The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  “Lily taught Skeller not to eat meat. He still respects her wishes. I wonder . . .” He drifted off into another line of thought that touched on Souska.

  He liked the girl well enough, what little he knew of her. They’d only met a couple of times. She seemed so lost and vulnerable he’d felt compelled to give her a smile and a little encouragement. During his long nights on the road when he needed to reach out and talk to someone, anyone, from home, her pinched and pale face, and only her face, came to mind. But instead of growing stronger and more independent with each lesson, he found her clinging to him more and more, forcing him to make decisions for her.

  Maybe he should talk to her less frequently.

  Mama and Da were gone. Lily had taken to wandering on her own, taking seeds and cuttings where needed, nurturing the land and the people affected by the flood, and healing her soul after executing Samlan with Skeller’s dagger. Glenndon lived in the city now, a prince and a strong leader. Valeria and her charges, Ariiell and Lady Graciella, had taken up residence in the Clearing with Sharl and Jule, the youngest of Mama’s brood, mothering them and healing their own wounds.

  He supposed he could return to the Clearing and call it home. Not yet. Not so soon. Mama’s ashes, and Da’s too, had hardly had time to settle on the wild slopes below the dragon cave, mingled together and inseparable for all time . . .

  A sound, a whistle of rising wind, a crack of something close jerked him out of a light doze. He tilted and had to close his hands on the closest branch to keep from falling.

  When his bottom felt firmly anchored and his ankles locked once more, he opened his eyes fully, aware that the sun had just begun to brighten the air around him. A glow lined the eastern horizon. A sleepy bird chirped the universal questions, “Is it time yet? Do I have to wake up now?”

  “Stargods, I’m sorry. I fell asleep when I knew I shouldn’t.” A tear tried to creep out of the corner of his eye.

  The wind and the tree laughed at him.

  He looked where his hands had clenched a branch right in front of him so he’d know how to balance and shimmy down the trunk.

  Across his thighs lay a branch stripped of leaves and side twigs, no longer attached to the tree.

  Had the crack he’d heard been the tree breaking the branch free and gifting it to him?

  He took a deep breath. Then another as he checked the length of wood. His fingers memorized the knots and straightness of grain—without a single variation—where his magic might twist it. It measured about two heads longer than he was tall and fit his hand as if measured for him.

  You’ll grow into it, the tree told him. Take my gift and use it well, with honor, and for the good of many rather than the comfort of a few.

  “Thank you, mother tree.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say as he hugged his protectoress, knowing instinctively that feminine nurturing ran with her sap. “I’ll do my best to honor you.”

  Remember me during your troublesome journey. You will be sorely tried. Think of me and remember your honor.

  The tree fell silent as he scrambled down. Just before he set foot on a game trail headed back toward his rowboat, he turned and bowed to the solid old oak. Then he blew her a kiss and fairly skipped away toward the rest of his life.

  There are few tall trees across the Bay. You will have to find yourself when you are down rather than up.

  Now what did that mean?

  Robb ate half the meat and bread provided him, thought longingly of chewing the moist and sweet third apple. He’d gone so long without hearty food his stomach protested when he ate too much. He had to have a clear head and comfortable body to dredge up enough strength to dispatch that letter. And dispatch it he must. Any hope of rescue depended upon that letter getting into the right hands.

  Carefully he wrapped the remains of his meal including the tempting apple in his spare shirt and tucked them beneath his mattress. Oh yes, he now had clean shirts and underlinens and a real bed with sheets and blankets along with enough food to keep him happy and healthy. The cost of these luxuries?

  Magic.

  He had to work exhausting magic at the king’s whim. That was why he’d been allowed to sleep the night through before dispatching the letter. He needed good rest so he could begin increasing his strength again, like rebuilding slack muscles after a long fever.

  A tap on his door signaled the arrival of his escort to where he’d send the letter, now that it had been written and signed. He didn’t expect it would be Maria making the trek up the stairs again. Not if she could delegate the chore to a healthy male guard loaded with dozens of mundane weapons.

  The king himself stepped through the doorway, once the heavy wooden portal had swung inward on its sturdy iron hinges. He carried a swath of black and red cloth over his arm.

  “My previous magician required freshly laundered robes to aid his power when he dispatched letters for me,” Lokeen said without preamble. He held out the garment for Robb’s inspection. “You are taller than he. Lady Maria has seen to the alterations.” He frowned at the red border on the hem and cuffs and a stripe of the same fabric at the shoulder seams. The rest of the formal robe, cut to the same design as the blue robe Robb had worn for the transport spell, fell in light swaths of midnight black.

  “The robe is welcome, but I’d be more efficient with the spell if I had my staff,” Robb said, wrapping the robe around himself and belting it with another length of the red fabric. Richly woven wool, whisper thin. They must have a variety of sheep here with extra-long hair to achieve the fineness in the threads. The merchants of Coronnan would pay dearly for wool of this caliber.

  “Your staff is held as hostage for your good behavior,” Lokeen replied with a malicious smile. “I allowed your predecessor his staff and he deserted me.”

  “Tomorrow, when I have recovered from the dispatch spell, I could try scrying for the man. I might not have the power to converse with him, but I’d know if he lives,” Robb offered, not at all sure he could scry anything without his staff and master’s glass.

  “Perhaps. I have the letter, signed and directed. I understand that I cannot seal it until you are ready to send it.”

  “Correct. The spell must be part of the seal and the direction.”

  “Then let us begin.”

  Robb breathed deeply, partly to center his magic and organize his mind. Partly to wonder why he hadn’t been summoned to the receiving room downstairs. “’Twill be easier to send it up here,” he mused. “Higher, with more air.”

