Myri nodded her head once in compliance, eager for this man’s help. She shot one more glance out the window. Moncriith still stood with Nimbulan. She had to set her escape into motion by herself.
The senior guard squeezed her shoulder gently, reassuringly. He held both hands together and rested his cheek on them, pantomiming sleep, then he pointed to Yaassima’s private chamber. Abruptly he looked up, almost startled. A moment later he laid his face back onto his hands.
The Kaalipha slept lightly.
Myri nodded again, uncertain what the man wanted of her.
Nastfa fished a small vial from his pocket. The enameled metal tube was sealed tightly with wax. He pointed again to Yaassima and pantomimed a deeper sleep. Gently he placed the vial into Myri’s hand and closed her fingers around it.
The moment of physical contact relayed his emotions to her empathic talent. He hated the Kaalipha as did his king. Even before Yaassima’s humiliation of him in the Justice Hall the other night he had hated her. But he feared her also. Feared that if he tried to kill her himself, he would fail. He didn’t know where the loyalty of his men lay. His years of entrapment had eaten away at his confidence.
“When?” Myri mouthed the word, lest Yaassima awaken and overhear through the dragon pendant.
A tiny bell rang within the Kaalipha’s bedchamber. Myri looked toward the sound, startled. The door to Yaassima’s room opened and her sleepy-eyed maid—the only servant Yaassima trusted near her regularly—shuffled out, headed for the carafe of wine and cups that always sat on the side table.
Yaassima must have drained the carafe by her bed already. Most nights the wine was all that allowed her to sleep. She frequently ordered Myri to bring the wine so the Kaalipha could regale her with bloodthirsty tales of her dragon ancestor Hanassa.
“I’ll take the wine to Yaassima. Go back to sleep, Haanna.” Myri waved the woman back to her pallet in a tiny alcove.
She could trust only herself. She had to get the children out of Hanassa tonight.
Haanna flashed Myri a grateful smile and stumbled back to her bed.
With shaking hands, Myri poured the bright red wine into a goblet of fine porcelain. She stared at the vial a few seconds, indecisive.
Yaassima rang her bell again. “What keeps you, Haanna. I’ll send you to the pit if you don’t hurry,” the Kaalipha called querulously.
Smiling slightly, Myri pocketed the vial and withdrew powders left by Erda to make Myri docile and obedient. She hadn’t taken any drugs for days. There should be enough here to send Yaassima to sleep for days. Or forever.
Chapter 25
“There is nothing of import happening here.” Moncriith signaled the mercenaries to follow him. “Back to the palace. The Kaalipha will want to be a part of the execution of these foreign magicians.”
The troop of mercenaries wheeled as one man and marched back toward the palace. Nimbulan and Scarface had no choice but to follow them. They needed Moncriith to get them into the palace without a search for weapons or magic.
“I have to find access to the pit, after we rescue Myri,” Nimbulan whispered as they neared the palace entrance.
“You’ll have to give the boy up for dead. No one survives the pit. You saw how pale and wasted he looked. He won’t live long even if you could get him and yourself out,” Scarface replied.
A line of dancers snaked out from a side path. They alternated men and women, each holding the waist of the person in front of them. The lead reveler was too drunk to stand on his own. He swayed and stumbled into Moncriith.
Moncriith backhanded the man across his face. Blood spurted from the man’s nose. He fell backward, throwing the entire line off balance. “S’murghin’ wastrels. I’ll sacrifice you one and all before I let you join the ranks of my army!” Moncriith screamed at them.
A woman burst out laughing at the Bloodmage’s posturing—too drunk to be afraid. Her ragged red gown drooped off her left shoulder, revealing most of her breast. She caressed herself, taunting Moncriith to join her.
Moncriith turned back toward the palace. His deliberate path took him through the line of mercenary magicians. He shoved Rollett out of his way. The journeyman magician stumbled and fought for balance. His flailing arms and shifting steps broke the blank expression of numb obedience to Moncriith.
