“Scarecrow?” Nimbulan lifted one eyebrow.
Quinnault met him stare for stare with no further explanation. But his gaze kept flicking to the black box held by the queen.
“For the Stargods’ sake, allow the man some dignity.” Myri rolled her eyes and finally tossed the king a silken robe from the chair near the bed. Her cheeks worked in and out, but she couldn’t suppress the grin on her face.
Nimbulan was glad to see her sense of humor returning after the dramatic events of the past few weeks.
“It’s nice to see that your legs are nearly as long and shapely as mine, brother,” she said around her smile.
Quinnault gave her a brief smile of thanks and returned his attention to the false princess from Terrania. His mouth clamped shut on a question. He was probably waiting for privacy before questioning her. Nimbulan had to shatter the man’s illusions now, in front of witnesses, before the royal bride subverted the king’s mind further.
“Your wife is probably a foreign agent planted here in order to precipitate an invasion,” Nimbulan reminded Quinnault. “I have learned that King Lorriin leads an invasion of Sambol as we speak. He’s been poised for weeks, waiting for an excuse to seize valuable farm land to feed his people.”
“I know about Lorriin. The marriage treaty with his sister would not have kept the peace between us beyond spring planting.” Quinnault shrugged into the robe. He turned his back briefly as he stood and belted the garment. “I knew it when I agreed to marry Maarie Kaathliin and give her people half a ton of new Tambootie leaves in exchange for a port city and jetties built on the Bay islands.”
“A half ton of Tambootie? What strange magic requires that much of the weed?” Nimbulan’s mind spun with the possibilities. His entire Commune wouldn’t use that much of the fresh leaves bursting with essential oils—if they used Tambootie any more, which they didn’t. The trees were reserved for the dragons. “A half ton will strip many trees to the danger point. They may never recover enough to feed the dragons. Dragons are more necessary to your peace than a precipitous marriage just to get an heir.”
“My wife’s father assured me they will spread their harvest across all of Coronnan and take the leaves in two batches so they don’t endanger any of the trees. Besides, Shayla personally approved of our marriage.”
“Shayla?” Myri asked. “She left us in a hurry before she could carry us to safety. Did she come here? She wouldn’t respond to my call afterward.”
“I faced your dragon at dawn.” Maarie Kaathliin shuddered and finally ceased her tapping. “Then she flew off. We haven’t seen her since.”
“I had a message from your dragon, sister. You are not to worry, she will be with you after she rests from her . . . er . . exertions.” Quinnault flicked a shy glance to the bed.
“Oh!” Myri clasped a hand over her mouth. Then she cocked her head as if listening, a sure sign that the dragons spoke to her and her alone. “No wonder Shayla ignored me. Only two of my brothers, barely half-grown dragons, could be spared to fly us home. All of the adults were—engaged. Congratulations, brother. You’ll be a father by the Autumnal Equinox.”
“Really?” the queen stepped closer to Myri, hands pressed against her belly as if seeking confirmation.
“You still haven’t told me what kind of illegal magic your wife’s people intend to work with the Tambootie. I can’t believe the dragons would willingly give up so much of their necessary food supply.”’
“Not magic,” the queen said, clutching her husband’s arm. Her voice carried a note of desperation that made Nimbulan want to believe her. “My people need the Tambootie for medicine. A plague threatens our very existence and the leaves of the Tambootie provide the only cure.”
“Why should we give this valuable drug to your people? We might need it later ourselves. Plagues travel wide and unpredictably. Your very presence could infect us all,” Nimbulan said.
“This plague will not attack you. I guarantee that.” Maarie Kaathliin stood straight and defiant. Her small face suddenly looked much older and jaded than Nimbulan first thought. “As long as we keep the machines out of Kardia Hodos, the plague has nothing to feed on.”
Quinnault draped an arm about her shoulders and pulled her close. His gesture clearly signified that they belonged together. The top of her head barely reached his armpit. Granted the king was tall compared to the majority of his people. But a woman’s average height was closer to that of the average male. Maarie Kaathliin’s head should reach the king’s chin, at least.
