An altar all right.
But the benevolent Stargods had never been worshiped here. This had to be a temple to Simurgh, the ancient demon who demanded blood sacrifice. Powwell had seen descriptions of similar underground temples during the moons he studied at the School for Magicians.
That hideous religion had been outlawed in all of the Three Kingdoms almost a thousand years ago. The temples to Simurgh had been destroyed and filled with rubble. But not here. Where were they?
“What pretty prizes have you brought me this time, Televarn?” an oily feminine voice asked from the center of the dais. No one had been there a moment ago.
A tall woman with white-blond hair and almost colorless skin, similar to Myri’s, stood at the exact center of the raised stage. Another tapestry, this one of a remarkably lifelike, rippling waterfall hung behind her. Not a thread on the wall covering fluttered to indicate recent movement. The woman wore a simple gown of glittering sapphire blue. Diamonds glinted in her nearly colorless hair, picking up the yellow of the uncanny light and the blue of her gown. She seemed to sparkle all over, sort of like a dragon standing in direct sunlight.
Powwell couldn’t tell how old or young she was because of the odd light. She flicked her very long, talonlike fingers in an elegant gesture. The hideous altar groaned and slowly descended into the floor until it became another paving stone. With another gesture the woman sent the stakes into hiding as well.
No wonder the Stargods hadn’t been able to find and destroy this altar!
“Yaassima!” Televarn opened his eyes wide in feigned innocence. “I did not expect you to be in residence today.”
She smiled with a slight twist of one corner of her mouth.
Powwell didn’t like the menace that remained in her eyes.
“Tell me about your prizes. I see you have found a relative of mine.” The woman glided forward to the edge of the dais. A dozen black-clad guards appeared on the platform behind her. Each man wore at least three weapons. Four of them carried strange metal wands that appeared to be hollow.
The same kind of wand Televarn had used to open the gate.
“Bring the woman closer,” Yaassima ordered.
“My petty hostages are not worthy of the attention of the Kaalipha of Hanassa.” Televarn eased toward the doorway on the opposite side of the room. He dragged Myri’s rope behind him. She had no choice but to follow.
Her eyes flickered slightly. Her hands moved instinctively to rub at her belly. She must be nearly awake.
Powwell sensed movement in the stretched skin that protected the baby. He hoped the unborn child merely kicked and this was not a portent of early labor. The baby wasn’t due for another moon.
So far, Kalen had made no sign that her mind stirred beneath whatever spell Televarn had placed upon her.
“Nonsense, Televarn. Obviously you have found another descendant of dragons, one I did not know about. Who are you, child?” Yaassima seemed to float down the two steps to the main floor. Her sparkling gown hid all traces of her feet. She stopped directly in front of Myri. The guards followed her.
Powwell watched as awareness returned to Myri’s eyes. She darted glances all around her, opening and closing her mouth in silent protest. Her shoulders hunched and she bent her spine as if protecting her belly—or withstanding a pain.
“She’s just a simple witchwoman from the hills,” Televarn replied.
“Is the child yours, Televarn?” Yaassima placed her hand familiarly on Myri’s bulging belly.
Myri hunched again. Her hands fluttered and clutched again. She groaned slightly.
Danger screamed from the last remnant of Powwell’s magical senses. He struggled within his bonds. He had to get Myri home. Now. Before the baby came. Nimbulan needed him to take care of Myri and the baby.
No one paid any attention to him. All eyes seemed glued to the Kaalipha.
“No, the child is not his. I would never allow him to father a child of mine,” Myri spat. “Release us immediately. I will have retribution from him for this outrage.” She gritted her teeth and held back yet another groan.
“Such defiance. A worthy descendant of dragons!” Yaassima stepped back. A true smile spread across her pale features and her eyes opened wide in delight. “If Televarn has no claim on the child, then where is its father?”
“My husband had business in Coronnan City. Televarn waited until we were alone and then kidnapped us.”