Nimbulan gasped silently. Every one of the mercenaries stopped and slid silent hands toward their swords. Don’t break rank! Keep your weapons sheathed until HE orders you. Nimbulan directed his warning into the mind of each man. The Bloodmage had to believe himself in control of this troop until they were well within the palace.
The dancing woman sidled in front of Moncriith, continuing her drunken taunt. He slammed his fist into her face. She fell backward over the jumble of collapsed dancers. Her leg twisted under her as she fought for balance. With an audible crack, the bone broke. She stopped laughing abruptly. Her jaw quivered and pain filled her eyes. But she didn’t cry out. The drunken dancers found this hilarious. Insults to the woman joined their off-key song of celebration. Nimbulan caught a few derisive comments about Moncriith as well.
“Doesn’t anyone in this city sleep?” he asked Scarface out loud. Moncriith whipped his attention back to the magician and away from the revelers.
“Not the night before half the town leaves for a major war.” Scarface spoke a little too loudly, demanding Moncriith listen to him and not be sidetracked by the dancers.
“Silence, demon spawn. You won’t live long enough to join these people in the glorious campaign to stamp out the demon-led king of Coronnan,” Moncriith said. He raised his fist as if to slam it into Scarface as hard as he had the drunken woman.
“You like preying on helpless victims, don’t you, Moncriith? People who can’t fight back and prove just how weak you really are,” Nimbulan sneered. He inserted his bound hands between his new friend and Moncriith.
The Bloodmage’s face darkened with rage. “I don’t have time to waste trading insults with you, Nimbulan. I shall have my revenge when Yaassima and I both dip our hands in your blood. I shall carry your severed head into battle as a symbol of the end of the demons that control you.”
The troop of mercenaries stepped forward as if propelled by a single will. Nimbulan ground his teeth together trying to keep from ending this charade and murdering Moncriith there and then.
Rollett nudged Nimbulan with his staff, reminding him to keep his thoughts under control as well as his actions. Nimbulan forced his frustrations away from the front of his mind.
The palace loomed ahead. The jumble of buildings piled on top of each other spread across a good portion of the southern arc of the crater. Four guards stood in front of a smoothly rounded arch, just broad enough to admit two men walking side by side, very close together. Off to the right of the gate was another opening, less regular, shorter and narrower yet.
Nimbulan touched Scarface with his elbow and tilted his head in the direction of the smaller entrance.
“The brothel for Yaassima’s guards. It doesn’t lead into the palace,” Scarface replied under his breath.
Nimbulan wondered if he should look there first for either Myri or Maia.
Two guards stepped forward, challenging Moncriith’s right of entrance. The Bloodmage spoke a few words in an ancient language and wove his hands in a complex sigil. The eyes of the guards glazed over.
“No need for your wands and your searches,” Moncriith said smugly. He waved aside the first two guards. They stepped back to their accustomed sentry position.
“The Kaalipha has given me the freedom of the palace, and I vouch for my men. None of them would betray me.”
Moncriith turned and glared at the phalanx of men behind him.
All of them thrust a clenched fist forward in salute. “Death to all demons. Long life to Moncriith the demon slayer,” they chanted as if in thrall.
The guards nodded acceptance.
“Alert the Kaalipha. I have found the foreign magician she seeks an
d brought him here for justice,” Moncriith ordered. The guards nodded again in compliance.
A long tunnel widened inside the entrance. Torches placed at random intervals along one side of the rock walls lit the way. They rounded a curve and marched into a side tunnel. A particularly long stretch of shadowed darkness stretched before them.
The palace gate and the four guards were out of sight. This walkway seemed deserted.
Nimbulan grabbed his staff away from Rollett’s custody. Scarface retrieved his own staff from another mercenary.
“Now!” Nimbulan shouted. His bonds fell away from his hands.
Moncriith turned to see what disrupted his march forward. Seven men held swords at the ready, all aimed at his gut.
“You won’t get away with this, Nimbulan,” Moncriith warned. He flicked his wrist. A long knife slid down his sleeve and into his palm.
“I think I will.” Nimbulan leveled his staff to counter any spell the Bloodmage might weave.
