“I know.” She clung to the trunk of a stout tree as she dropped her meager pack to the ground. Her knuckles were white where she grasped a branch level with her shoulder.
“Perhaps if we went downhill?” He looked hopefully at the easier path.
Myrilandel cocked her head as if listening. “No,” she said righting her head and gathering her strength.
That curious habit of listening to the wind bothered him. She reminded him of someone when she did that. What did Amaranth tell her?
“They . . . I said no. We can’t take the risk.”
“Televarn?”
“He’s still in the village.” She bit her trembling lip, looking longingly at the downhill path. “I hope he doesn’t hurt anyone there.” She blinked back a tear, then resolutely shouldered the pack again. She didn’t let go of the branch that supported her.
“I don’t believe he’d risk hanging around after he raided the storehouse.”
Nimbulan thought about rising from his knees and decided to wait a moment more. He’d not lose track of Myrilandel. Not with that pretty silver cord stretching from his heart to hers. What kind of magic had she worked on him? He’d never heard of such a thing.
He should resent the tie she’d established. Strangely, the connection pleased him. He’d wanted her to stay with him last autumn. Now she couldn’t run away from him. He had the chance to . . . To what?
“What would Televarn do if he found the storehouse as empty as I know it to be?” Myrilandel looked back at him, as reluctant to move as he. “He’d believe the villagers tricked him, and he can’t allow anyone to trick the great trickster. So he’d watch and wait for another chance. He’d ask questions that would lead him to another storehouse. Only there isn’t another storehouse. Drinking in the pub is the best place to observe the entire village.” She shoved herself away from the tree and took two steps uphill.
“You know him well.”
“Too well. Take a drink. You need fluid to replace the blood you lost, then we must move on.”
Much later Nimbulan could no longer see the crooked rowan. Blindly he set one foot in front of the other—he was no longer sure which foot moved and which was right or left—and bumped into Myrilandel’s back. The silver cord swelled and tugged at his heart when he didn’t move away from the warm sensation of her back pressed against the length of him.
“We can stop here.” Her teeth chattered as she spoke. “He won’t see our fire from the place where he left you. Amaranth says he’ll bring us more fresh meat. I think he spotted another gray scurry nearby.”
Nimbulan didn’t care. If his enemy found him now and killed him again, he didn’t have the strength or the will to protest. Anything to end this endless journey.
(No, you must fight for yourself.)
“Who said that?”
Silence.
He looked at Myrilandel. She stood with her head cocked to the left. Amaranth pointed his nose uphill, to the south, ears alert, tail straight up.
“You heard them, too?” she asked. Curious shadows elongated her face and fingers. Where had he seen that otherworldly image before?
“Yes.” He continued to search the small open space for evidence of another being.
“You won’t see them. They have guided me my entire life. I have learned to trust them, but I have never known who or what they are.” She dropped the pack and began gathering firewood.
“Did they say it’s safe to stop here?” He reached to his hip where he should carry a knife, but Televarn had stolen it from him.
“They don’t push me forward now.”
“I wonder who they are.” He sank down and collected the few dead branches he could reach. Her relaxation of her vigilant attention to her surroundings told him that these mysterious voices were trustworthy more than her words had. He’d never seen this strange witchwomen other than wary, almost feral in her desire to remain unconfined by people or places.
“I don’t know. But they told me of betrayal and sent me to you. I don’t know if they meant I would be betrayed or you would. Now they push me to climb this hill. There is something up there. . . .” She paused and looked in the direction they had been traveling. Her nose twitched and her eyes brightened. “I think I’m going home. But I’ve never been there before.”
Three days passed, three days of struggling uphill along a path only Myrilandel could see. Amaranth brought them gray scurries and an occasional striped lapin. On the second day, Myrilandel had enough strength to dig a few roots. Both of them drank deeply from the numerous streams they crossed.
Finally, at the end of the third day, when Nimbulan was sure he could walk no farther, and could barely lift a hand to push away branches that slapped his face, they both stumbled at the same time, landing flat on their faces. Had the magical cord that bound them together tripped them?
When he had enough strength to raise his head, a wonderful sight greeted him.
“An old woodsman’s hut,” he murmured. “The roof is intact.” Shelter at last.
“A flusterhen coop!” Myrilandel crawled to her feet.
“We’d best check for people.” He searched the clearing with his normal senses. He hadn’t the strength to look with magic. The place smelled abandoned. But he couldn’t be sure.
“Hello!” Myri called.
A flustercock strutted out from the coop in response. He stretched his neck and crowed loudly at them.
Myri laughed and lunged for the brightly feathered bird. He ducked back into the small shelter. She followed and emerged a moment later with two white globes held triumphantly in her hands. “Laying hens. No one has collected the eggs in moons and moons. The hens obligingly laid these two a moment ago just for us. Tonight, we eat properly.”
Something snapped behind Nimbulan. With the last of his strength he looked in the general direction of the sound. His eyes saw nothing. A tendril of magic stirred within him for the first time since Televarn had stabbed him. He hadn’t the energy or the will to push the magic outward and explore the unusual sound. Yet he had the distinct sensation of something closing, almost as if someone had closed a door with a sigh of relief.
