Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

  Nimbulan and the meddling old man had seen him when he killed the flywacket. They knew who orchestrated today’s devastation. True to character, Nimbulan had devoted his attention and his magic to the dying animal rather than searching out his enemy. He didn’t deserve to be the father of a Rover child.

  By Rover law, Maia’s son belonged to the Rover parent. Televarn planned to make Myrilandel’s child a Rover, too. His clan needed the new blood to expand and grow healthy again. He needed a large and healthy clan to support him when he became Kaaliph of Hanassa. Myrilandel wouldn’t reject him then. She’d come back to his bed willingly when he made her Queen of Hanassa.

  Televarn cupped his right hand slightly as he swirled his entire hand in the pool of water. The ferret, Wiggles, crept out from his hiding place in Televarn’s pant leg and sniffed at the circling water. “Come. Share the spell with me.”

  Wiggles oozed back toward his dark hiding place.

  “Your mistress ordered you to obey me,” Televarn commanded the ferret. He clamped his free hand on the animal’s neck to keep it from retreating further.

  Wiggles plopped down on Televarn’s arm reluctantly.

  “My name means ‘The one who speaks to Varns,’ ” Televarn muttered. “I was given that name when I rid my clan of its previous chieftain because I am gifted with persuasion. So, why can’t I persuade you to cooperate, Wiggles?”

  The ferret ignored him.

  “I have met true Varns and struck bargains with them, a feat few can claim. You will obey me, beast, as your mistress commanded!” Televarn hated having to remind the creature that its loyalty to another bound it more tightly than his own magic and gifts.

  He drew circles in the water with his hand, finding the element more cooperative than the ferret. A small whirlpool followed his movements. He continued the circling motion until he knew he had captured the essence of Water. Slowly he removed his hand from the pool, drawing the swirling vortex up with him. He chanted the ancient words that bound the element to his will.

  Water resisted. It did not want to leave the pool where it rested before flowing into the gentle creek, then into the racing river, and finally into the Great Bay. Televarn pushed with his magic; not so easy without the support of his clan and only the ferret to aid him. His family had to remain in Hanassa for now. If they should be discovered in Coronnan, all his plans would fall apart. He’d had enough trouble keeping himself hidden for two weeks while he watched and waited for an opportunity.

  Yaassima must not know that he had discovered the dragongate. He had to wait and assassinate his victims after he’d had enough time to journey from Hanassa to Coronnan City by mundane means.

  He’d used the time well, observing, planning.

  “Come!” Televarn commanded Water. A thin trickle leaped to his hand, trailing back into the pool. Wiggles touched the Water with a tiny paw, bonding with the magic and the element. Televarn took two steps away. Water remained connected to himself, the ferret, and the pool. Two more steps. Water stretched the connection and continued to follow.

  “Good.” He nodded his satisfaction. Now the hard part of the spell. He had to get the continuous stream of Water into Nimbulan’s private bedchamber.

  The thought of Myrilandel sharing that chamber with Nimbulan churned acid in Televarn’s stomach. His jealousy nearly broke his connection with Water. He forced his emotions down into a cold knot of anger. Water was cold. Water would end the life of his rival.

  He walked toward his hide canoe, following the little chirping noises Wiggles made—one chirp meant a step right, two chirps a step left. The ferret instinctively found the easiest pathway.

  At the point where the island became more water than Kardia, Televarn steadied his small canoe with one hand; his awkward left hand, not his dominant right where Wiggles clung and they both maintained the thin stream of water trailing back to the pool.

  Slowly he levered one knee into the boat. It rocked and slid beyond the reach of his leg. He overbalanced and fell into a cold blanket of mud. Wiggles wrapped tighter around his arm in an undulating wave of fur that mimicked laughter.

  “S’murghit! Stay still,” Televarn ordered the boat and the ferret. He pushed himself up onto his knees and elbows, never letting go of Water or of Wiggles.

  Wiggles subsided. The hide canoe bobbed and thrashed under Televarn’s hand, more responsive to the buoyancy of the water beneath it and the air above than to Televarn’s command.