Moncriith took a step back as his hand closed around his naked blade. The Bloodmage flinched slightly as his sharp knife sliced his palm. Blood dripped onto the weapon.
“Watch him, he’s got the power of blood to fuel his magic,” Rollett warned.
Nimbulan matched Moncriith step for step, pushing him toward the shadowed wall. The other men pressed closer. Eagerness to end Moncriith’s tyranny showed in their bared teeth and determined grip on their weapons.
A bubble of armor draped around the Bloodmage. Nimbulan could barely sense it with his own diminishing reserve of magic. Moncriith stepped back again and ran into the wall.
Nimbulan closed his eyes and brought forward the last of his dragon magic. Rollett placed his left hand on Nimbulan’s shoulder. Power swelled and multiplied within him.
Quickly, before the reservoir of magic was used up, Nimbulan pierced Moncriith’s armor with the end of his staff. He flipped the tool horizontal again and rammed it across Moncriith’s throat.
The Bloodmage’s face turned dark with rage. He grabbed the staff with both hands and pushed against the magic and the staff with all of his might.
Nimbulan pushed back with the amplified dragon magic.
“You can’t do this!” Moncriith croaked.
“I just did it,” Nimbulan replied. “You are no match for communal magic. Take his weapons and bind him with mundane and magic ropes.”
Carefully, he kept his enemy pinned to the wall with the choking staff while Scarface and the other men bound Moncriith.
“You’re going to leave him alive?” Scarface asked.
“If Yaassima has enough magic to control this city, she will be able to sense his death. We can’t afford to alert her to our presence.” Nimbulan clenched his fist and rammed it into Moncriith’s jaw. The Bloodmage slid to the floor. “Hide this trash in the next alcove. Add another blow to his temple to make sure he’s out. Then wrap him in armor so he is invisible to mundane guards. We have to find Myrilandel before the guards alert the Kaalipha that we are in the palace.”
Quinnault paced the long corridors of the new wing of the palace. He couldn’t sleep. Every time he thought about tomorrow, his heart raced, heat filled his veins and his head felt like it floated.
Tomorrow he would wed Katie.
After she passed judgment by the dragons.
After the Council recognized this marriage would benefit the entire kingdom.
The palace was quiet tonight. Usually someone was about at all hours, checking torches, using the privy, raiding the kitchens. He met no one on his prowl past Katie’s bedchamber. If only he could see her, watch her sleep for a while, he might be able to relax enough to snatch a brief rest before dawn.
He eased closer to her door. No one stirred within. He pressed his ear to the heavy wooden panels, hoping to catch the sound of her soft breathing. A murmur of voices, anxious and intense rose behind the panel.
Who? Who had invaded Katie’s bedroom in the dead of night?
He reached to lift the latch, barge in, and demand explanations. Shouted words stopped him.
“I am in charge here.” Katie’s voice rose, became shrill.
Quinnault backed away. He bumped up against the protruding alcove wall that masked this corridor’s join with the older, central keep. He smiled. His architects had incorporated older tunnels and hidden passageways into the new building. Escape routes in case the keep fell to invasion or treachery, they had insisted.
The secret panel yielded to the pressure of one hand and slid inward on recently oiled hinges. Cold, damp river air gushed out of the tunnel. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him.
He kept his right hand against the wall, counting stones until he reached the twenty-seventh. He identified it by tracing its outline, rougher and larger than its neighbors. At the bottom right-hand corner he found an extra knob, no larger than his little fingernail. He turned it three times to the right. Half the wall swung inward a narrow slit. He stepped through and found himself behind a full-length tapestry between a wardrobe cabinet and the inside corner of the room.
The loose weave of the wall hanging allowed him to see the majority of the room. Princess Maarie Kaathliin paced anxiously at the foot of the four-poster bed. The bed hangings were thrown open to reveal rumpled sheets and blankets. Katie was fully dressed in her heavy woolen gown. She kept her hands folded inside the full sleeves and hunched her shoulders as if warding off a chill.