“Did you hear something, Myrilandel?”
She paused in her progress toward the hut. She turned in a complete circle, sniffing the air and cocking her head to listen. A smile lit her face. Joy danced in her eyes. “I’m home. I’m home! This is where they need me to be. This is where I need to be. We’re safe here.” She turned another circle, arms outstretched in welcome, head thrown back in laughter.
He’d never seen a more beautiful woman.
His magic stirred again, pulling his hand toward the center of the clearing where Myrilandel continued her delighted capering. Curious to know what power tugged at him, he allowed the little magic stirring within him to sharpen his sight.
Blue! Ley line blue spread before him. Not the intense well of blue hidden beneath the courtyard of the old monastery, but still strong and pulsing with energy. He fine-tuned his focus to follow individual lines. Four, five, six. Six. Unprecedented except for the well. Six lines equally spaced, coming together at the exact point where Myrilandel danced. There the lines crossed and radiated out again.
A nexus. He’d heard old Master Magicians speak of the legendary points as places of unusual power. Most scholars dismissed the idea as improbable. Ley lines occurred randomly, at irregular intervals. Only rarely did two or three lines cross. No one had recorded more at any time in recent history.
Nimbulan remembered an essay on the subject in one of the books in the library at the school. A major nexus. Six of the phenomena had been recorded in ancient times, one on each continent of Kardia Hodos. No one mentioned the well. The locations of all six of the nexi had been lost to modern magicians shortly after the departure of the Stargods. After a brief skimming of the essay, he’d seen no mention about the well of ley lines as the source of all power. He’d put it aside to read carefully later, but later never came.
Gratefully, he positioned himself directly over one of the lines. Energy filled him with enough strength to crawl to Myrilandel and the nexus. His heart pounded stronger and more regularly, pushing blood to all parts of his body. Warmth filled him to the tips of his very cold fingers and toes. Tingles played with the angry wound across his gut, hastening the healing process and restoring some of his lost strength.
He stood up with only minor dizziness and a raging hunger for food and for Myri.
A smile grew from his belly and spread outward to every corner of his being. He was not satisfied until he held her tightly against his chest, kissing her soft mouth. They continued their spiral dance together, embracing the clearing and each other. The silver cord connecting their hearts swelled and wrapped them closer together.
(We have brought you home. Soon we will meet with you and teach you what you need to know.)
Chapter 26
“What are we to do with you?” Moncriith asked no one in particular. He stared at the two grubby children from the height of the throne in the great hall of Castle Krej, the ancestral home of Kammeryl d’Astrismos. A conscientious farmer had brought the children to the court after finding them hiding in his barn, stealing milk from his goat.
The lord himself was busy elsewhere and so Moncriith listened to the farmer’s tale of woe, as he listened to most petitioners for the lord’s justice. Kammeryl d’Astrismos didn’t like to sit still and found dispensing justice tedious. He’d almost blubbered in delight when Moncriith showed him the merits of allowing an educated magician to sit in his stead.
“You stole food from an honest man’s barn. You milked his goat and stuffed his eggs into your pockets.” He looked at the boy, the older of the two, straight in the eye. Most people blinked and stammered when he challenged them with direct eye contact. Not this child. The boy returned the stare and kept his mouth shut. His arm stole about the shoulders of his sister in a protective gesture that said much about them.
Moncriith presumed they were brother and sister. They possessed the same mud-brown hair and gray eyes with incredibly long lashes. The spay of freckles across their noses fell into almost identical patterns. He’d seen those gray eyes before. Where?
The girl kept her eyes lowered. She darted shy glances to right and left. Her mouth opened slightly in awe. Her innocence tugged at Moncriith’s heart.
He vaguely remembered meeting her somewhere in his travels. Probably the boy, too. That was why the eyes looked so familiar. Why hadn’t they heeded his sermons and become too frightened of demons to ever work magic again?
“This honest farmer also tells me that you frightened his plow steed with witchlight. I have forbidden all witchcraft within Lord d’Astrismos’ land.” He had to remain stern, make an example of all witches. Their magic would attract demons. He would not tolerate rival magicians in his province, no matter how beguiling the children could seem.
“We didn’t know that, Sssieur. We were hungry and cold. We only did what we had to do to thurvive,” the girl said quietly, very meekly.
A solitary tear moistened her beautiful eyelashes, threatening to spill over onto her cheek. Moncriith wanted nothing more than to rush forward with a clean handkerchief to brush the tear aside so she could look up at him with thanks. He adjusted his estimate of her age downward.
“Hush, Kalen. He won’t listen. He’s like all the other witchhunters. He doesn’t care about us. Only about his laws.” The boy pulled her closer, still protecting her.
“Master Magician Ackerly sent word that two of his students had run away.” Moncriith shook his shoulders to rid himself of his foolish emotions. He had to maintain control here. “Witchchildren run away from the witch school, only using enough magic to survive. Perhaps Myrlandel’s demons haven’t found you yet. I may be able to redeem your souls after all.”