“How can you guarantee that a plague will not come to us in a trade ship, or on the back of a steed wandering in from SeLenicca, or on the khamsin wind from Rossemeyer? How can we trust you when you say you come from a land that no longer exists?”
“She didn’t say she came from Terrania. I did,” Quinnault said. Then he turned to face his wife, hands on her shoulders “Why did you confirm the idea I pulled out of the air?”
“There has been a misunderstanding of my origins. I hail from Terra, not Terrania.”
“Terra is not a land I have heard of. Why would you claim she hailed from a barren land that has not been inhabited for many hundreds of years?” Nimbulan searched Quinnault’s face for signs of the lie he knew must come.
“Because she is a Varn. Her father is a Varn. Her grandfather is emperor of the Varns. Try telling my Council that and make them believe it.”
“No one living has ever seen a Varn. Legends. They always appear a hundred years ago. Never now. And they never reveal their true form.”
“Because we cannot allow you to learn our secrets. You would destroy yourselves and create the same environment that breeds our plague before you realized the dangers of our technologies,” the queen insisted.
“Machines? You do everything with machines?” Yaala tugged at the queen’s sleeve. Her passion for her machines was written all over her face. “Can you help me repair my machines? Can you make Old Bertha live again?”
“Old Bertha?” Both Quinnault and his bride stared at Yaala.
“The largest of my machines, the key to a network of littler generators and transformers that powered the lights and gadgets that imitate magic.”
“Bertha was the name of one of my ancestors. A strong-willed woman who never married, took numerous inappropriate lovers—they got younger as she aged—and voiced her volatile opinions quite loudly,” the queen chuckled.
“That sounds like our Old Bertha,” Powwell said from the doorway. “A cranky and willful old lady who worked at her own convenience and no one else’s.” For the first time since leaving Kalen behind, he showed some levity.
“How old are your machines?” Maarie Kaathliin turned to Yaala with a new animation.
“Very old. Older than any records. Legends claim the machines go back to the time of the Stargods,” Yaala replied.
“Impossible. The three O’Hara brothers established the covenant that protected Kardia Hodos from intrusion by any but a few carefully selected representatives of the family. They forbade technology powered by anything but water, air, or fire. They didn’t let you have the wheel and isolated reading skills to a very few.”
“But that doesn’t answer our questions, Your Grace,” Nimbulan tried to bring the subject back to his present concerns. “We have to stop this invasion and the conspiracies you have uncovered in my absence.”
“You must destroy the machines!” Maarie Kaathliin urged Yaala. “They contain the seeds of the plague. I pray that no other machines powered by fossil fuels exist. The tainted air that comes from them will lie dormant for centuries waiting for the right mix of pollution and sunlight variance to grow and breed.”
“The machines are already dead,” Powwell volunteered. “I killed them to give us time to escape.” He turned away and muttered under his breath, “Unless the wraith fixes them.”
The queen breathed easier. Obviously she hadn’t heard the last comment. “Then the generators must stay dead, and isolated. We can
never allow technology to taint your air as it has my home’s.”
“That still doesn’t tell me what we can do about the invasion. We haven’t time to gather an army and march it to meet King Lorriin.” Nimbulan clenched his hand, longing for his staff to help him think. But Powwell had used it to kill the machine. He needed another.
“We need a wall to keep them out. Just like the Kaalipha used the walls of the crater to keep out strangers,” Scarface said, his face brightened with ideas. “Powwell had the right idea when he blocked Moncriith’s attack with a wall. We need a wall. A magic wall.”
Chapter 38
“Do you know how much magic would be needed for such a feat?” Nimbulan stared at Scarface, gape-mouthed. It could work. They’d need a very large focus to concentrate the minds and talents of every member of the Commune—masters, journeymen, and apprentices combined. Something like a magician’s staff.
His old staff had been shaped by his magic, finely tuned over many years to work with him. A staff was too individual. For the combined might of the Commune they needed something else, something common to them all.
“A temporary wall at the passes . . .” Scarface shrugged.
