Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  He hoped Rollett was able to infiltrate the enemy army soon enough to learn some important tactical information to aid Quinnault in the coming battle. The young journeyman magician would have to be careful and stay out of Moncriith’s way.

  Patience, he told himself. You didn’t learn magic in a day. He remembered the years he’d struggled to create his spells. Old Druulin had made him keep his incantations and pieces of poetry to trigger those spells private, even from the master and Ackerly, his best friend. Druulin had stolen the rhyme for a simple invisibility spell and used it to sneak up on Nimbulan. The old man had knocked his young apprentice senseless with a mind probe. The lesson had been clear. Never allow another magician to learn your spells.

  Secrecy among magicians was a major barrier he had to overcome. Mistrust among the older magicians who had come to the school might prevent this little communication spell from working. Only Ackerly seemed to grasp immediately the concepts of this new magic.

  If only Nimbulan still trusted Ackerly. The man had evaded questions about the overdose of Tambootie and Timboor that had almost killed him, with sly hints and accusations against everyone except himself. He’d even blamed Nimbulan for endangering the apprentices with his experiments.

  Ackerly was amazingly adept at gathering dragon magic. Nimbulan hadn’t expected his assistant to be more powerful with the new system than he had with the old. Ackerly grasped the concept of gathering magic quickly and demonstrated the technique adeptly to the younger boys, something the older master magicians couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do.

  They needed speed. Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ army marched closer every minute.

  Nimbulan would have gladly excused his assistant from the practice until he knew for sure who had poisoned him last winter, but he needed his help.

  Journeyman Gilby stumbled over the words of the spell. The entire circle of magicians and apprentices faltered and stopped in their recitation.

  “Begin again,” Nimbulan said impatiently.

  When they were all competing against each other, keeping their spells private had been vital, lifesaving. Now they all must use the same spell, in unison, and work in concert for the same goal.

  The future he envisioned banished all barriers among magicians. They would share more than power during vital spells. They would share knowledge and pass it down to each successive generation.

  At last the magicians worked their way through the spell three times without error. “Hold hands, men. The magic only works when you are in physical contact with every other magician working the spell,” he directed.

  Twenty bodies shifted and shuffled in embarrassed silence. Men didn’t touch each other in their culture. Another custom Nimbulan must banish. Finally they were all joined, old and young, trained and raw. Ackerly, the last man in the line, placed his free hand on Lyman’s shoulder, completing the circle. Lyman held his master’s glass in front of the flames in the hearth.

  “Together now, breathe in on three counts, hold three, release three.” A tingle of energy ran up Nimbulan’s arms. The room filled with power, begging him to join it. He watched the men’s auras blend into one giant pulse. Arcs of many individual colors swirled and shifted until they were all one glowing dome of lavender/white energy. Lavender, Lyman’s signature color. If Ackerly led the group, would his yellow dominate the aura?

  They knew so little about why dragon magic allowed communal working and ley line magic didn’t. Magic was strictly fuel, wasn’t it? They didn’t have time to puzzle out answers.

  Nimbulan stepped back, physically and magically. He wasn’t part of this spell. He needed to observe the effects from a distance. So he watched the auara as a reflection of available power. The single united aura grew until it filled the room and pushed outside the stone walls of the room.

  “Again, breathe in, hold, release, hold.” The united aura began to throb and reach outward.

  “Once more. Breathe, hold, release, hold.” The level of power in the room grew and multiplied like a living thing, replicating itself faster than they could think. All color vanished as the united aura whirled until it became the nearly transparent all color/no color of a dragon’s hide.

  “Chant the words of the spell, and send the flame to Naabbon, Lord Hanic’s new magician. Send the flame across the island, watch it skip over the river, guide it west by southwest, across the grazing land, through the rich farmland up to the foothills.” Nimbulan closed his eyes and imagined the progress of the flame. He’d sent a message along this very route the week before that fateful battle last autumn. Then he had pleaded with Keegan to return and complete his training. His message had been ignored then. Would it be again?

  His left hand reached out, palm forward, as if drawing the communal magic into himself. He forced himself to clench his fist and drop it back into his lap. He couldn’t participate. He had to observe.