  His fine black trews and shirt looked ruddy brown with the mud. Ruined. His green-and-purple vest embroidered with sigils of power was equally covered in goo. He’d never hear the end of Erda’s displeasure for such carelessness. The ancient wisewoman of his clan held too much power over Televarn’s Rovers. Power that should be his.

  He stilled his growing frustration. Water pulled him back toward the pool of its origin. Perhaps Water had turned the canoe against him.

  How to make his tools work with him? What could he promise an element and an inanimate object to pacify them?

  (Freedom,) a voice whispered in the back of his head. (Release them.)

  “Enough,” he shouted. “You are mine. You will obey.” He pushed more of his waning strength into the binding. Physical contact with Wiggles helped. But the creature wasn’t truly his familiar, only borrowed. Their rapport was incomplete. Another annoyance. He’d never been able to bond with a creature so that its senses enhanced his magic and made it totally responsive to his wishes. They’d all escaped his net of control, like Water was trying to do.

  The weight pulling his arm back to the pool grew to enormous proportions, then abruptly eased. He nearly fell into the mud again with the sudden release.

  The canoe rested easily against its tether. Water remained in his hand.

  Not willing to tempt the capricious canoe, Televarn knelt in the mud as he steadied the boat with his hand. More brown-and-green goo soaked through the fine cloth of his trews. He gritted his teeth against the seeping cold and caking stiffness to his vest. Then he slid one knee into his vessel. The canoe wobbled again. He forced it quiet until his other leg rested comfortably in the bottom. He balanced against the mild rocking his entry triggered. Then the canoe subsided, almost with a sigh of resignation. Wiggles slithered off his arm and undulated around the boat, sniffing every fragment. A few drops of Water trailed from the creature’s paw back to Televarn’s hand.

  “Just keep me afloat until I reach School Isle and I’ll set you free,” he whispered to the boat.

  Water quivered, wanting to be included in the promise. Televarn glared at the rebelling element. It stilled. “You’ll be free when you complete the task I have for you and not before. Nimbulan won’t survive the day. Then Myrilandel will be free of the spell he holds over her and she will come to my bed gratefully—as she did when first we met.”

  The darkness of the void faded from Myri’s senses. Amaranth’s cries faded from her mind. An irresistible urge to leave her body and fly to her familiar made her stretch her arms wide again to catch the wind. But she was deep within the Kaalipha’s palace on the leeward side of a volcanic crater. No wind stirred to lift her dormant wings. The elongated bumps on her spine didn’t stretch into horns to act as rudders while in flight.

  Over and over she relived the moment Amaranth died. His pain and terrible loneliness swamped her awareness of everything, even the cries of her daughter.

  “Make that child stop crying!” Yaassima ordered. Her eyes grew wide in growing frustration. Then her tone softened and her eyes narrowed. “You are making us late for the ceremonies assigning commissions to my followers.”

  Myri only half heard the older woman’s verbal caress. Amaranth! her mind screamed.

  “We must plan the Festival of Naming for your baby. All of Hanassa will rejoice when I name the child my heir.” Yaassima clapped her hands together in delight.

  How long had she been in the void, unaware of Yaassima’s entrance into the common room of the suite? The Kaalipha had
obviously been prattling for some time.

  Myri fought the urge to transform. She had to stay aware and keep Yaassima away from her baby. Her best defense against the bloodthirsty Kaalipha of Hanassa was to stay out of her way and her thoughts until she found a means to escape Hanassa.

  Oh, Amaranth, I’m sorry. I didn’t intend for you to fly to your death. When she escaped, would she share the fate of her birth twin?

  “Only my husband has the right to name my child,” she reminded the Kaalipha of the tradition so old it had become law. Her need to fly faded a little with her efforts to control herself.

  Amaranth! How will I live without you. Did you warn Nimbulan?

  “We are kin, you and I.” Yaassima caressed Myri’s unbound hair. “Your husband abdicated his rights to the child when he exiled you. Now I claim the right of kinship and naming. Come to the Justice Hall now. ’Tis your duty to observe how I delegate the commissions and the fees. You and the child must grow into the heritage I give you.”

  “The rich and powerful of Kardia Hodos come to you only when they need the death of a rival and the disruption of trade.” Myri kept her back turned toward Yaassima, hiding the tears that gathered in her eyes.