Among the d’Astrismos soldiers and retainers he already had commitments from two hundred people—he’d worked hard all winter recruiting those commitments. Soon the weather would allow him to take his crusade farther afield. By the time the fields were plowed and planted and the men could leave home, he’d have control of the lord’s army. Control of all Coronnan would soon follow.
The children exchanged a glance. Communication without words.
“Speak with words, not magic!” Moncriith roared.
The farmer backed out of the room with undue haste. Moncriith ignored him, though he should have taken the time to reassure the man he had nothing to fear from Moncriith, being an innocent mundane. Only the abominations who used demon magic had reason to fear Moncriith and Lord d’Astrismos’ justice.
“Sieur?” The boy leveled his gaze on Moncriith once more. He used the respectful title reserved for honored priests, but his eyes were more seeking than respectful.
Moncriith had the eerie feeling this child could read him to the depths of his soul. No one could do that anymore. No traditional magician could penetrate the armor he’d erected when . . . when he realized how vulnerable to demons he’d become. Not even the priests in the temple with their coercive methods could force their way into his mind.
“Speak freely, child. I’ll not harm you.” Moncriith added another layer of armor to his mind.
“Sieur, we don’t think we want to stay with you. We’re on a quest. An urgent quest.”
“Now that Nimbulan is dead, the cult of Battlemages will die out, child. And without the Battlemages, the wars will cease. You need not worry about quests anymore. Soon I will return you to your parents and we will all live in peace.”
The children exchanged another of their deep glances. Moncriith drummed his fingers on the arm of his throne in frustration. Why did everyone question and doubt the truth?
“But Master Nimbulan ithn’t dead, Sssieur. And we have to find him. It’s important. Very important,” Kalen said. Finally, she raised her eyes to him. Determination overshadowed the innocence and beauty he had seen in her, leaving only a willful child who must be disciplined. After she had outlived her usefulness.
“Yes, finding Nimbulan is very important, if he is indeed still alive.” Moncriith leaned forward. His knuckles turned white under the force of his grip of the chair arms. He forced himself to remain calm. How could that man still live to plague him? Nimbulan had to be dead, as reported. Ackerly wouldn’t lie to him, not after Moncriith had paid out three gold pieces for information. His plans to eliminate all magicians along with the demons would blow away as dust if Nimbulan still lived. No other Battlemage commanded the respect of both magician and mundane armies. As long as Nimbulan lived to direct battles and train other magicians to do the same, Moncriith would remain an outcast.
The kingship of Coronnan eluded him as long as Nimbulan lived to oppose Moncriith.
“I will help you find Master Nimbulan, children. But first you must bathe and have a hot meal. Some new, warm clothing and boots, too.” He clapped his hands for servants to see to the children. “We will begin our journey at dawn.”
Myri explored the boundary of the clearing with her hands and magic senses. Yesterday, when she and Nimbulan had collapsed into the clearing, she thought she heard a popping sound, as if a door had closed behind them. Now she sought that door again.
Inch by inch, she traced the perimeter of the area around her new home. An invisible wall resisted the pressure of her hand. The thought of being trapped here forever didn’t bother her. Within the magic enclosure of several acres, she had about an acre for a garden, access to a creek for water, and a secluded pool fed by hot springs for bathing and laundry. Nimbulan was there now, washing away the blood and dust of his adventures.
A long soak in the warm water would aid the internal healing she hadn’t been able to complete. She had probed the wound last night and realized she could do little more for him with magic. Only time and rest and good food would finish the job she had begun.
She hoped he shaved his beard as well. She liked being able to watch his facial expressions. She wanted to see that boy
ish grin light his eyes again.
It was curious that the silver tendril of magic still bound her to him. She had thought the connection born solely of the incomplete healing and his need to keep her close and controlled until he no longer required her talent. Something else must be maintaining it. She tugged gently on the cord and sent him the message to scrape the beard from his face.
A sense of well-being crept over her at the realization she didn’t resent the silver cord or Nimbulan anymore. “We belong together. We belong here. This is home,” she whispered, utterly amazed.
Briefly she gave up her examination of the wall to touch her lips where he had kissed her yesterday. The sensations he roused in her still puzzled her. He wasn’t as beautiful or as skilled as Televarn, but the raw honesty of his embrace had touched a portion of her heart she thought closed and locked away forever.
Televarn had roused her lust but not her love. What kind of emotions would grow between herself and Nimbulan if she allowed him to stay in her life?
When Old Magretha had died three years ago, Myri had grieved for her lost mentor and companion. If she lost Nimbulan now, she thought she might feel the same kind of loneliness and regret. Or worse.
“You feel it, too?” Nimbulan came up behind her, almost as if she had conjured him with her speculations.
“Feel what?” She was lost in the wonder of examining his bare cheeks and upper lip. Would his kiss delight her as much without the beard tickling her?
He’d pulled his long hair back into a single braid, without the distinctive shorter sides hanging loose, as most magicians did. Now he looked like an ordinary country gentleman, the kind of man who might be willing to linger with her in this remote clearing.
“Feel the wall. I managed to step beyond it and back through it down by the creek, but it took a major effort of will. My magic won’t return fully until my body is completely healed. I doubt that anyone else will be able to penetrate the wall without our permission.”
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 26
