Amaranth! You can’t be dead. Knife-sharp pain stabbed her heart and brought tears to her eyes again. The void beckoned for her to follow Amaranth into his next existence.
“Did Televarn kill Amaranth, too?” Yaassima asked. A half smile creased her face and her eyes lit with lustful glee. The Kaalipha didn’t read minds often, but when she did, she always found her victim’s vulnerability. “I wondered how long that jealous Rover would allow your nasty creature to live. He could never possess it, so it must be eliminated. Just as he will never possess you. I can protect you from him, Myri. But only if you mind your duty to me. I will expect you in the Justice Hall as soon as you clean up the child. You may feed her there. Maia will take over as wet nurse this evening.”
“I will not allow another to nurse my child—especially a thieving Rover. Never. And I will not nurse the child in front of your amoral criminals and perverts. Do you hear me?” So much for remaining invisible. But, s’murghit, some issues she had to fight.
“My people must see the child and know her for my heir. If they see your breasts and lust after you, all the better. Their uncontrolled emotions give me control over their desires and power over their lives. Just as I have the power of life and death over you.”
Chapter 7
King Quinnault made his way through the groups of people in the palace courtyard. He didn’t have enough to do. Dedicated underlings jumped at every task he created in the battle preparations. As king, he was supposed to be free to make decisions. So far, he didn’t even have that chore.
Nimbulan, as the experienced and respected Battlemage, directed the defenses today.
Common citizens filled the courtyard. Quinnault smiled at them as he strode away from the confines of the palace. The corpse of the purple-tipped dragon had been cleared away from the busy courtyard. Later, after the battle, they would hold some kind of remembrance and consign it to the funeral pyre.
Two of the Master Magicians had fought the formal burning of the dragon body. They needed to study it, dissect it, learn the secret of generating magic. But Nimbulan had insisted. The dragons deserved the same respect as any human—especially Amaranth who had aided in healing King Quinnault last spring. All of the magicians respected Nimbulan enough to bow to his demands.
Quinnault’s magical ties to the great beasts went beyond affection. He grieved with the entire dragon nimbus over the loss of the little purple-tipped dragon. Amaranth had been one of his family.
He sorely missed his telepathic communications with the dragons. He’d never shared that level of intimacy with any human. He strongly doubted he ever would.
He moved through the crowd of his bustling citizens, making his kingly, but distant, presence known to them. He couldn’t do much else.
Some of the women bent over a huge cauldron, boiling bandages. They paused in their work only long enough to dip him a curtsy. Most of the men acknowledged their king with a nod of the head.
A year ago, he had worked alongside these people building bridges among the islands. Then, he’d been only a lord, the Peacemaker. Now he was king, less useful and more removed from the people he served.
A gaggle of children piled stones together by the gate. Useful weapons, should the enemy manage to attack the palace itself. A five-year-old waddled toward the pile with a stone far too heavy for his skinny arms. He dropped the rock off balance. The entire mound began to spill backward on top of the boy.
Quinnault dashed forward to pluck the child out of the way. He held him against his chest until the rocks stopped tumbling all over the courtyard.
“Can’t you stay out of the way, Mikkey!” an older boy scolded. He had been supervising the arrangement of the stones.
“I only wanted to help,” Mikkey blubbered.
“We need all the help we can get.” Quinnault set the boy down and wiped his tears with the hem of his tunic. “Next time, Mikkey, why don’t you give your rock to him and let him place it on top of the pile.” He indicated the older boy with a thrust of his elbow.
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mikkey executed an awkward bow.
“We’re all working together today. No need for bows among battle comrades.” Quinnault ruffled Mikkey’s hair. The older boy stared at the familiar gesture with wide eyes and dropping jaw. Quinnault reached over to offer him the same rough affection. Then he showed the boys how to arrange the rocks for better balance.
