Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The

by Irene Radford

“What brought on this absurd accusation?” Quinnault refused to allow this child to unnerve him. But he wanted to just thrash the boy and exile him to the kitchen until he came to his senses, or of age, whichever came later.

  Unfortunately, the d’Astrismos line was the closest thing to an heir Quinnault possessed. Konnaught held the grudging loyalty of four of the other lords. They had supported the boy’s father and only swore fealty to Quinnault because they were outnumbered by the remaining seven lords. Their oaths came with the proviso that Konnaught be next in line of the throne.

  Everyone agreed that an heir must be greed upon before the death of a king to avoid another contest that led to civil war.

  Until Quinnault found a suitable wife and sired an heir, he was stuck with Konnaught. He also had to deal with four disapproving lords on his council who prompted Konnaught’s disrespectful attitude no matter what discipline Quinnault imposed.

  “I thought you had the makings of a real king when you exiled your own sister as a rogue magician. But not now.”

  Quinnault froze. He’d hated exiling Myrilandel. For Konnaught to hold up that action as laudable revealed an evil core to his personality. Was there any way at all to exorcise that evil? He doubted it. He began to wish he had heeded Nimbulan’s advice and exiled Konnaught the very day his father died.

  The boy sheathed his knife and picked at his cuticles with his free hand. A bad habit Quinnault had every intention of breaking—if he let Konnaught stay in Coronnan City.

  “Don’t you have chores or lessons?” Quinnault asked, keeping a bored edge in his voice. “I don’t have time to listen to your childish fantasies.”

  “My father would never have allowed Nimbulan to leave without permission. My father would have locked him up before he fled.”

  “What do you mean, Nimbulan has fled?” Disappointment landed heavily on Quinnault’s shoulders. He’d told Nimbulan not to go, confided in the magician how much he depended upon his advice. The chore of retrieving Myrilandel from Hanassa should be delegated to younger men. The dragons insisted only that she be rescued, not by whom.

  “Nimbulan has disappeared. I was with the messenger you sent to fetch him. He couldn’t find your chief adviser anywhere. You should exile Nimbulan now, too. He left, so he’s a rogue now.”

  (Do not allow this child to guide your actions. We guard Nimbulan as we guarded our daughter, Myrilandel.)

  Quinnault lifted his eyes to the open window by his desk. He hadn’t heard a dragon speak to him since Myrilandel’s kidnap. And yet . . . was that slight tingle behind his heart that signaled his awareness of the guardians of Coronnan becoming stronger?

  I need Nimbulan, he thought back at the voice in his head.

  (You need to put this child in his place.)

  “What are you going to do about the outlaw Nimbulan? He called off the search for the Rover who murdered the apprentice. He’s in league with the Rovers. My father wouldn’t . . .”

  “Your father made the mistake of outlawing Nimbulan when the magician left his protection. If he’d allowed Nimbulan the freedom to pursue magic as he needed, then welcomed him back, Kammeryl d’Astrismos might very well be sitting here now evaluating this treaty rather than me. But your father wasn’t all-wise or all-knowing.” Quinnault lost a little of his hope that Konnaught could be redeemed by care and good examples. “Your father’s mistakes are the reason I am here and you are my fosterling—owing me allegiance and obedience. You act more like an exiled rogue than an heir.” Quinnault raised one eyebrow at the boy, hoping to intimidate him.

  “Dungeons with stout locks were made for men like Nimbulan,” Konnaught replied, undaunted.

  Quinnault had to make one more try at breaking down Konnaught’s dogged hero worship of his misguided father.

  Part of him argued that no child deserved to know the depth of evil a father like Kammeryl d’Astrismos had stooped to—the torching and pillaging of his own villages merely to soothe a temper tantrum. Quinnault refused to think of his dead rival’s perverted sexual practices that eased his increasing periods of black self-doubt and reinflated his belief in his descent from the Stargods.

  Quinnault decided to point out Kammeryl’s lack of judgment before he enumerated the man’s evils. “There isn’t a lock made that a competent magician can’t open. Nor a prison they can’t break out of if they choose to. Your father underestimated Nimbulan. That is a mistake I shan’t make. Now I am through explaining myself to you. You have chores and lessons. I don’t want to see you again until they are complete.”