  At last he heard Lyman reading the written text of the message Quinnault had worked out. A plea for Hanic to join the united lords in mutual defense against Kammeryl d’Astrismos. United strength to combat those who sought war for the sake of war. If all stood together, they could defeat Kammeryl and negotiate a new government with a new monarchy.

  They deliberately left the issue of a monarchy hanging. Hanic had to believe himself eligible for the crown, though Quinnault’s alliance had already asked the lord of the islands to rule.

  Lyman’s words trailed off. Nimbulan opened his eyes to see, what, if any, reaction came back through the glass. Because he was not joined to magicians performing this spell, he saw nothing through the glass but magnified flames. He could only judge the response on Naabbon’s end from Lyman’s face. A map of time-earned wrinkles around the old man’s eyes crinkled. A smile curved upward, revealing amazingly sound teeth.

  “Agreed, Naabbon. Your lord will march tonight to reinforce Lord Quinnault as he defends his lands against Kammeryl d’Astrismos and the Bloodmage.”

  Ackerly removed his hand from Lyman’s shoulder. The spell dissolved.

  “We did it, Master Nimbulan.” Lyman stood up from his crouched position before the fire. “We blasted young Naabbon with so much magic we dragged him out of his bath. He spluttered and gasped, but he couldn’t break the summons. He had to stay with his glass, walked it down the corridor—him dripping bath water the whole way and naked as a lumbird—into Hanic’s bedroom. Woke the lord up and got the agreement. He couldn’t break the summons!”

  Moncriith studied the army of Lord Kammeryl d’Astrismos. Far less than the one thousand men the lord advertised as his following. No need. Moncriith could handle any magician Quinnault de Tanos found.

  A niggle of doubt crept into his mind. Nimbulan and the boy had overpowered him. He’d had thread from Powwell’s cloak, strands of Myrilandel’s hair, and a splinter from Nimbulan’s old staff—purchased from Televarn before the Rover chieftain disappeared into Hanassa. All of the souvenirs had tasted the owner’s blood. His spell should have been more powerful than anything they threw at him.

  Except he had nothing from the girl child—Kalen. She’d thrown her old and ragged clothes into the hearth fire rather than let Moncriith have them. Perhaps that was the problem. She had been excluded from his spell and able to help Nimbulan in some way. Either that or the bit of Nimbulan’s staff had been false. Rovers were known to lie about everything. Except, Moncriith suspected, the Rover had a grudge against Nimbulan and wanted him dead.

  When next Moncriith met Nimbulan and Myrilandel, he would have an entire battlefield of blood and pain to fuel him. They would not survive his next attack. Would not survive long enough to have their marriage sanctified in a temple of the Stargods. Demons couldn’t be allowed to profane the sacraments.

  When Nimbulan and Myrilandel fell, so would the rest of the magicians and the demons that controlled them. Moncriith would be the only magician left in Coronnan. He would rule through his puppet, Kammeryl d’Astrismos for a time. The self-crowned king would die, too, when Moncriith
no longer need him.

  His vision had become so real, he reached out a hand as if to grasp the image of himself as anointed priest-king of all Coronnan. No one would dare defy him once he ruled.

  He smiled at the army that awaited his command. One of them was Nimbulan’s spy. The young man from the school harbored a demon spirit disguised as a magic talent. Moncriith smelled the evil creature on the wind.

  Moncriith needed sacrificial human blood to begin his battle spells.

  An example must be made now, to all magicians, that their powers and interference would not be tolerated. His army would destroy the one who hid among them. That death would give him tremendous power to neutralize Nimbulan before he managed to summon demons.

  “Bring me the demonsniffers,” he ordered the young sergeant who stood beside him on the knoll. The two women and one old man who could smell magic in a person, but had no other magic talent themselves, had formerly been called “witchsniffers.” Moncriith gave them a more important role in this army—to root out spies and enemy magicians. They would have the privilege of marching at the fore of the army as they massed for battle tomorrow morning, but only after they brought him the impostor. Only after his maddened crowd had torn the magician limb from limb.

