“No—no, Your Grace,” Konnaught stammered and sagged within Quinnault’s grip. Then he stiffened. “But they were peasants. . . .”
“They were innocent people. I refuse to argue with you anymore, or put up with your insolence and your idolization of your father’s evil. Pack your possessions. You sail at dawn for the Monastic School in Sollthrie.”
“You don’t dare exile me. I—I’m your only heir. I—I hold the allegiance of three other lords who think your view of government is stupid. And I think you are stupid,” Konnaught blustered. But his chin quivered as he spoke.
“Then you must learn to think differently. I know of no better place to do that than Sollthrie.”
“But . . . but there’s nothing there!”
“There is the finest school in all of Kardia Hodos.”
“But no one ever leaves there. They . . . they stay and become celibate priests.”
“Precisely. I should have sent you there last spring, but I was too kind and expected too much from you. Guard, take him back to his room and supervise his packing. He won’t need much.”
The guard on the left took Konnaught’s elbow, somewhat more gently than Quinnault had grabbed his collar, and led him back up the stairs.
“Now, Bessel, let us see what this Rover knows.” Only a tiny bit of regret niggled at Quinnault’s brain. He’d failed with teaching Konnaught responsibility, justice, and concern for others. Maybe the boy was incapable of learning such concepts. Mostly he felt a tremendous relief at having made a decision.
He turned to face the sealed prison door.
“I’m afraid we are too late, Your Grace,” Bessel said, peering through the slitted window of the heavy wooden cell door.
“What do you mean?” Quinnault shouldered the young journeyman aside to look himself. The cell appeared empty. “He was here this morning. His guards reported him screaming to let him out not an hour ago.”
“He’s gone, Your Grace. The Rover has escaped and left my seal and the mundane locks in place.”
Powwell nearly jumped out of his skin at Moncriith’s words. He’d been so preoccupied with his own misery he hadn’t watched his steps until he nearly stepped on the Bloodmage.
“Where’s Kalen?” he blurted without thought.
“Silence, demon spawn!” Moncriith intoned, raising his hands in the same gesture priests used to denote a benediction.
Blood dripped from Moncriith’s fingers and a gash across his forehead. Behind him lay the corpse of a man wearing the black uniform of Kaalipha Yaassima’s personal guard. His throat had been slit. His mouth was frozen in a scream of horror.
“Nastfa!” Myri choked at sight of the man.
“I name him traitor,” Moncriith replied. “He fell victim to the seduction of the demons within you, Myrilandel. He had to die. What better way than as sacrifice to give me enough magic to stop you once and for all?” He cocked his head and smiled almost amiably.
The Bloodmage was insane, Powwell realized. Moncriith had murdered a man and mutilated himself, again, to fuel his fanaticism.
“With my head and my heart and the strength of my shoulders, I reject this evil.” Powwell signed the cross of the Stargods. Beside him, Yaala did the same.
“The Stargods can’t protect you. They are with me,” Moncriith proclaimed. “Prepare to die!”
Nimbulan’s hand landed on Powwell’s shoulder. The familiar blending and surging of power pulled the last remnants of dragon magic out of Powwell. He fought the light-headed emptiness. He had to stall while Nimbulan prepared a defensive spell. The dragons wouldn’t allow an attack fueled by their magic, only defense.
But an attack might very well bring a dragon to them posthaste. He hoped Nimbulan realized this or read his thoughts. He had to stall.
“Where’s Kalen?” Powwell asked again. “You came through the dragongate in Hanassa. Kalen was the only one left there who knew its secrets.”
“She and Yaassima died opening the gate for me. Their deaths shifted the vortex to take me directly to my troops. I was the last person through before the tunnels and caverns collapsed behind me. The demon’s gate is closed forever.”
“You bastard!” Powwell launched himself at the Bloodmage. Rage turned his vision red. Vaguely, he heard Nimbulan protest the separation between them and the division of the magic.