“The husband of a witchwoman with business in the city? Magician Nimbulan is the only man that could be. And you must be Myrilandel—the witchwoman who saved the naive king of Coronnan. He’s your long-lost brother, I believe. You saved him from death, and then he exiled you. And your husband allowed it. Not only allowed it, but he stayed in the city to serve the Peacemaker rather than follow his pregnant wife into exile. What a delicious scandal. Name your reward, Televarn. You have brought me a rare prize indeed.”
“The Kaalipha is too generous.” Televarn dipped his head in a gesture that resembled humility. But Powwell saw him bite back a protest.
“Then I give you the commission to assassinate King Quinnault, Myrilandel’s worthless brother. I need control over Coronnan, and he stands in my way. There is a reward of one thousand gold pieces for confirmation of his death. And if his pet magician Nimbulan is caught in the backlash, I will add an additional five hundred gold pieces in Myrilandel’s name. She will be free of the blackguard.”
“Never!” Myri cried in protest. “I will never countenance . . . uuuugh,” she ended on a groan of pain. Her hands pressed against her belly once more.
“Oh, and take these hideous children with you, Televarn.” The Kaalipha ignored Myri’s outburst. “I have no need of them.” She flicked her wrist again, and a small knife appeared in her hand. Myri’s bonds seemed to dissolve at the touch of the blade.
“You can’t kill my husband!” Myri screamed. “I’ll kill you myself, Televarn, before I let you harm my husband.” She lunged for the Rover. Before she had gone two steps, she doubled over in pain. Her hands clenched at the sides of her belly.
Powwell lurched forward, needing to cradle her, protect her. The Rover who managed his ropes held him firmly in place.
“Now see what you have done, Televarn. She has gone into labor prematurely. You’d better hope the baby lives. I have never found another person who looks as much like a dragon as me. Therefore, we are related by spirit if not blood. Go now and complete your commission.” Yaassima reached to cradle Myri in her arms. She beckoned to the older woman who had led Myri through the tunnels. “You there, Erda, you are a midwife. You will stay and see to her. Ease her pain with drugs—whatever will keep her quiet. Nastfa,” she waved at the guard in the center of the phalanx, “carry Myrilandel to my private suite. Gently.”
“Powwell, Kalen,” Myri called weakly. “You must warn Nimbulan and my brother, the king. Kalen can talk to dragons, have her tell Shayla. You have to warn them.”
Televarn yanked harshly on Powwell’s rope. He resisted, trying desperately to guide his steps toward Myrilandel. Televarn smiled, squinting his eyes with malice. This time he yanked so hard on Kalen’s rope that she fell to her knees. She cried out in pain as the paving stones tore patches of skin from her knees.
“You’ll warn no one, Powwell,” Televarn said through clenched teeth. He whipped out a knife and held it to Kalen’s throat. “So much as a weak cry in the night, and I shall kill the girl and make you watch while I slit her throat. I have uses for you now, but they are not so strong I must keep you alive if you defy me. Murder is quite legal here in Hanassa, the City of Outlaws.”
Chapter 3
“Don’t touch that wine, Your Grace! It’s poisoned.” Nimbulan rushed into the Great Hall of King Quinnault’s keep. He was breathless, and his heart raced from his run across the bridge from School Isle. The sense of danger intensified the closer he came to the king. Lumbird bumps stood up all along his arms and his hair stood on end at his nape.
&nbs
p; Silence descended upon the busy hall. Servants stopped their endless routines in mid-step. Courtiers and petitioners halted their babbling in mid-sentence. Two architects stared at him as they poised over their intricate drawings. Ink dripped from their pens. Even King Quinnault’s pack of hunting dogs ceased their constant yapping and quarreling.
“What do you mean, Nimbulan?” Quinnault, King of Coronnan by the grace of the dragons, sat back in his demithrone at the high table. He left the golden goblet where the understeward had placed it moments ago. The servant still stood beside the king, jaw flapping, carrying tray clutched to his chest as if a talisman.
“It’s poisoned, Your Grace. I saw your death and that cup in a vision through my glass.” Nimbulan waved the gold-framed piece of precious clear glass. He’d been looking for a clue to his missing wife’s whereabouts when the premonition of danger intruded.
Three weeks had passed since Shayla had announced to one and all that the Covenant with dragons was broken. No dragon had been seen in Coronnan since. The amount of dragon magic available to the magicians diminished each day.