  Konnaught looked as if he wanted to argue, then turned sharply on his heel and stalked out of the room. “You’ll pay for this, little king. I’ll make you pay when I rule this land,” he muttered as he slammed the door behind him.

  Quinnault vowed to find a wife quickly. If only there was someone else he could name his heir in the interim. Konnaught d’Astrismos must never be allowed to rule, even for a heartbeat. In the meantime . . .

  “Guard!” he called the sentry posted outside his door. “Have my steed saddled. I join the search for Nimbulan and for the Rovers. I don’t want a stone left unturned anywhere in Coronnan. They can’t have gotten far without leaving a trail.”

  “Thank you, Seannin.” Nimbulan saluted the young blue-tipped dragon. He rested both hands against the animal’s side as his feet reaccustomed themselves to the Kardia.

  Nimbulan hadn’t wanted to leave Coronnan just yet. There were still clues to be gleaned from that strange clearing by the river where Televarn had disappeared. The little girl who was supposed to have fetched a book for him needed to be questioned. But Seannin had insisted he fly Nimbulan and Rollett away now. The dragon couldn’t delay any longer. Shayla awaited him. No dragon dared disobey Shayla.

  Few humans did either.

  Rollett clambered down from the animal’s back, also unsteady. He looked as if he wanted to heave his last meal.

  “The flight was gentle, boy,” Nimbulan said. He gripped Rollett’s shoulder affectionately. “Last time I rode a dragon, we hit a high crosswind. I thought I’d be blown off.”

  Rollett turned a little green and gulped.

  (I can take you no farther, Nimbulan,) Seannin sounded apologetic.

  Nimbulan looked down a steep escarpment from the ledge where the dragon had landed. The air was thinner and drier at this elevation than he was accustomed to in the river valleys. He didn’t recognize the sparse, low-growing vegetation with thick needlelike leaves and tiny flowers.

  “You have brought us farther than we could walk alone in a moon or more. For that I thank you, Seannin. You and all of the nimbus of dragons.” A moon closer to finding Myrilandel than he was this morning when he left Coronnan City. Hopefully he was closer to some answers as well.

  (You may not thank us when you face Hanassa.) The dragon bunched his muscles as if eager to be gone from this hostile environment.

  “Seannin, why didn’t the dragons tell me before this is where Myrilandel was hidden?”

  (You didn’t look for her. We will not show you something you do not seek, not even in a dragon dream.)

  Nimbulan dropped his head and closed his eyes. Seannin was right. He’d let Quinnault keep him in the capital for too long before he tried returning to Myri’s clearing. Only when Shayla had broken the Covenant between dragons and humans had he actively looked for his wife and their two foster children.

  But he’d looked with magic, not with his heart.

  Amaranth had died because Nimbulan hadn’t sought Myri earlier. If Nimbulan had gone to his wife, might he have prevented her kidnap into Hanassa?

  Now he had to make that search his primary quest. He wouldn’t rest until he found Myri, Kalen, and Powwell. Kings and treaties and magic schools had to wait—or find a new Senior Magician.

  Could he willingly give up all he’d worked for just to be with Myri for the rest of his life?

  He’d think about that later. After his wife and children were free of Hanassa.
<
br />   “Where must I go from here?” Nimbulan searched the mountainside for signs of a trail.

  (Follow your heart to Myrilandel. Only you do we trust to save her. The youngling will help you, but only you can find her. We can do nothing more to help. Hanassa is forbidden to true dragons.)

  “I don’t understand. Myri was one of you. Dragons can fly anywhere. Why can’t you go into Hanassa?”

  (We do not fly over or near Hanassa.) Seannin bunched his muscles again in preparation for flight.

  Nimbulan stepped out of the way of the powerful wings. Seannin launched himself off the ledge and into flight. He thrust down with his wings and rose above Nimbulan’s head.

  The channel of communication from the dragon’s mind snapped shut. Nimbulan felt curiously empty and alone without the few words the dragon had given him. As alone as Myri must feel, cut off from her family and from the dragons.