He didn’t care. The only thing that existed for Powwell was Moncriith and the need to kill the Bloodmage. Fingers flexed, he aimed for Moncriith’s eyes. Soft skin squished beneath his jagged and dirty fingernails. He felt a satisfying gush of hot blood against his palms.
Inside his tunic, Thorny hunched. Sharp spines penetrated Powwell’s clothing to prick his chest. His emotional contact with the hedgehog strengthened his anger and his determination to kill Moncriith.
He kicked back at the men who tried to pull him off of Moncriith. He heard screams and closed his ears to them.
Someone pressed a dagger against his throat. He didn’t care. Moncriith had killed Kalen. Moncriith had to die. Powwell would gladly die with him as long as the Bloodmage died. Painfully. Messily.
“Powwell, no.” Myri’s quiet command penetrated the red blur of pain and fury. “He’s not worth murdering.”
Powwell didn’t release his grip on the now screaming Moncriith. Thorny relaxed his spines. Powwell refused to follow his familiar’s lead.
“Amaranth isn’t old enough to separate herself from the victims around her. Kill Moncriith and you kill the baby.” Nimbulan reminded him quietly. “Do you want my daughter’s death on your soul as well as his?”
Moncriith roared triumphantly as he broke Powwell’s grip on his face with a mighty thrust. Powwell flew backward, landing on his butt with a harsh jar that sent his head spinning.
The note of exultation in Moncriith’s pain shook Powwell more than Myri’s words or the spine numbing fall. How could the man revel in the pain?
Then he knew. As soon as Moncriith’s blood had touched his hands, Powwell had felt a surge of strength and power. His own pain from the prick of Thorny’s spines added to it. He had tapped blood magic without thinking. The rage drained out of him. His stomach twisted into a knot.
“To me, Powwell. I need your magic,” Nimbulan called. His hands rose up, palm outward, fingers curved, to catch the magic hurled by Moncriith.
Powwell struggled to get his feet beneath him. They wouldn’t cooperate. Yaala’s hand grasped his belt and propelled him in Nimbulan’s direction. He landed facedown in the dirt, one hand touching his teacher’s scuffed boot.
Tingles worked their way up from the ground, through him. He lay across a ley line that begged him to tap its energy.
Useless.
Nimbulan couldn’t combine with ley line energy. They needed dragon magic. Powwell’s store was empty.
Nimbulan faltered in his defense. His own store of magic must be dangerously low as well.
Where were the dragons?
Moncriith yelled something in the old language as he hurled a massive ball of witchfire at Nimbulan and Myri.
Nimbulan extinguished the flames before they reached the band of refugees.
Powwell pressed his face deeper into the dirt. He had never taken an oath to the Commune to forsake all other forms of magic. Nothing prevented him from drawing the ley line into himself. He could throw some kind of barrier between Moncriith and his friends. He had to protect them, make up for his lapse in tapping blood magic.
A barrier. He needed a barrier. He dredged a half memory up from somewhere. Nimbulan had thrown a wall in front of Moncriith’s attacks on Quinnault’s army a year ago. How had he done it?
Powwell didn’t have time to remember. In his mind he created a picture of a brick wall rising up from the ground between himself and the Bloodmage. He pushed the magic outward with all of his strength.
Moncriith’s next volley of magic darts, meant to enter the mind through the eye and destroy all thought and memory, crashed through Nimbulan’s defenses.
Chapter 36
“Open that S’murghing door, Bessel,” Quinnault ordered. “Guard, fetch Old Lyman. Carry him here over your shoulder if you have to. I don’t care what he’s doing or which dragon he’s talking to, I need him here. Now.”
“I don’t know how Piedro could have left without a trace. No one can transport a living being from place to place and live,” Bessel protested.
Quinnault recognized the young man’s deep breathing as preparation for a trance. He stepped out of the way to let him work. Questions whirled through his mind. He drew his belt knife just in case the assassin was somehow hidden in the cell and planned to rush them as soon as the door opened.
“Maybe we should wait for the Master Magician,” he suggested.
