Quinnault looked back across the Bay at the destroyed armada. A touch of wonder crossed his face. “I can’t say I want to do battle like this again. I want Coronnan to be respected for trade and peace and wise councillors, like you. But I can’t see how we can avoid more battles as long as other countries lust after our land and the fish in this Bay. I’ve listened to proposals for dredging a couple of channels to let trading ships in. Where traders can sail, navies will follow.”
“What we need is a protected ferry service from the deep waters to the city,” Nimbulan mused, following Quinnault’s gaze to the mudflats glistening in the starlight.
Midnight, his body told him. The tide would be at its lowest within the hour. Perhaps he’d manage a few hours of sleep before Quinnault and his boundless energy dragged him out of bed at dawn.
Maybe he should leave on his quest for Myri before then. Before the king could once again deny him permission to depart. Myri was worth the loss of a little sleep.
But how far would he get before the depletions of his body stopped his quest?
“There are a couple of little islands out there.” Quinnault pointed east with his uninjured left arm. “We could set up loading docks there to transfer cargo and passengers. What I wouldn’t give for some Varn diamonds now to pay for building a port city out there.”
“Good plan. We’ll find the money somehow. The Varns aren’t due to come trading for another fifty years or so. Can we eat now?” Nimbulan took two long steps toward the stairs, dragging Quinnault away from his contemplation of the Bay. The king winced as he sidestepped to retain his balance.
“Time for you to see a healer. We’ll find one faster over on School Isle. That’s where the wounded are being taken.” Nimbulan offered a supporting hand to guide Quinnault down the steep stairs.
“I’ll row you over to School Isle. We collapsed the bridge in case we were invaded. The old causeway isn’t stable since that last series of winter storms undercut it.” Quinnault shrugged off any hint of assistance.
Once before, Nimbulan had ventured out in a leaking boat with Quinnault. They’d both nearly drowned before they crawled ashore on Haunted Isle. Now the locals called it School Isle.
“I’ll guide you across the causeway. The tide and the river are low now. It’s not that dangerous,” Nimbulan said.
“You’re still a total novice around boats, Nimbulan. You’d rather trust the causeway than a rowboat.” Quinnault accused with mock severity. They both smiled in recollection of their first misadventure together—the first in a series of events that had led Nimbulan to the dragons and a kind of magic that could be combined and controlled by the Commune.
“I think we owe the dragons a large thank you for tonight’s victory,” Nimbulan mused. “We have to do everything in our power to bring them back,” he hinted as a prelude to leaving.
“Don’t even think about deserting the Commune, or me, Nimbulan. You are much too valuable to retire. As soon as you have a direction to send them in, dispatch every journeyman in the school to search for Myrilandel and the dragons. But you have to stay here. Coronnan needs you too much to risk you on such a dangerous quest.” Quinnault cocked his head, listening for any glimmer of communication from the elusive dragons. Myri’s gesture.
“Coronnan needs the dragons more than me. My wife is the key to the dragons. I must be the one to go in search of her.”
“No, it’s too dangerous. I can’t afford to lose you.” Quinnault replied flatly.
“Even if Shayla herself ordered me to search?”
“Only if Shayla orders it. But none of the dragons have spoken to me since they broke the Covenant.” Quinnault turned and walked down the stairs toward the rivergate. Then, looking back over his shoulder, he smiled a brief apology. “I depend upon you for much more than magic, Nimbulan. I need your wisdom and your experience to guide me. I am, after all, only a priest at heart, and now I find myself a king trying to pull together a fractious rabble that calls itself a government. Don’t desert me, my friend. Please.”
Nimbulan shrugged. He had no words to counter such an argument. Quinnault had reasons not to trust any of the lords or other magicians.
In short order, Nimbulan stepped off the rotting causeway onto School Isle. Two guttering torches provided enough light to see six boats tied up to the adjacent dock. Six boat teams, at least, had returned from the Bay.