Soon they would have to resort to illegal solitary magic to perform everyday tasks of communication.
Nimbulan guessed that the dragons’ withdrawal coincided with the disappearance of his wife, Myrilandel, and the severing of the magical cord that bound him to her.
Nearly two weeks had passed since he had returned to the capital after discovering her absence from the clearing. The villagers had been extremely reluctant to tell him anything about her disappearance. They were too busy rebuilding after a disastrous fire.
Not a day had passed since that Nimbulan hadn’t searched for her. Fruitlessly. Every spell went awry. He couldn’t sleep. His concentration wavered at the most inopportune times. He had to find Myrilandel soon.
Quinnault and the magicians wanted Myri found, too. They needed to restore the Covenant with the dragons. But Quinnault had ordered Nimbulan to remain in the capital while they monitored an attack fleet from Rossemeyer gathering in the mouth of the Great Bay. The quest to find Myrilandel should go to a younger man. No one doubted that she must be found and the Covenant with the dragons restored.
“Who wishes me dead, Nimbulan?” Quinnault pushed his heavy chair farther away from the table and the tainted goblet.
“I didn’t do it, Your Grace,” the understeward protested. “I only carried the cup here from the cellar. I didn’t . . .” He looked pleadingly toward his king.
“Who prepared the cup?” Nimbulan approached the high table from the front, below the dais, never moving his eyes away from the suspicious goblet. Moisture condensed on the outside of the cold metal. Quinnault’s favorite red wine was always served at room temperature, not chilled.
Nimbulan didn’t have much time. If the poison came from magic, it would dissipate quickly, leaving no trace of the assassin or clue to the nature of the spell.
“Did you ask for wine, Your Grace?” Nimbulan raised his left hand, palm extended toward the goblet, fingers slightly curved. The sense of danger stabbed his palm. Reflexively he jerked his hand away from the cup.
“No. But when it arrived, I welcomed it, not realizing I was thirsty until then,” Quinnault said as he slowly rose from his chair. His eyes remained fixed upon the cup.
“The new girl in the scullery told me to take it to you, Your Grace,” the understeward said. “I don’t question things like that, sir. The steward could have asked her to take the prepared cup to me. The order could have come from any number of people. I didn’t do it, Your Grace!”
“A new servant?” Nimbulan raised his eyes to the understeward. The man’s aura radiated layers of blue truth shot with the nearly white energy of fear. At least he could still sense auras. If he’d had to throw a truth spell over the young man, who knew what his magic would do.
“There are always new servants, Magician Nimbulan,” the understeward explained. “They start in the scullery, and if they last, they move up to more respectable chores. I’ve been with His Grace five years. I would never think of harming him.”
“You might not think of it, but a rogue magician could plant the idea in your head and you’d never know it. Describe the girl.” Nimbulan moved his raised hand in a circle, wrapping the dangerous cup in a web of magical containment. When he saw the noon sunlight sparkle against the magic, he relaxed a little. He’d managed at least this simple spell. Time would not touch the poison and humans could not touch the cup.
“Short.” The understeward held his hand up to his chin, indicating the maid’s height. “A delectable little mole just to the right of her mouth. Dark hair and eyes. Beautiful eyes . . .” He drifted off in contemplation of the new scullery maid.
“How dark? Olive skin tones or fairer—more pink?” Nimbulan transferred his gaze from the cup to the understeward in alarm. A mole to the right of the mouth. No. Televarn wouldn’t dare send Maia to do his dirty work.
Nimbulan hadn’t thought much about Maia since he’d met Myrilandel. He wanted to remember his brief affair with the Rover girl as a time of spontaneous joy. But his mind told him the entire sordid mess had been manipulated by Televarn, the head of Maia’s clan.
A wrongness grated against his mind. Televarn was a power-hungry, manipulative bastard, but he had courage. If he wanted to kill someone, he’d do the deed himself; as he had tried to murder Nimbulan with a knife.
“Rover-dark hair, I think. Her skin was so smooth and clear, except for that delectable mole. . . .” The understeward fell back into his reverie.