“Yes. That isn’t my seal on the door,” Bessel said. His eyes crossed in puzzlement. “I don’t recognize the signature or style of the spell. No one from the School set it. I know all of them.” He sounded almost relieved.
“We are dealing with rogue magicians as well as Rovers and assassins. On my wedding day! Piedro warned me to look to those I trust for his employer. Who? I wonder if I dare go through with the ceremony until I know for sure who wants me not only dead but discredited as a murderer.”
“Lord Konnaught?” Bessel offered.
“I doubt it. He doesn’t have the forethought or the money to plan such a thing.”
“The style of magic will tell us much,” Lyman said, bustling down the steep stairs. He rubbed his hands together in excitement. “An interesting puzzle. I love puzzles almost as much as I love books. Wonderful treasures, both. They make a man think.”
“You didn’t have time to be summoned from School Isle unless you flew or transported,” Quinnault growled, ready to suspect anyone of Piedro’s escape.
“Of course not. I was in the Great Hall helping arrange tonight’s entertainment. We have five apprentices who are quite talented with delusions and fireless lights. They’ll put on quite a show during the banquet,” Lyman replied. He bent to eye the lock on the cell door without further ado.
“What do you see, old man?” Quinnault pressed him.
“Not as much as Nimbulan would. These eyes are aging and less interested in detail than I could wish.” Lyman frowned as he straightened to peer through the slit window.
“Which is another complaint I have with the world today. I wish Nimbulan would get back here. He never should have left. Not even a note,” he bemoaned.
“But he did leave a letter of explanation. I gave it to the messenger you sent to fetch him.” Lyman looked around the dank dungeon as if he expected to find the errant courier hiding there.
“I never received it!” Quinnault barked. “Guard, bring me that courier!” Heat stung his cheeks and his fingers tingled with the anger building inside him.
Nothing was going right. Bad omens for the wedding ceremony and his life ahead with Katie.
“Unnecessary, boy.” Lyman looked at Quinnault as if the king were indeed an errant child. “Lord Konnaught was with the messenger that day. Who told you that Nimbulan had departed on a personal quest?”
“Konnaught.” None of Quinnault’s anger dissipated. “That demon spawn child deliberately interfered with a royal messenger. More reasons to exile him. Guard, Konnaught is to be confined to his room and watched. He is not to attend the wedding or the banquet. See to it immediately.”
One of the men retreated. His haste up the slippery stairs suggested he was happy to remove himself from target distance of Quinnault’s temper.
“Open the damn door, Lyman. I’m getting tired of this. I want explanations now, even if I personally have to break every bone in Piedro’s body. Nimbulan has a lot to answer for when he gets back. He’d have known a way to make sure this Rover didn’t escape.”
“All in good time, my boy. Nimbulan’s errand was necessary. You’ll see that when he gets back.”
“Which will be. . . ?”
“When he gets back.”
“Stop with your riddles, Lyman. Who released the Rover?” Quinnault began to pace, hands behind his back, shoulders hunched. He couldn’t think standing still.
“Not any magic I know firsthand,” Lyman replied.
“Varn magic, perhaps?” Quinnault had to ask the question that had been hovering in the back of his mind since he’d witnessed the argument between Katie and her father. He trusted Katie, but not her father.
“Closer to home, I think,” Lyman said. He pulled his glass from a deep pocket of his blue robe and looked closer at the entire doorjamb.
“How close?” both Quinnault and Bessel asked.
“Kardia, Air, Fire, and Water are present. Smell the urine? That’s what he used for Water.” Lyman wrinkled his nose.
“That sounds like a Rover spell. Piedro must be a clan chieftain, so he can’t be working with Televarn,” Quinnault mused, as he continued his pacing.
“Perhaps. Perhaps not.” Lyman wiggled his fingers in an arcane pattern. “Bessel, help me with this.” He signaled the journeyman to come closer. The young man placed his hand upon the old man’s shoulder. Together they took three deep breaths.