He moved toward the riverbank and the men who wrestled with small boats to float felled trees into the bay. Over half of these people had been refugees from the war a year ago. He expected them to pack up and leave at the first signs of trouble. Instead, they worked side by side with the long-time residents of the islands to defend their new homes—to uphold his kingship.
“All I really wanted was to be left in peace,” he said to himself. He turned a full circle, watching all of them work together for a common defense. His heart swelled with pride. He needed to work with them, show them how much their loyalty meant to him.
“Excuse me, Your Grace.” Another child tugged at his tunic. “Lord Konnaught requests you attend him.” The little girl, not more than five or six, hesitated on her esses but managed to push them out without lisping.
“Where is Konnaught?” he asked her, looking about. The son of his former rival for the crown wasn’t among the workers in the courtyard. Quinnault thought he’d ordered all of his fosterlings to help with the defenses.
“His lordship is in the armory, Your Grace.” The little girl bobbed a sketchy curtsy and ran off.
“He should be out here, learning who we fight for.” Konnaught had made his belief in his superiority over all of Coronnan well known. His father, Kammeryl d’Astrismos, had claimed kinship to the Stargods and therefore felt he needn’t dirty his hands with normal people.
Quinnault had killed Konnaught’s father on the field of battle. He owed the boy more than he could repay. But the boy also owed him obedience and loyalty in return for protection and an education.
Quinnault sighed and wondered what kind of temper tantrum would result if he ignored Konnaught’s demand for attention.
“Mikkey,” he called, waving the rock toter to him.
The little boy relinquished his latest burden almost gratefully and ran the few steps to stand before Quinnault. “Yes, Your Grace?”
“Lord Konnaught is in the armory. Go tell him to bring me a short sword and sheath. Make sure he comes himself and doesn’t give you the weapon to carry for him.”
“Yes, Your Grace.” Mikkey bowed again, a little less awkward this time.
Quinnault ambled over to stand at the foot of the palace steps. The jumble of people cleared around him, giving him a semblance of privacy, acknowledging his separateness. He had no doubt that at least a dozen ears would overhear his conversation with the troublesome young lord no matter where he conducted the interview.
Konnaught approached several long minutes later. He carried a sword far too big and heavy for his twelve-year-old frame. His father’s sword. The sword that had nearly split Quinnault in two until the people of Coronnan joined with Quinnault’s sister Myrilandel and a purple-tipped dragon to heal the man they proclaimed king.
The weak sunlight of late autumn highlighted the blond in Konnaught’s sandy-colored hair—blond, not the red inherited from the Stargods. Just before his father’s death, rumors had abounded that the name of one of the Stargod brothers at the top of the d’Astrismos family tree had been inserted by Kammeryl. The warlord had also dyed his hair to resemble the bright locks of the three divine brothers.
“Why do you demean yourself by consorting with peasants?” Konnaught kept the heavy sword firmly at his own side.
Quinnault couldn’t see any evidence of the short sword he had requested.
“You are the king! You should be giving orders from your throne, not out there working with peasants.” Konnaught nearly spat the last word.
“The ‘peasants’ are Coronnan. Without them, I would have no one to ru
le, and my kingship would be meaningless. We’ve had this conversation before, Konnaught. I do not agree with your father’s views of authority and responsibility,” Quinnault said mildly, refusing to let the boy rile him.
“You would have the land. Land is more important than peasants. If my father were king, you wouldn’t see him out hugging ruffian babies and hauling rocks like a mule.”
“The Stargods did not see fit to let your father be king.” Anger began to heat Quinnault’s skin. He wanted to turn this malcontent over his knee and spank him.
There had to be a better way to deal with him before he became a bully like his father. Kammeryl d’Astrismos had used pain and intimidation to prove his superior power.
Quinnault refused to do that. He had found a way to bring peace to Coronnan without forcing his followers into submission, with Nimbulan’s help. And the dragons’. And the help of all those dozens of people working around him.