“That will only work at the passes we know Lorriin’s using this time,” Quinnault said. He didn’t pace as he usually did when he thought. The new queen seemed to quiet his restless energy. “King Lorriin will just find different entries and port cities. He’s desperate for arable farm land and men to work it. A lot of Kardia Hodos is. A drought rages into its third year across the northern continents. Lorriin can’t buy food there, and he has some strange belief that SeLenicca can’t be worked.”
“You’re saying we need a magical wall all around Coronnan?” Scarface whistled his amazement at the audacity of the proposal.
“Except for the Bay,” Nimbulan corrected. “The mudflats and your new port city will give us protection there. A massive chain across the port of Baria and towers with armaments on either side of the entrance will protect that harbor by mundane means. Most of the north coast is crumbling clay cliffs, impossible for heavily armed men to climb. So that will reduce the size of the spell by one coastline.” He began to pace, his mind working furiously—as Quinnault used to do. He needed a focus. A big focus.
(A focus made of glass.)
Yes! He paused, looking up at the ceiling as if the idea had come from there. Why glass? What properties did glass have that existed in no other compound?
Clarity. Glass magnified and enhanced the vision. Made from all four elements, glass gave the magician access to the power of any one or all of Kardia, Air, Fire, and Water to wrap around his spell without being warped or changed by the spell. Wooden staffs shaped themselves to an individual magician. Glass would remain impervious and accessible to many not just the one.
Yes. The focus must be made of glass. The most precious and rarest substance in all of Kardia Hodos.
“Droughts follow nine-year cycles on this planet,” Maarie Kaathliin offered. She moved forward, too, back under Quinnault’s arm, as if she needed contact with him to maintain life itself. “The wall must last at least another six or seven years to prevent war until the climate shifts again.”
“Could your father build us a physical wall to block the passes?” Quinnault asked Maarie Kaathliin.
“Not in time. The jetties, bridges, and docks at the islands will use up most of our resources. I’ve just signaled him that he may depart as soon as he is finished. Your part of the bargain is complete, love.” She held up the little black box.
Yaala tried to grab it from her for examination. The queen pointedly tossed the box into the hearth fire. Flames engulfed it, glowing hot red and yellow around the black. A strange smell permeated the smoke.
Nimbulan wrinkled his nose. No one else seemed to notice the smell. But Yaala stared at the hearth as if she could will the device back into her own hands, intact and working.
“The islands?” Nimbulan returned to the subject at hand. “You’ve made all four of the islands into a port? Already?” Nimbulan’s heart sank. Now he couldn’t appropriate one of the islands as a home for himself and Myri. “Do you really need all four islands?”
“Yes,” Maarie Kaathliin said. She continued speaking, dismissing the question. “Kinnsell needs to get back home with the Tambootie as soon as possible. He can’t spare any more time than it takes to complete the port. Besides, a physical wall would hamper peaceful trade. I presume you plan on establishing this ‘wall’ or force field or whatever to have gates and such?”
“We’ll have to post magicians at each known road and trade route to do that.” Nimbulan forced his disappointment to the back of his mind. He had to tackle one problem at a time. “We don’t have enough magicians at the moment to cover every known road into Coronnan, even if you count all the apprentices and journeymen. Presuming we can get the wall up.” Nimbulan held his hands up, palm outward, fingers slightly curled. The habitual gesture for weaving magic wasn’t enough anymore. As he paced, he looped one arm through Myri’s and drew her to his side. Together, they paced. Together, they discussed and defined the necessary elements of the massive spell. Together, their minds worked and built upon each new idea.
He couldn’t exile her again. He needed her close by. All of the time.
“We have to use the years of the drought cycle to grow as much surplus as we can to help feed Kardia Hodos,” Quinnault mused as he joined them in their pacing, bringing his bride with him.
“Don’t forget a way to store reserves for our own drought which will probably follow,” the queen added.
“We should sell food at minimum tariff and profit to keep our neighbors from becoming desperate,” Nimbulan said.