  He turned in a full circle, looking for a way off this narrow ledge and into the hidden city.

  “There’s a staircase of sorts.” Rollett pointed to crude indentations in the cliff wall.

  Nimbulan was suddenly grateful for the company of his senior journeyman, a young man he had raised since the age of ten. The bleak mountainside reminded him just how dangerous and lonely this quest would be.

  At the same time he feared that he would have to watch this boy die as he had watched so many of his friends, companions, and students pass into a new existence. He clamped his hand on Rollett’s shoulder with affection, reaffirming the bonds that had grown between them for more than eight years.

  “Looks like someone tried to carve the steps. The intervals are too regular to be natural,” Nimbulan replied. Not much of a road, but it was the only exit other than the one the dragon had taken. He peered down the mountain slope once more. Something akin to Myri’s dreams of flight invaded his senses. If only he could spread his arms wide and launch himself into the thin air. . . .

  “Careful,” Rollett warned, grabbing Nimbulan’s collar and dragging him backward on the ledge. “After experiencing flight on a dragon, it seems only natural that we should be able to do the same.”

  Nimbulan shook himself free of the need to fly. That way led only to death. He was not a dragon and never would be. But Myri could be a dragon again, if she wished. Had she transformed in response to Amaranth’s death?

  Not yet. He’d know if she had. He’d know in his heart.

  The silver cord pulsed too strongly between them. His loneliness increased at the thought of losing her. But if that were the only way she could save her life . . .

  “Someone must use this route regularly,” he commented as he placed his boots along the width of the step. It was too narrow to take more than his toes straight on, so he climbed sideways. The stairs up the mountainside fit his feet better than he’d expected on first glance.

  “With these hand notches beside the steps, the route seems almost comfortable.” Rollett hauled himself up the steep path.

  The magical tendril connecting Nimbulan to Myri pulsed stronger with each step. His heart lifted a little. He climbed higher, taking time to breathe the thin air. No sense in arriving too out of breath to act.

  One hundred twenty-two steps above the ledge, Nimbulan paused on a shallow plateau that spread right and left. Rollett crawled up, landing on his belly. He clung to the level area with both hands dug into the sandy soil. “No wonder Hanassa is such a mystery. No one in his right mind would seek this place just to explore,” Rollett panted. His eyes were squinted nearly shut, keeping out the bright sunlight and hiding his emotions. His trembling chin betrayed his uncertainty. He never looked down. “I hope there’s a different way out. Those steps will be really treacherous on the way down, especially in a hurry.”

  “Agreed. You are good with detail. Memorize everything, particularly anything that seems odd or out of place.” Nimbulan searched the plateau for signs of the trail continuing.

  “Something that is repeated too often might be a delusion.” Rollett’s gaze followed Nimbulan’s around the open space.

  The plateau measured perhaps fifty long paces wide. The cliff continued to reach for the sky above it. Nimbulan walked a few steps to the right. Around the curve of the plateau, nearly one hundred average paces away, cut into that otherwise impenetrable wall was an archway. Smooth symmetrical sides and the top a perfect half circle proclaimed the opening as man-made. Metal bars filled it with an intimidating crosshatch pattern. Two guards, bristling with weapons, stood on either side of the archway. Two more held positions behind the bars. A long dark tunnel stretched from the barricade into the mountain.

  Nimbulan stepped back hastily, out of view.

  The guard spotted Nimbulan at almost the same moment.

  “What brings you to Hanassa, stranger?” The guard on the right slapped a rock beside the archway with a curious metal wand.

  A high-pitched ringing sound attacked Nimbulan’s ears. He scrunched his eyes closed in a painful grimace. The sound continued inside his head long after it had ceased vibrating from the hollow metal tube the guard carried. Rollett curled up on the ground—which he still hugged—hands over his ears.

  “Have you hospitality for a stranger lost and alone?” Nimbulan recited the formal words accepted throughout Coronnan. The customs of hospitality were ancient and ingrained in the culture.

  “Hospitality!” the guard laughed. “No one seeks hospitality here. Who are you, and what do you truly want?” The guard held up the wand, as if he expected it to shoot a debilitating spell from the empty end.