“Since I am your king, and you are my fosterling until you come of age, you are required to obey my orders.” Quinnault placed his hands on his hips and glared at the boy.
Konnaught stood up straighter. He darted glances about him in alarm.
Quinnault made a decision. He’d allowed his fosterling too much freedom.
“Konnaught d’Astrismos, you will accompany me on my rounds today and lend a hand wherever I deem fit. Come.” Quinnault turned toward the battlements. “But first you must fetch me the short sword I asked for earlier. And put away that weapon. It’s too big for you and too unwieldy for me to carry in a boat.”
Konnaught caressed the jeweled hilt of the sword. Reluctantly he returned to the armory, a circular stone building on the far side of the courtyard. His steps dragged until he was halfway to his destination. Then he stiffened his back in defiance.
“You won’t be needing a weapon for yourself, Konnaught,” Quinnault called.
“A lord must always appear a lord. A sword on his hip displays his authority for all to see.”
“A king must learn other ways to earn his authority,” Quinnault reminded him—again. “If you keep me waiting, I’ll double your time tomorrow studying the history of Coronnan.” Quinnault smiled to himself. That was a chore he would enjoy, but he knew Konnaught hated reading and ciphering, thought them demeaning skills.
Today, Lord Konnaught would do something else he hated.
The boatmen could always use an extra pair of hands on the oars. Nothing like rowing against the tide all day to make a man out of an arrogant stripling.
From the top parapet, Nimbulan watched the teams of men, nobles and common laborers, mundanes paired with magicians, as they felled trees from the nearest mainland forest. Every magician carried a few threads of Nimbulan’s formal blue robe, or strands of his hair, to connect them to him—a trick of illegal rogue magic. But the mundanes didn’t need to know that. None of the magicians had enough dragon magic left to survive this battle.
Through those connections Nimbulan monitored the sharpness of the blades and the positioning of the fallen trees.
His palms burned with sympathetic blisters. He rubbed his tender hands against his tunic. The new dye rubbed off the worn leather. Now his hands tingled with the coloring chemicals as well as the raw nerve endings.
At least the magic was working. He could keep the channels of communication open and think clearly enough to make decisions. As soon as this battle was over—win or lose—he would leave in search of Myri.
Sighing heavily, he turned his attention back to supervising the defense preparations. He hoped the actual battle progressed more favorably and swiftly than the hard work of the day.
Teams of magicians and fishermen levitated the felled trees into the river where local boatmen guided the untrimmed timber out into the mudflats.
Would they be able to fell enough trees to fill the mudflats with traps? Aching shoulders joined his smarting palms as evidence of their attempt. Nimbulan prayed to the Stargods they had enough time and strength. There wouldn’t be much magic left in the kingdom after today—dragon or rogue. But they had to use it all to save the kingdom.
Several nobles joined the numerous soldiers and farmers in the hard work. Quinnault had been among the boatmen earlier along with the arrogant brat, Konnaught. Master magicians and apprentices worked as hard as the men more used to using the strength of their bodies than the power of mind and magic.
Hanic and a few other nobles had suddenly found other places to be—a long way away from the city. Nimbulan was surprised Konnaught hadn’t managed to find a way to join them.
Nimbulan was the Battlemage once more, responsible for all the lives that surrounded him. Never again, he vowed. He’d sworn the same oath a year ago when he organized the final battle of the civil war that had crippled Coronnan for three generations. There has to be a better way. If only I can find it.
“Such a waste of timber,” King Quinnault groaned as he climbed the last few steps to Nimbulan’s parapet. They watched a fifty-foot tree tilt and smack the ground. “I had plans for those trees, building, export. . . .”
“Books.” Nimbulan regretted the loss, too. “Trees will grow again, given time. The cleared area can be plowed and planted. New trees can be started in old, worn-out fields. As long as we save the kingdom tonight, all will work out. Somehow.”
“I certainly hope so.” Quinnault shaded his eyes and peered out toward the bay.
“I thought you were helping with the trees, Your Grace.”
