’s younger siblings all had blue eyes and blond hair like their mother. Only Kalen had a touch of red in her hair. Stuuvart’s hair was dark brown, as were his eyes. Kalen’s eyes were gray—like Powwell’s and Ackerly’s.

  His thoughts paused a moment with that realization. A secret smile touched his mouth. Possible. Yes, it was possible. How could he use his blood link to the children, if indeed the relationship existed?

  “You are the one who is blind, Stuuvart. The holes in the corners of the sacks have been cut with a knife, not chewed by mice. Only a magician could slip around the wards. One of our own has been stealing. Have you and your wife been keeping my students and faculty so hungry they must steal?” He turned the accusation back onto Stuuvart, the only overt way to maintain control of the man. Would Stuuvart succumb to coercion? His honor would be marred much deeper should it become publicly known that he had not sired Kalen—a very valuable witchchild.

  Ackerly hid his revulsion of a man who suddenly seemed as mean and small-spirited as Druulin. His inventories were more important than feeding the apprentices. Ackerly had vowed never to go hungry again.

  “Excuse me, Master Ackerly,” Rollett said, knocking politely on the doorjamb. His hand went immediately to an open crock of dried fruit and nuts. He popped a handful into his mouth before continuing. “I can’t find Powwell, Master. I’m supposed to team up with him today for practice in summoning. Haakon thought he might be with you.”

  Ackerly looked pointedly from the journeyman’s hand plunging into the crock a second time, to Stuuvart. The steward stood his ground, refusing the accusation of short rations. Druulin had done the same thing.

  Ackerly didn’t have time for this battle of wills.

  “Powwell is not with me as you can see. Nor is Kalen. Take Gilby and two others and start searching for them.” One gifted child playing hooky from lessons spelled mischief. Two gifted children missing, along with dried fruit, nuts, and grains, and possibly a ham—he�
��d spotted an empty spot in the orderly rows of smoked meat hanging from the ceiling—smelled of trouble.

  “We will discuss this later, Stuuvart, when the children and missing stores are accounted for.” Ackerly turned sharply on his heel and left the room before his steward could increase his demands of blackmail.

  S’murghit! if Stuuvart weren’t so valuable as a manager and accountant, Ackerly would dismiss him, his wife, and the other children as well. I’m in charge of this school, not him. The profits are mine and I can’t afford to share them with another. As soon as he found Kalen and knew the child and her enormous talent to be safe, he just might turn the rest of the family out. The girl and her talent were all that truly mattered. Couldn’t her father see that? If he was truly her father. He didn’t think Guillia the kind of woman to stray from her marriage bed. But he knew from experience that any woman could be seduced with the right promises.

  Maybe that was why she looked so familiar! He’d visited Baria a number of times over the years and remembered an innkeeper’s daughter on the verge of a convenient marriage to a rich merchant she didn’t like. . . .

  Ackerly didn’t need Guillia and her family to make a profit from Kalen. A blood link could be made to keep the child close at hand. Moncriith would know how to do that.

  Maybe Stuuvart was hiding both children so that he could demand ransom, a tidy sum of gold for them.

  If he was, then Stuuvart had best watch his back. Ackerly had an entire school of magicians to force the truth out of him, very painfully. He’d summon Moncriith to be on the lookout for the children.

  He couldn’t allow anything to harm those children. They were too important an investment.

  “We need help, Myrilandel,” Nimbulan gasped as he sank to his knees for the third time. Ruefully he looked back along the path they had come. The crooked rowan growing beside the double everblue that marked the beginning of their trek was still in sight.