  Chapter 34

  “Master, come quick. We need you!” Journeyman Gilby ran into Nimbulan’s study without knocking. He skidded on the smooth slate floor, catching himself on the doorjamb.

  “I can’t step away from the workroom for five minutes without all of you flying into a panic.” Nimbulan looked up from the pile of old journals he’d come to fetch. Over the years he’d kept faithful records of his life, including the numerous incantations and cantrips he used to trigger spells.

  “What is wrong, Gilby? Take a deep breath and calm down. Then tell me in simple words.” He motioned to his journeyman to sit in the chair beside him. The chair where Myri should be. He missed her company every minute of the day. She was on the mainland with the few girl apprentices, none of whom could gather dragon magic.

  Gilby shook his head and gulped air. “A summons, sir. A desperate summons from Rollett. He used a flicker of witchlight and a cup of water. It’s all he has while spying on Moncriith. He says there are witchsniffers after him and a mob screaming for blood. His blood.”

  “Quickly, back to the workroom. This will take a very delicate touch. I pray we have learned enough to help the boy from this distance.” Nimbulan snapped his journal closed and reached for an older one from his own journeyman days.

  Where was the entry he’d made about delusions? He’d read the rhyming phrases only yesterday. He scattered books across his desk in his haste to find the book. Where? Three volumes hit the floor with thuds and skids that must have broken the spines of the bindings. He ignored them.

  No book was as valuable as Rollett’s life.

  Why had he sent the boy to spy on Moncriith? He should have sent a mundane, someone who wouldn’t rouse the Bloodmage’s suspicions, or gone himself.

  He couldn’t lose another apprentice so soon after Keegan’s death. He wouldn’t let war take another person he loved.

  “Here!” He grabbed the book he sought, rifling through the pages as he hurried down the hall. “We haven’t time to memorize the spell. I’ll read it aloud, phrase by phrase, the group will repeat each phrase with me. I hope it works. I pray we are in time.” He looked out a window as they nearly ran down the corridor. No sign of any of the dragons. They were close—he sensed their presence in the constantly renewing source of magic power. But he couldn’t see them. Would the spell be stronger, more easily controlled, if the magicians linked hands around a dragon?

  No time to find out.

  They found the assembled magicians, journeymen, and apprentices milling about the workroom in confusion.

  “In a circle, grab hands. Apprentices stand outside and observe. Break the circle if something goes wrong. A fire and a glass. Where’s my glass?” Nimbulan marshaled his magicians.

  “An infusion of strengthening herbs, Lan, before you begin. It will help settle your nerves and focus your magic.” Ackerly stood at Nimbulan’s elbow with a mug of steaming brew. Nimbulan took it from him gratefully. Leave it to Ackerly to think of such a minor thing that could save the entire spell.

  The stream drifted past his nose as he raised the mug to his lips. The musky sweet aroma made his muscles freeze. “You put Tambootie in the infusion.”

  “Yes, Lan. Like always. You need the drug to fuel your magic and channel your energies.” Ackerly blinked at him in puzzlement. His wide gray eyes revealed none of his emotions. He’d also found the armor to protect his thoughts from Nimbulan’s probe.

  “No, I don’t need this demon brew. I’ve broken free of the cursed drug. All I need is dragons. That’s all any of us need to fuel our magic.” Impatiently, Nimbulan handed the mug back to Ackerly. He scanned the group to ensure they were ready for this important rescue attempt. Their glazed eyes and vague expressions sent his heart sinking into his gut.

  “How many of them drank of your evil infusions, Ackerly?” He grabbed his assistant’s tunic at the throat, shaking him in frustrated anger. “They’re useless like this! We’re going to lose Rollett to Moncriith’s mob because you dosed them all with the Tambootie.”

  “We’ve always used the Tambootie,” Ackerly protested. He surveyed the stain on his tunic where he’d spilled the infusion. A dark brown stain with green and pink tinges, just like the fresh leaves of the tree of magic, spread outward across his chest.