“Come, join us for a meal, Your Grace,” Nimbulan invited. “I’m sure we’ll find a healer in the refectory. They, too, will be seeking rest and refreshment between sessions with the wounded,” Nimbulan said as he hauled his weary body toward the boat dock and the path back to the school. His knees protested the incline of the path, and his back didn’t want to straighten. He groaned, pressing his hands against his lower back. The stretch felt good. He rotated his shoulders and grimaced at the knots in his muscles. “I’m getting too old for this.”
Quinnault whistled a merry tune as he joined him, pointedly ignoring the last comment.
Nimbulan’s spine needed a longer stretch. He bent and grasped his knees, arching his back before the muscles could spasm.
A thin trail of water caught his attention. No wider than three drops, but a solid flow. Strange, no rain had fallen for three or four days. Until three weeks ago, when the dragons left, the autumn had been unusually dry and bright. Why would the puddles and marshy pools overflow now with just this thin trickle when creeks drained the water through more normal routes?
His orientation to the spin of the planet, the tides and the cycles of sun and moon told him something was terribly wrong with this stream of water.
“It’s flowing uphill!” Nimbulan looked back toward the dock. The line of water ran beside the structure, down the embankment into the water. No clues that way.
In the other direction, toward the school buildings, the water trickled beside the footpath, over hummocks and rocks. He placed his left foot gently on the path, leery of any magic that might spill over from the unnatural trickle. The water continued to move slowly uphill without disturbing his magic.
Quinnault followed him, placing his feet in Nimbulan’s footprints. “This reminds me of the first time I rowed you to this island.” The king hefted an oar like a quarterstaff, ready to knock heads should anyone menace them. He couldn’t seem to grip it with his right hand. He put the oar back into the boat with a shrug of regret and drew his short sword with his left hand. “Good thing I’m Varn-handed.”
“Have you ever noticed that a dominant left hand usually accompanies magic talent in a person—even the little talent required of a priest?” Nimbulan mused. “I wonder if the mysterious Varns were also aided by the Stargods.”
“Varns are probably myths,” Quinnault reminded him. “Wishing for Varn diamonds in return for grain surplus is just that, wishing. But then, we used to believe dragons and flywackets were myths, too.”
Both men shrugged at the mystery and turned their attention back to the trickle of water.
“This little Water spell is probably the work of one of my more adventuresome apprentices.” Nimbulan rotated his shoulders again to ease the muscles in his back. He automatically checked his store of magic for a counterspell.
Nothing. Until he ate and slept, his magic was as inert as the Water trickle he followed. The spell would have to be triggered by some direct action or word.
Controlling the essence of an element—Kardia, Air, Fire, or Water—was usually a spell that required subtlety and deviousness. Elements didn’t willingly allow mortals to chain them. Who in the school had the time and knowledge to practice with an elemental?
He paused in his progress toward the nearby building, picking out the figure of Stuuvart, steward for the school, standing on the front steps. Stuuvart’s scowl extended from his face into his posture. His cloak swished behind him with his restless movements, mimicking his attitude. The impatient administrator waved his arms as he shouted orders. Apprentices scurried in all directions at his bidding.
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Nimbulan scowled, too. Stuuvart loved his meticulous recordkeeping and full storerooms to the exclusion of his wife and family. But he couldn’t send the steward packing without dislodging the entire family—Kalen’s family—including Guillia, the cook.
An apprentice ran past Nimbulan. He grabbed the boy’s arm to stop his pelting progress toward the unstable causeway to Palace Isle. “What’s the hurry, Haakkon?”
“Master Stuuvart says we can’t afford to feed all the wounded and the peasants. He wants additional stores from the palace, sir. He’s madder than a penned lumbird ’cause you sent everyone here after your battle.” The boy gasped for breath as if he’d already run to the palace and back over the dangerous passage several times.
“Have any of you boys slept since yesterday’s battle preparations?” Nimbulan studied Haakkon’s face for signs of fatigue. Gray tinged the edges of his flushed cheeks, and his eyes seemed overly bright.
“No time, sir.” Haakon shifted his weight as if he needed to continue his errand.
“Have you eaten?” Nimbulan held tight to the boy’s sleeve.