“Guard, dunk his head in a steed trough, a very cold one,” Nimbulan ordered the men who hovered close by, hands on short swords. “He’s been bewitched, and I think I know by whom. Bring me the biggest bowl you can find—crockery not silver, filled with fresh creek water. Remember, a free-running creek, not a confined well.” A Rover spell to catch a Rover assassin.
Fortunately, Rover magic required multiple magicians. Nimbulan wouldn’t have to depend upon his increasingly erratic magic for accurate results.
He searched the pockets of his everyday working trews and tunic. The wand he sought eluded him. S’murghit, he’d have to levitate the wand from his private chamber. He pictured within his mind the necessary tool with the faceted crystal suspended from the end by a reinforced spiderweb, right where he’d seen it last, on his desk. He’d locked the door to his chamber with a mundane key to keep the apprentices on housekeeping duty from disturbing his research. No need for magic on the seal.
From this distance he couldn’t guarantee the levitation or the unlocking of his door.
“What do you need, Nimbulan? I can send someone to fetch it,” King Quinnault offered.
A guard appeared with a bread bowl, large enough to hold several pounds of rising dough. Beside him stood a second man with a pitcher of water, still dripping from having been dunked into the creek or river.
Nimbulan patted his pockets one more time in search of the wand he wanted. He fished a small rock out of his pocket instead.
“I’ve found what I need, Your Grace.” Not a faceted crystal that had been made perfect by men, but a naturally beautiful stone polished by water and sand. Like the free water and the crockery bowl, this natural stone was a tool a Rover could use.
Carefully he set the bowl on the floor in the middle of the Great Hall. The rushes had been scraped clear of the stone flooring and the assembly of people and dogs hugged the wall, giving Nimbulan space to work. Sunlight streamed through the high windows, illuminating the bowl in a glowing warmth. Three hastily summoned magicians, including his senior journeyman Rollett, knelt beside Nimbulan, linked to him in trance and by touch. They encircled the bowl.
Gently Nimbulan adjusted his magic to match the compounded energy his assistants gave him. They’d keep the spell aligned and focused, even if he couldn’t.
Where in Simurgh’s hell had Myri gotten to? What had happened to the silver cord that connected their hearts?
He filled the bo
wl with the fresh water. Then, together, he and the magicians levitated the poisonous cup into the bowl until it rested snugly upright, surrounded almost to the rim by fresh creek water.
Only then, did Nimbulan dissolve the web of magic wrapped around the cup. It fell apart much more easily than it had gone together.
“The clay that formed the bowl is the Kardia.” He raised his voice as if chanting.
“Sunlight is Fire,” Rollett picked up the chant.
“The source of our question rests in Water,” Lyman added.
“The magic we add comes from Air,” Gilby, the fourth magician continued.
“We stand at North, South, East, and West. The four elements combined with the four cardinal directions form the Gaia. All is one. One is all,” Nimbulan finished. Subtly he shifted his body so that he stood at the south of the spell—the direction of the nearest magnetic pole. The forces of the pole should keep his magic under control even if his mind strayed.
Myri had to be safe, wherever she was. The dragons would have done more than announce that the Covenant was broken if anything had happened to his wife.
His wife. She should be at his side, not exiled, not missing.
Nimbulan forced his mind back to the problem of poison and Rovers, looking deep into the mystery of sunlight sparkling against the clear water. He dropped the agate into the bowl close to the golden cup. Ripples moved outward from the stone, spreading the sunlight up and out.
He whispered a spell in the most ancient language of all Coronnan. The words of the dead language fell clumsily from his tongue.
The water clouded, dark mists boiled up from the bottom where the agate lay touching the base of the cup. He blinked away the ominous portent symbolized by the clouds, willing the mist to part and reveal the image of the one who had poured poison into the wine and sent it unbidden to the king.
Lightning crackled across the surface of the water. The clouds roiled and grew as black as the void between the planes of existence. More lighting flashed before his eyes. He dared not blink away the brightness lest he lose whatever brief glimpse might be granted. Streamers of color coiled and tangled in a giant knot in the air above the water.
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 41