  Nimbulan backed up a step, being very careful not to fall off the edge. He kept his hands open at his sides when he really wanted to grab his staff and shoot a counterspell. He’d disguised the staff as a waterskin and lashed it to his pack, knowing it would identify him as a magician. He just had to be careful when he moved, not to knock the long tool against anything that would betray the disguise.

  Rollett had accepted the same delusion for his own staff. He looked up as the guard motioned them closer, still holding out the wand. The journeyman magician remained where he was, out of sight from the other guards because of the curve of the plateau. Nimbulan took two steps closer.

  The guard slapped the rock again, much harder, with the wand. The high-pitched ringing tortured Nimbulan’s ear-drums louder this time. He resisted the urge to cower behind his hands.

  “Only magicians cannot tolerate the wand,” the guard said when the ringing ceased abruptly. “You are not welcome here. Leave immediately or face the wrath of Yaassima, Kaalipha of Hanassa and Dragon of the Mountains.”

  Chapter 16

  “I need your help on Old Bertha,” Yaala said to Powwell. Her husky voice was packed with authority. All of the men milling around the central living cavern stopped what they were doing to listen to her, including the guards. Some—the younger and healthier prisoners—glared at her in resentment. The guards showed fear. Most of the others obeyed without question, without thought, incapable of making decisions anymore.

  Powwell mopped his brow with the kerchief she’d given him last night. He still felt strange wearing it on his head, Rover style, so he stuffed it back into his pocket. His shirt and trews were soaked with his own sweat. He had no way of knowing how long he’d been down here. A day? Two? He’d survived three work shifts of cleaning and lubricating the giant machines that filled various rooms of the cave system.

  Through each waking moment, the vision of the dead man falling and falling into the pit haunted him. While he slept, he dreamed he was the falling man, the heat eating away at his soul long before the fires consumed his body.

  He awoke from those dreams shaking with fear. The sense of gaining release and freedom by jumping into the fires frightened him more than pain and thirst and despair.

  And overlaid atop those dreams was the sense of being watched by the white wraith that drifted around the caverns, never closer than the periphery of his senses.

  Come for me soon, K
alen. I don’t know how long I can keep my life and sanity down here.

  In the time since the guards had kicked him into the pit, he’d eaten six small meals of thin gruel. The covered pot of food was lowered down a narrow chute only marginally wider than the pot. When the denizens of the pit had eaten—after much squabbling on the part of the healthier citizens—they reattached the rope to the pot, and it was hoisted back up by unseen hands. Yaala’s presence kept the stronger prisoners from gobbling all the gruel, leaving the weaker ones to starve.

  Everyone down here acknowledged Yaala as their leader, as above they acknowledged Yaassima as their Kaalipha.

  Even with Yaala’s supervision, no one got enough to eat. When they weren’t working, the men and women congregated in the living cavern, watching the chute for any sign of more food dropping down, kicking and fighting to be first to delve into the pot.

  An older man related a tale of many years ago when loaves of bread appeared in the chute every day for a week. He thought a relative of one of the prisoners might work in the kitchen. But the bread stopped coming as abruptly as it started, never to be seen again.

  Powwell’s mouth watered at the thought of bread—even stale unleavened bread.

  The lack of food only hastened the time until he, too, was consigned to the fires at the heart of the Kardia. Since the guards seemed to walk in fear of Yaala, and the accidents Powwell was certain she could arrange for them, maybe they could be coerced into bringing more food into the pit. Maybe . . .

  “How do you know so much about the machines?” he asked Yaala as she led him unerringly through the labyrinth of caves and tunnels.

  “I hung around the engineers when I was a kid. When the last of them died last year, I was the only one who knew enough to take their place.”

  “Does Yaassima know that you, a prisoner, are now the—engineer?” Powwell stumbled over the unfamiliar word.

  “No.” Yaala closed her mouth firmly, refusing to elaborate.

  “Which one is Old Bertha?” he asked, just to keep words flowing above and around the sounds of the chugging machines. Each of the monstrous noisemakers had a personality and a name. Yesterday he’d worked on Liise, a small placid machine who only needed a little attention to purr along quite happily.