“After I’ve fetched the palace steward, sir.”
“It’s past midnight! Stuuvart can’t expect to refill the storeroom now.” Nimbulan suppressed his anger at the steward’s obsession. When he could control his words, he said, “All of these people worked very hard to defend this land. Feeding them and caring for the wounded is the least we can do. They have earned their meal and a rest, and so have you.”
His mouth watered at the smell of savory bacon and fresh bread emanating from the kitchen wing. Stuuvart’s wife always provided just the food that Nimbulan craved most, right when he needed it. The two snacks she had sent him during the battle were all that kept him going now. Guillia mothered everyone at the school. Why couldn’t her husband give a little care for their daughter, Kalen? If Stuuvart hadn’t disowned her, the little girl might not have gone with Myri so readily.
If Kalen had stayed, Powwell would have as well, her devoted friend and possibly her half-brother, and Myri would be alone now—wherever she was. Why did it seem as if what was best for the school, best for his wife, and best for himself were always in contradiction?
The emptiness of his life rose up before him like one of the stone walls of his school. Only a day ago, he had seen a vision of Myri in the bowl of water. Yesterday morning, Amaranth had died, imparting a cryptic message that Myri had been kidnapped to Hanassa. Yesterday, Lyman had told him that Rover Maia had a baby—Nimbulan’s baby, the only child he was likely to sire.
Nimbulan pounded his left fist into his right palm in frustration. He’d wasted a whole day that he might have been journeying toward his wife, his former lover, and his child.
Not wasted. He’d helped save Coronnan from invasion. Another contradiction of priorities. When would he ever be able to put his own needs above those of others?
“But Master Stuuvart said . . .” Haakkon’s protest brought Nimbulan out of his loop of self-defeating thoughts.
“I run the school, Haakkon. Now get into the refectory and take your classmates with you. Oh, and have someone fetch parchment and pens from my room. His Grace and I have some plans for ferries and loading docks to organize while we eat.” He clapped his hand on the king’s good shoulder. He needed to appease Quinnault’s enthusiasms, or he’d never take the time to see a healer. Nimbulan wanted the king’s health in good order before he left on his quest.
He half smiled to himself, realizing he’d already made up his mind to leave on his quest today. Before dawn if possible.
“I’ll bring you the supplies myself, Master Nimbulan.” Haakkon ran up the narrow stairs that curved toward the residential wing.
“Wait, Haakkon, the door is locked,” Nimbulan called to the boy. Stuuvart’s younger daughter had never arrived with the treatise on naval warfare so many hours ago when he had requested it. Why not?
Stuuvart had probably found other more “important” chores for the child. More important to Stuuvart and no one else.
Nimbulan eyed the pesky trail of water where it crossed the threshold of the school. Tiny, damp pawprints ran beside the water. Where did the tracks go from here? How long had the water been trickling toward its destination, perhaps filling some unknown reservoir?
A glint of moisture on the stairs told him.
“Haakkon, come back! Haakkon?” he called anxiously. He mounted the steps without thinking.
A sleek form slithered past him, brushing against Nimbulan’s leg. Then, the creature—a ferret?—was gone, so quickly it might have been only his imagination.
A scream split the air.
“Haakkon!’ Nimbulan rushed forward.
Darkness streaked down the stairs in the wake of the animal. The thin trickle of water swelled to the width of the stairs. His foot slid on suddenly wet stone. A loud roar echoed through the stairwell. Torches sputtered. Darkness filled his mind and his eyes.
The water swelled and rose in a wave, washing over him. He forced himself to relax in the surge of water, as Myri had taught him.
Myri! He couldn’t die without seeing her again.
He kicked upward, striving for air. Iron bands crushed his chest. Only water, he told himself. Heavy water seeking its home.
Air. He needed air. Fight one element with another.
I can’t swim. I’ll drown. Then his head broke the surface and life-giving air filled his lungs. He almost sobbed with relief.
Hard stone jabbed into his back, nearly knocking the blessed air from his laboring lungs. Walls. Steps. Air. He lay half on the first stair, half in the landing, still breathing. Water exited the building and retreated along the path of the original little trickle.