  “Those flecks and burrs in the infusion. That’s Timboor. Timboor is poison!” Nimbulan jerked away from Ackerly as if touching the liquid were as dangerous as drinking it. “You set out to poison us all, just like you . . . You poisoned me last winter and left me for dead in the crypt. You tried to murder me!” The certainty of Ackerly’s guilt hit him hard. He couldn’t believe it, didn’t want to believe it. The evidence lay before him, spilled on Ackerly’s tunic.

  “Nonsense, Master, your wife gave me the herbs for the infusion,” Ackerly scoffed, backing toward the door, the incriminating cup still in his hands.

  “My wife hasn’t been on this island since before sunup. I’ll deal with you later, Ackerly. Gilby, you and Powwell, Haakkon, Zane . . .” No, not Zane, he couldn’t gather dragon magic. “Jaanus and Bessel, you haven’t drunk any of the poison yet. Join me. Push the others aside. We’ll help them after we rescue Rollett. Maalin, you stand aside as control and guide.”

  Three deep breaths brought their talents into concert, just as they’d practiced.

  “Shadows and mist gather near

  Cloak and shade in pictures clear

  Those who seek through smoke and fire

  Will not see, through magic’s spire.”

  Not great poetry. But the intent was there. Nimbulan recited the formula line by line. His five companions echoed his phrases in unison. The magic built to a whirling frenzy, demanding release. He felt a tiny surge of power from the apprentices, quickly controlled by Gilby’s deft blending of energy.

  “Steady, men. Hold it steady. With me, through the glass, to Rollett.” Together, their minds flew into the image of flame on the other side of Nimbulan’s large Master’s glass. Like an arrow carefully aligned to a target, they sped with the flame across the leagues to the grassy rolling hills to the south. They bypassed Lord Kammeryl’s organized and disciplined troops for the rambling campfires and scattered tents near the perimeter of the army.

  The noise of hundreds of angry voices burst through their focus. One magician faltered in the quest. Another pulled him back into the group consciousness. Thoughts, dreams, aspirations—all were available to any in the group who wished to probe deeper, just as in the Rover ritual. But there wasn’t the time or malice to invade a man’s privacy here.

  Rollett? they whispered physically and mentally. Where are you boy? Rollett!

  An image flickered at the edge of their vision. As the tool of a solitary will, th
e magic arrow turned a sharp corner and sped to the feeble call of one in need. The mob turned and followed their spell, the three in front sniffing with all their senses.

  Hurry, Rollett. Gather the magic in the air. Roll it into a formless mass inside you. Let us penetrate it and make a new you.

  Shouts of rage and near recognition drew closer. The witchsniffers moved faster, honing in on the “scent” of powerful magic.

  At last the communal magic found a target. Their arrow-like spell penetrated and exploded on impact. The essence of Rollett, his personality, his soul, his magic, burst free of the confines of his body, scattering to the four winds.

  Ackerly stuffed his clothes haphazardly into a travel pack. He would be halfway to the mainland before Nimbulan thought to look for him. Anxiously, he flung the pack onto his bed and knelt on the floor by the high narrow window of his solitary cell. He pried at a loose flooring stone with his belt knife. The thin surface of slate lifted free of the square pattern of similar pieces. Beneath it, Ackerly had removed the slab of granite foundation to make a safe hiding place. He thrust his arm elbow deep into the recess until his fingers closed around the neck of a burlap bag.

  Using both hands, he heaved the heavy sack onto the floor beside him. Hastily, he untied the knots with a tiny spell. So much easier to do with this new dragon magic. Gathering the ethereal energy from the air made him as powerful a magician as any other single man in the school.

  Never again would he have to follow in the wake of a more powerful man, hiding in the background, performing all the menial chores delegated to servants. He had amassed the gold bit by bit for the last thirty years. Between the gold and the dragon magic, he controlled as much or more power than any man in Coronnan.

  More. Because he knew how to negate the dragon magic, making Nimbulan and his precious Commune useless.

  Kammeryl d’Astrismos would pay much for that knowledge. So would Moncriith. He’d summon the Bloodmage with the nature of the spell seeking to rescue Rollett as soon as he was safely on the mainland.