“Hopefully when they recover from drought and we fall prey to the weather, they will be willing to help us in turn,” Quinnault finished the thought. “I’ll need strong trade treaties. We’ll all meet with the ambassadors first thing in the morning.”
“Overseeing the production of all those extra acres will also give your lords an occupation so they don’t have time or inclination to plot another civil war, or assassination.” Scarface chuckled.
“Aaddler,” Nimbulan addressed his new friend. “This is a matter for the Commune, using communal magic. Solitary magicians must be excluded. It is more than the law. It is the only way we can enforce the peaceful use of magic for the benefit of all. You have proved yourself a valuable ally. But I must have your oath to the Commune, Coronnan, and King Quinnault before you involve yourself any further.” He couldn’t look at Myri. His statement effectively sent her in exile once more. She dropped his arm as if his touch burned her.
Slowly he turned to face her, one hand resting on her shoulder, the other caressing the baby in her arms. “And when the spell is complete, I will resign my place in the Commune and join you in your clearing. We won’t be separated again, Myri. Ever.”
“Not even in death, beloved,” she vowed, kissing him softly.
“What if I can’t spare you, Nimbulan?” Quinnault asked under his breath. “Will you break your oath of loyalty to me?”
Powwell watched Scarface solemnly approach King Quinnault in the little reception room. Soon it would be Powwell’s turn to face his king and the Commune. Quick tests, moments before, had proven Scarface’s ability to gather dragon magic.
“I, Aadler, do solemnly swear to abide by the laws of the Commune, and to defend the Commune against solitary magicians. I promise to use my magic, gathered only from dragons, for the benefit of all Coronnan as directed by the lawful king, anointed by the people and blessed by the dragons. And if I should stray from this oath, may my staff break, and the dragons desert me,” Scarface recited the oath of the Commune, holding his new staff horizontally in front of him with both hands. Beneath the staff rested the softly glowing Coraurlia, the dragon crown. It sat upon its velvet pillow at the king’s feet on the dais of the throne room. Its soothing all color/no color light engulfed the staff and the magician
in an aura of truth that could not be broken.
As the last words fell from Scarface’s lips, the new staff began to twist a little, three strands beginning to braid.
Powwell gulped back his fears and tried to fade into the walls.
“Now it is your turn, Powwell. You left Coronnan before we could determine the necessity of this oath for all those who gather dragon magic,” Nimbulan said. He placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him toward the dais.
“I’m only an apprentice, and poorly trained at that. Shouldn’t I wait to see if I have the ability to become a full magician?” Powwell protested.
“No, Powwell, we can’t wait. We need every magician available for this spell. They must all be confirmed members of the Commune,” King Quinnault said from the throne. He and the queen had taken a few moments to dress before presiding over this brief ceremony.
None of the refugees had had a chance to rest or eat since arriving in the capital. Now they would plunge headlong into the defense of Coronnan. Powwell needed time to think.
He looked at the assembly of sleepy-eyed master magicians crowding near the throne. They all stared at him, needing the oath-taking complete so they could get on with the business of creating a massive defense spell. No help there. He had to take the oath.
Once taken, never broken.
Taking a deep breath he stepped forward to face the king and the glass dragon crown. The queen sat beside Quinnault, avidly curious, not missing a single detail that might slip past the weary magicians.
Someone handed him a staff, as newly cut as Nimbulan’s and Scarface’s. He opened his mouth to recite the words. Nothing came out but a cough, dry as the dust of Hanassa.
He swallowed deeply, thinking hard, and finally croaked out the words.
“I, Powwell, do solemnly swear to abide by the laws of the Commune, and to defend the Commune against solitary magicians. I promise to use my magic gathered only from dragons, while in Coronnan, for the benefit of all Coronnan . . .” He continued with the oath as prescribed. Only the queen, with her avid curiosity and attention to detail raised an eyebrow at his insertion. Once he left the borders of Coronnan, he would be free to follow Kalen with whatever magic tools presented themselves.
Dragon Nimbus Novels: Vol II, The Page 73