  “I will not deal in death and destruction, Kaalipha.” Myri stiffened her spine and her resolve to escape. Amaranth’s death would not be in vain. Until then she had to maintain rigid control of herself and her emotions. Grief for Amaranth must wait. She could betray no trace of weakness before Yaassima.

  Like a dragon, she must remain invisible while she watched and waited for the best opportunity to escape.

  “You are thinking too fondly of your treacherous husband, Myrilandel. I can tell.” Yaassima sounded petulant. “He is but a distant part of your past. Better you should think about how to control Moncriith the Bloodmage.” Yaassima licked her lips. “I have given Moncriith permission to gather mercenary forces against Coronnan. His planned invasion of your brother’s kingdom won’t keep him busy long once he learns that you are here. He is so very single-minded in his obsession. I find his rants about blood and fire and the demons you control quite amusing.”

  Myri felt all the heat leave her face. The man she feared most in the world, the one who had stalked her from village to village all her life, lived. Lived here in Hanassa. He wouldn’t stop with burning Myri at the stake. He’d murder her baby as well. At least her other enemies, Yaassima and Televarn, wanted her alive.

  “Remember this, Myrilandel, if ever you step outside my palace, into the city, I will make certain Moncriith hears about it. He will seize and destroy you. So you see, all your pretty plans to escape Hanassa are for naught. Only I can protect you. Only I can become the family you so long for.” She stroked Myri’s hair with possessive hands.

  Never! Myri vowed to herself. She would have her family back. Her true family of Kalen and Powwell, the baby, and Nimbulan.

  But never again would she be able to include Amaranth in that tight circle of love and kinship.

  The threat of Moncriith seemed trivial against the loss of Amaranth and the danger to Nimbulan. She had to escape, now.

  She needed to fly free, to breathe the sparking clear air of the mountains. The heat haze and dust of Hanassa was all she’d been allowed since Televarn had kidnapped her and brought her to this cursed place.

  If only she could fly!

  The baby’s whimpers kept her firmly anchored to her wingless human body.

  “Come, Myrilandel. We mustn’t keep my people waiting much longer,” Yaassima ordered. Persuasion fled her voice, replaced with deadly impatience.

  Myri knew she couldn’t ignore the Kaalipha. Yaassima executed those who defied her. She’d executed her consort. Rumor also claimed she’d killed her daughter who had disappeared right after the unlucky consort had lost his head to Yaassima’s sharp sword.

  Myri caressed the sleeping baby on her shoulder, needing contact with her life to counteract the death that assailed her senses at every turn.

  “I have no blood kin, Kaalipha Yaassima. Only my daughter,” Myri replied. “I can’t claim King Quinnault as kin anymore. He exiled me.” Nimbulan had agreed with the edict.

  Why had she risked Amaranth to warn Nimbulan? Amaranth!

  “You should hate your husband for what he did to you. Yet you cling to his memory as if you expect him to defy his king and join you,” Yaassima sneered.

  “I love him.” He was the missing piece to make her family complete—once she escaped.

  “You and your daughter carry the blood of the dragons in your veins,” Yaassima reminded her. “That is a heritage that must be perpetuated. Not your paltry emotions toward a treacherous husband and those two grubby children.”

  “Show me that Powwell and Kalen are safe, and I will not question your wisdom in separating me from my children.” Myri kept her eyes locked on the blue desert sky above the crater. Clean and clear, untainted by Yaassima’s need for blood and destruction. The Kaalipha perverted her dragon hunting instincts, just as her ancient ancestor Hanassa had when he went rogue and deserted the dragon nimbus.

  Yaassima twined her fingers in Myri’s fine hair. The sexuality behind the gesture made Myri shiver with revulsion. The baby fretted. Myri cooed at her daughter and turned toward her bedchamber, on the inside wall away from the window, without looking at the Kaalipha.

  “I rescued you from Televarn’s ungentle clutches for the sake of our kinship,” Yaassima snarled. “His jealousy knows no bounds. He would have killed your daughter as soon as she was born, rather than admit that the child isn’t his. If he let you live, Moncriith would have found a way to destroy you. You owe me your life, Myrilandel, as does everyone who seeks refuge in Hanassa.”