Nimbulan shook wet hair out of his eyes and waved the torches back to life. He surveyed the damage. Water dripped from every surface, traveling with some urgency back to the primary stream. Every last drop left the stairs and landing. Definitely the work of an elemental.
Nimbulan wiped his face with shaking hands. “Quinnault, are you all right?” The king sat against the wall, somewhat dazed and very damp.
A quick survey revealed the corridor to the refectory remained dry. The trapped element sought only to return to its home, not to spread.
“Haakkon!” Nimbulan turned over, ready to crawl up the stairs. “Answer me, Haakkon!”
Only then did he become aware of something heavy resting against his shoulders, crosswise on the steps just above him.
Haakkon lay there, eyes wide open, limbs tangled, skin pale as the underside of a fish.
Chapter 13
“So many deaths. When will it stop?” Nimbulan cried as he cradled Haakon’s slack body. In his mind he saw Keegan’s face replace Haakon’s immature features. Nimbulan had been forced to kill Keegan, his former apprentice, almost two years ago. The boy had run away to become a Battlemage before his training was complete. He had known his new patron would challenge Nimbulan’s patron in battle. Keegan had come close to defeating his teacher in that battle. But inexperience had made him more bold than wise. In order to keep the boy’s spell-gone-amuck from destroying most of Coronnan, Nimbulan had been forced to kill the boy.
Ackerly, Nimbulan’s assistant and childhood friend, had died in battle opposing Nimbulan the following year, this time from his own spell, not Nimbulan’s.
Now Haakkon had drowned because some unprincipled magician had chained an element. Water had only been rushing to return to its natural state. The apprentice had been caught in the trap and drowned.
Trap?
Haakkon had triggered a trap set for Nimbulan. Under normal circumstances, only Nimbulan would have gone into his private, locked workroom. Why hadn’t Stuuvart’s younger daughter gone in there earlier when Nimbulan requested the treatise on naval battles? Did Stuuvart know about the trap?
Someone had put Water under a compulsion in order to kill the Senior Magician.
Who? Who had the power to compel an element? He neede
d to think clearly, not let his grief turn him in circles. If only he had his journal to hand so he could sort his thoughts into a logical order. He didn’t have time to sit and ponder, writing ideas and crossing off the scattered thoughts. He needed answers now.
Who? Not one of the apprentices. Dragon magic didn’t lend itself to compelling an element. Without the ley lines to power the spell, Water would not comply. No junior magician, dependent upon dragon magic, could have carelessly set the spell to see if it could be done.
That left the master magicians or a rogue. He didn’t think any of the men he’d hired to teach at the school bore him a grudge worthy of such complex magic. Besides, they’d all been employed in the battle and its preparations yesterday.
A rogue could have slipped into the school during yesterday’s chaos. A rogue who had a different source of magic. Perhaps Moncriith, a Bloodmage who found energy in pain and death, had returned to Coronnan and targeted Nimbulan. Moncriith’s body had never been found after the last battle. Could he still be lurking around Coronnan, seeking to destroy the demons he saw in anything he disagreed with? He had preached against Myrilandel as the source of all demons for many years.
New chills raked Nimbulan’s spine at the thought of Moncriith pursuing Myri.
Televarn and his Rovers had reasons to hold a grudge against Nimbulan as well. Devious traps were more Televarn’s style than Moncriith’s. The poison spell on Quinnault’s wine yesterday—was it only yesterday?—might not have been the only mischief they organized. Rovers tapped the energy of every living thing surrounding them, including the elements. Their intricate rituals usually required several members of the clan.
Televarn had aspirations to be king of his people. He had tried to kill Nimbulan once before and failed because Myri intervened. Lyman had seen Televarn in the questing vision. Nimbulan had seen Myri.
Myri had admitted to an affair with Televarn. She’d run away from him when she discovered his duplicity. Someone had kidnapped Myri and held her captive in Hanassa. Rovers often sought refuge in the city of outlaws, as did Bloodmages.
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