Quinnault sensed the power building between them. But he didn’t have enough magic on his own to see their auras merge and expand.
“The original seal was broken from the outside and reset from the outside. Our Rover had help. Someone who could come and go without question. Your guards wouldn’t let just anyone down here, would they? I wish Nimbulan were here. He knows more about Rovers than I do.” Lyman continued his trance as he lifted the latch on the cell door and pushed it open. The empty room showed no signs that anyone had been there in many years.
“Whoever helped Piedro had to have Rover blood in him,” Quinnault mused. “Nimbulan told me that much. That’s the only way their magic works is in combination with other Rovers. Someone close to me, someone trusted, with Rover blood. Who could that be?” He stopped pacing as stared at the empty cell.
“Nimbulan is the only person I know with Rover blood. Some distant ancestor. That’s how he learned about Rover magic,” Lyman whispered.
“Nimbulan?” Quinnault didn’t dare breathe. “I refuse to believe that Nimbulan was part of this conspiracy.” But the evidence suggested the possibility.
Powwell’s ears roared with the strain of pushing the wall to intercept the rapidly flying magic darts. The roar grew louder. He needed to cover his ears. He wanted to throw up.
The roar increased, ululating up into a screech so high-pitched he barely heard it.
A wall of flame split the ground between himself and Moncriith. Instinctively Powwell pulled himself into a fetal ball, protecting his face and neck from attack.
Moncriith screamed in frustrated rage. His magical darts dropped to the ground, repelled by Powwell’s wall of flame.
Something heavy shook the ground beneath Powwell. He risked peeking in the direction of the vibrations.
Another body joined Moncriith’s sacrificial victim. This one still breathed, though its eyes stared sightlessly upward and the mouth hung slack. Gender and personality were lost in hideous burns across half the face and burned clothing hanging on the frame in tatters. All trace of hair had been burned away, leaving a naked skull. The straight nose, high cheekbones and thin mouth were marred by the oozing raw meat of massive burns. The person curled and shrank against the cold air of the mountain pass.
“Kaalipha?” Yaala gasped.
Powwell raised his head a fraction higher. “Where did she come from? Where’s Kalen? If Yaassima survived the pit, then Kalen might have, too. Where were you?”
Hope blossomed inside his chest. Kalen might still live.
“She was in the void,” Myri whispered. “Tssonin brought her out.”
Powwell looked further. A young dragon—red-tipped but still silvery along his wing veins and horns—perched on an outcropping halfway up the canyon walls. He breathed steam. Outrage swirled in his multicolored eyes.
�
��What does Tssonin say?” Nimbulan asked Myri.
“He says he found Yaassima in the void alive and still anchored to this existence. She is not welcome there. The secrets of past, present, and future lives do not belong to such as she. She hasn’t the magic or the wisdom to use the information. She must die in this existence before entering the void again.” Myri’s words took on confidence as she spoke. She cocked her head slightly, listening to the telepathic commands of the dragon that only she could hear.
“Impossible!” Moncriith spluttered. He poked a finger toward the still flaming line that encircled Nimbulan and Myri and the others. “I threw her and the witchchild into the boiling lava before the gate fully formed with the landscape of hills just above the main camp of my army.”
“We know,” Nimbulan replied. “We watched through the partially open gate. Where is Televarn?”
“I killed the traitor,” Yaassima croaked. “I killed him with the knife he poisoned for me.”
“He can’t be dead!” Maia screamed clutching her head between her fists. “He’s still whispering in my mind how he’ll punish me if I don’t tell him everything that’s happening.”
“Another mystery we cannot solve,” Nimbulan said.
Powwell crept a little closer to Yaassima. He needed to talk to her, find out what happened to Kalen. The wall he had erected blocked him. He dismantled the spell. The wall of dragon fire remained, a clear line separating Moncriith’s people from Nimbulan’s.
“See her burns?” Moncriith continued to rant. “They are her just punishment from the pit. No one could live through that inferno. I watched her hair and clothing ignite. I drew power from her pain.”
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 71