“I was. I got tired of Konnaught’s whining. And I thought some of the others would work themselves into heart attacks if I remained down there much longer. They seemed to have to prove they could work harder, longer, and faster than me.” The king flashed a wide grin at his magician.
Both men chuckled. A year ago, those same lords were more interested in murdering each other than striving for a common defense.
“They seem to forget, I spent this autumn hauling loaded fishnets to help feed our growing population. Last winter I built bridges among these islands. I’m used to hard work. They aren’t.” Quinnault rubbed his shoulders lightly, more an easing of tightness than a massage of an ache.
Together, they watched two fishermen—and surprisingly, Konnaught—in a flat-bottomed skiff ram the first tree into the mud beside one of the few channels that keeled ships could negotiate. With the help of a magician, they embedded the trunk deep enough to hold it upright against the rising tide. The top branches remained above the waves for now.
Too soon the tide would flood the traps and the fleet would enter the channels.
Too soon. They wouldn’t be ready in time. But the sooner this operation was over, the sooner Nimbulan could leave in search of Myri. And Maia’s child. How was he going to persuade the mother to allow him access to the baby, help in its rearing, keep Televarn away from it?
“At least you persuaded Konnaught to do more than complain, Your Grace.”
“Ordered, threatened, more like. I told him I would try him for treason against his dragon-blessed monarch if he didn’t work as hard as everyone else out there. If he whined once more about how his father would have fought this battle, I think I might have strangled him. Spanked him at the very least.”
“You’d have to stand in line for the privilege.” Nimbulan kept his smile contained. If he’d had his way, Konnaught would have been shipped off to a foreign monastery the day after his father had been defeated in battle.
A large wave slapped at the boat Konnaught rowed, turning the flat-bottomed craft sideways. The log he was towing slipped free of a magician’s control.
“If I still had access to ley lines, I could transport the s’murghing tree directly into the mudflats,” Nimbulan muttered. Dragon magic only allowed levitation, not instantaneous transportation. He was letting the ley lines fuel his magic, but he couldn’t advertise that with obvious rogue spells.
A second fishing boat snared the loose log as it towed its own tree farther out into the mudflats. An errant wa
ve caught the sprawling branches threatening to rip it away from that journeyman magician, too.
Lasso it with magic, Rollett. Use your talent, Nimbulan urged the young man telepathically. The tendril of magic connecting them was weak. He’d used too much already today. He’d also thought of Myri too often and lost his usual firm control over the expenditure of power and energy.
Carefully he stilled a special place deep within his belly, preparing it for an influx of magical power. New energy, dragon energy, trickled into the vacancy. Not enough. Not nearly enough.
Were the dragons with Myri, guarding her while he couldn’t? They had cared for her and guided her through her entire life. He had to believe they continued to do so. They had to fill the void in her life left by Amaranth’s death until he got to her. She’d be so lost and alone, so vulnerable. . . .
Out in the bay, Rollett waved his arms in acknowledgment of the help. Nimbulan relaxed a little. His stomach growled. He’d skipped the noon meal to direct the preparations for battle. Now he was using up his energy stores in surges.
A little girl with muddy brown braids brought a tray filled with mugs of steaming cider and slabs of bread and meat. “Thank you. Please, extend my thanks to Guillia.” He bowed formally to the child as he reached for the nourishment. “And would you have someone at the school fetch my text on naval battle strategy from my desk. The door is locked and Master Stuuvart has the key.” The book hadn’t come with his earlier request.
Nimbulan drank down the spicy brew gratefully, as did Quinnault.
“I’ll fetch the book, Magician Nimbulan.” The child dipped a shy curtsy, then scampered down the stairs. She looked a lot like Kalen, probably one of the magician girl’s numerous sisters. All of the family had been tested for magical talent, but only Kalen seemed to have it—unless one counted Guillia’s ability to sense the nutritional needs of every magician living at the school.
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