  “I did not seek refuge. Televarn kidnapped me and brought me here against my will.”

  “Forget the magician who forced marriage upon you. Forget the children not of your body. Only I am your kin. I will protect you as Nimbulan and your brother, King Quinnault, refused to do.” Yaassima’s voice swelled with pride. As absolute ruler of Hanassa, none of the thousands of criminals who lived in the city questioned her authority.

  Myri had been forced to witness three executions in as many weeks. Each time she feared the offender would be fifteen-year-old Powwell or eleven-year-old Kalen, adults responsible for their actions in this vicious society.

  After each beheading, Yaassima dipped her hands, with their preternaturally long fingers, into the blood of the dead man or woman. The symbolic gesture, that the death was her responsibility, paled in comparison to the look of nearly sexual glee that dominated Yaassima’s eyes for an hour afterward.

  Myri sensed Yaassima’s hand dropping away from yet another caressing stroke of her hair.

  “Let the child sleep, Myrilandel. Put her back in the cradle and come to the Justice Hall,” Yaassima ordered.

  “She’s wet. By the time I change her, she will be hungry, too.”

  “It is time we found a wet nurse for her. Women of quality do not feed their own children. One of Televarn’s women has just lost her baby—Maia, I think, is her name. I’ll send for her.” Yaassima spoke to the guard outside the door of the suite.

  “I will have no Rover woman taint my child!” Especially not Maia, Nimbulan’s former lover. “Rovers steal children from their lawful parents.”

  “Your daughter deserves a name,” Yaassima continued without acknowledging Myri’s protest. “She needs a name of power; a name that will resound through history as does the name of our ancestor, Hanassa. Tomorrow we shall hold the Festival of Naming.”

  This time Yaassima caressed the baby’s hair, only a shade darker than Myri’s. Just a trace of silver gilt had appeared in some of the strands with the last few days.

  “Dragon hair. We all have it. You, me, the dragons. My daughter didn’t have it. Crystal fur on dragons, crystal hair on us. It reflects light away from us so that none may penetrate our thoughts and actions. Mystery is power.”

  “She’s just a baby. H
er hair and eye color will change within a few weeks. She will grow into her long fingers and toes. She has no trace of the elongated spinal bumps.” Myri denied the kinship her protector pressed upon her daily. “Did you hear me when I said that Maia will not touch my child?”

  “I shall present the baby to the people of Hanassa at her naming. They must see that the dragon blood continues. No one will dare oppose me if they know for certain that another dragon waits to exact retribution. They wouldn’t have respected my daughter. She was weak, too like her father.” Yaassima continued to touch the baby, delaying Myri’s retreat to the privacy of her bedchamber. “Her name must be Hanassa.”

  Never! Myri kept her protestations to herself. She had to persuade Yaassima rather than defy her.

  “Rovers steal babies,” she repeated. “So few of their babies live that they must rob others of their children to bring new blood into the clans. If you allow Maia near my baby, she will find a way to kidnap her—or substitute her own dead child for my healthy one.”

  “She wouldn’t dare. I am the Kaalipha, and the child is my heir.”

  “My baby is very wet. Do you wish to change her?” Myri asked coyly, knowing fastidious Yaassima would have nothing to do with the rather messy process of rearing an infant.

  “Go.” Yaassima fluttered her fingers in disgusted dismissal.

  Myri dodged around the older woman and walked toward the door to the inner room of the suite.

  She waved her hand across a metal plate set into the wall by the doorway. The light panels in the ceiling came to life, activated by some spell only Yaassima understood. The clear panels gave off a directionless glow, like witchlight, but yellow instead of the more natural fire green.

  The Kaalipha came no farther into Myri’s chamber than the doorway.

  “Where is the pywacket?” Yaassima asked. She used the ancient word for a familiar, from a language that had died out from all of Kardia Hodos except here in Hanassa.

  “I . . . I don’t know,” Myri stammered, halting her quest for a clean diaper. Grief nearly felled her again. “Perhaps he hunts rats in your kitchens.”