A large fire blazed in the hearth, heating the room well beyond what Quinnault thought comfortable. Kinnsell stood before the fire, warming his hands above the flames.
“I am still your father, Mary Kathleen O’Hara, and you will obey me in this. We owe it to the Empire.”
“I will not discuss this. We do it my way or not at all.” Katie ceased her pacing abruptly. “And stop trying to break down my shields. Isn’t it bad enough their magicians will be playing games with my mind and my memories tomorrow?”
Kinnsell stood firm, staring at his daughter with fierce concentration.
“Get out of my mind and this room, Kinnsell. Get out or I call the guard, and all of your fancy weapons and technology won’t get you out of their dungeons. I’ll see to it.” Katie matched him stare for stare. “Go back to Terra, Daddy, and make a new desert. You are very good at that.”
Kinnsell stalked out of the room, back rigid. The cords on the back of his neck stood out from the tension in his jaw.
Katie slammed the door behind him.
Quinnault shifted his balance to his toes ready to flee or dash forward, whatever seemed called for. Unsure of what he had just witnessed, he braced himself with one hand against the wall and breathed deeply. Dimly he was aware of Katie wrapping a brick from the hearth in a wad of cloth. She placed it beneath the covers on the rumpled bed and climbed in, fully clothed. He could hear her teeth chattering and wondered how hot the climate of her home was—truly Terrania?—that she found this warm palace so cold.
Katie tossed and turned for several minutes before curling up in a ball and drifting to sleep.
Quinnault waited several more minutes before stirring. He longed to stand closer and watch his bride. He hesitated, unsure of what he had witnessed between Katie and her father and if it boded ill for his kingdom.
His mind spun furiously. He hadn’t found contentment watching Katie, only more questions.
The latch clicked. Quinnault pressed his back against the wall. Katie didn’t stir.
He watched the door inch open, half expecting Kinnsell to reappear with some new argument. A Rover-dark man of medium height and lithe build crept into the room. He looked all around and closed the door behind him. It didn’t latch.
Before Quinnault could catch his breath and leap out to question the man, the intruder moved forward with three long strides. He pulled a long cord from his pocket and wrapped it tightly around both hands.
Quinnault dove out from behind the tapestry as the Rover tightened the cord around Katie’s slim neck.
; Chapter 26
Where is Scarface hiding tonight? Televarn asked himself. He’d already checked the wineshops the magician haunted. The man spent a lot of time drowning his physical pain in wine. Tonight he seemed to be occupied elsewhere. No one had seen him.
Some of the shopkeepers were lying. Scarface had been there, but wasn’t there when Televarn looked. He checked with magic as well as mundane senses.
Lacking the magician, Televarn decided to return to the palace and alert his spies to the impending revolution. He’d also get Piedro out of the pit with the huge stash of weapons. Piedro was a good man to have watch the Kaalipha’s apartments. He was patient and ruthless. He’d enjoy killing anyone who went into or out of Yaassima’s private quarters without permission.
I’ll have to warn him not to touch Myrilandel or Kalen, Televarn reminded himself. Piedro was as dangerous as he was useful.
The palace guards searched Televarn with efficient speed and sent him on his way. The Rover chuckled to himself. He’d had several blades made of the special iron the Kaalipha used on slave chains. The wands were not tuned to that substance. He had enough weapons on him to murder all four of the guards at the gate and they never found them.
Just inside the main tunnel, he ducked into a dark side passage that would take him to the Justice Hall and then down into the pit. He stumbled over something large and inert. It groaned and shifted away from his boots.
Televarn stared at the crumpled figure lying prone on the ground, hands bound behind his back. Dim torchlight reflected off scar tissue on the man’s face.
“Are you alive, Moncriith?” he asked. Best if he kept his distance until the man was fully awake. One blast of a defensive spell thrown when the Bloodmage was half awake could kill any innocent bystander.
“Of course, I’m alive. Nimbulan didn’t have the guts to kill me or even do me serious harm,” Moncriith said as he spat dirt from his mouth. “Untie me.”
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 62