  “Your predecessor said that hot air rises. He needed the lift to connect to the dragons.”

  Robb held back a snort of derision. That bit was all bluff and had nothing to do with logic or magic, since dragons did not fly here.

  That last statement also told him a lot about his captor. King Lokeen wanted to control magic and magicians, but knew little about either.

  The only way to fully control magic and magicians was for a group of them to join together and gather dragon magic. Their combined powers then increased by orders of magnitude to overcome the transgression of any solitary rogue magician. The Circle could impose ethics and honor on all practitioners.

  Something to ponder during the long sleepless nights up here in his remote tower.

  “You will begin,” Lokeen ordered.

  “If you will not allow me my staff, may I at least have my glass?” Robb asked, only partially respectfully.

  “Glass? No one ever said anything about a glass!” Lokeen looked toward the brace of guards at the door accusingly.

  They remained stoically grim with unchanging expressions.

  “A palm-sized piece of glass forged by dragon fire and rimmed in gold,” Robb explained, circling his right palm with a finger to describe the size and shape of this most essential tool. “I can do much without a staff. There is very little I can do without a glass. If you want the letter dispatched by magic, I must have it. Surely my predecessor—since you have not named him, I can on
ly guess at his identity—used such a tool.”

  “Sam . . . Sir, your predecessor, always performed this spell in private. I cannot give you that luxury.”

  Ah ha! Lokeen had not fully named him, but Robb knew for certain that Samlan had worked for him. Logical, after Samlan left the Circle so unceremoniously, taking with him three masters, two apprentices, and a journeyman. If he’d subverted Robb’s journeyman and two apprentices, then he’d have nearly a full Circle to work his nefarious magic against Jaylor and the real Circle of Masters.

  He had to get out of here and warn his friend and mentor. Which meant he had to send that letter, with or without the glass.

  “My predecessor must have used a glass and kept it hidden from you,” Robb said. He forced himself to stand tall and straight, adamant that his glass be returned immediately.

  “If I give this tool to you to throw this spell, will you return it to my keeping until next time you need it?” Lokeen asked, eyeing him through squinted eyes, his face a mask of worried furrows.

  “I give you my word.”

  Lokeen snapped his fingers. A third guard appeared in the doorway. “Here is the key to the treasury. Fetch the glass Mage Robb needs. You will find it next to his staff on the long table near the back corner. Mind you, if you touch anything else, let alone spirit it away, I will know and have you punished.”

  The guard blanched, nodded agreement, and reluctantly took the proffered key from Lokeen’s hand.

  Stargods! What kind of punishment awaited miscreants in this benighted castle?

  CHAPTER 7

  MARIA ORDERED THE preparations the mage wanted from the base of the turret stairs. Not a single man among Lokeen’s many soldiers and guards offered so much as an assisting arm so that she could climb and oversee the proceedings in the presence of the magician.

  She’d hidden her pain too well.

  Or perhaps, politeness was not her brother-in-law’s strong suit. Lokeen considered manners and courtesy an affectation of the weak.

  Her mind took her back twenty-five years. Yolanda had just inherited the crown of Amazonia from their mother. Tall, graceful, beautiful, with thick blonde hair, and barely twenty, the new queen had glided through her ornate coronation and won the hearts of her people. From a distance.

  Maria and her deformities had been banished from the ceremonies, even though she’d organized most of them.

  In the weeks afterward, Yolanda entertained many suitors. Maria did her best to keep the most unsuitable away, especially Lokeen, who presented a smile to the young and naïve queen and a sneer of displeasure toward everyone else. But Yolanda fell in love with the man’s smile, his handsomeness, and his thoughtful manners. She began depending upon his advice and good opinion long before the actual wedding.

  There was the day when Maria penned letters for her sister.

  “Say something nice about the ambassador’s wife and daughters. You know what to say,” Yolanda said with a dismissive wave of her hand.

  “Of course. We greatly enjoyed taking a cup of chilled wine in the garden with . . .” she spoke the words as she wrote.

  “Forget that!” Lokeen roared from the doorway. “He’s only an ambassador from a minor city-state, not even a neighbor. Just order him to do what you want. Flattery weakens your position.” He turned his attention to the woman, his betrothed, and changed his expression from angry disapproval to ingratiating charm. “You look lovely, my dear, as always. But that pale pink is not the best color for your gown. You need stronger and bolder colors to reflect your position as queen of the strongest and largest of the city-states.”

  “Excuse me, sir.” Maria put down her quill pen and rose from her stool. “You are not yet the queen’s consort. It is not your place to criticize her dress. She wears soft colors as a reflection of her virginal status . . .”

  “Enough!” he shouted, emphasizing his words with a vigorous backhand across Maria’s face.

  She lost her balance, precarious at best, stumbled over her stool, wrenched her knee and landed heavily on the stone floor. Her twisted body sent lances of pain in all directions. She couldn’t move. Her breathing sounded ragged to her own ears.

  “Get up and fetch the queen a better gown,” Lokeen ordered.

  “Majesty,” Maria pleaded to her sister, holding up a hand, needing assistance to get to her feet.

  Yolanda laughed.

  Ever afterward, Maria’s hip and knee protested while climbing stairs.

  Even then Lokeen had feared showing any sign of weakness, lest it give his enemies a point of leverage to remove him from his purloined throne.

  A throne he should have relinquished to the nearest eligible female relative of his deceased wife and whichever male she chose as a consort.

  Maria was not eligible because of her deformities. Family and courtiers alike had beaten that concept into her from the day she was born. She did not want the responsibility or power. That belonged to stronger individuals; stronger in both mind and body.

  At last the sergeant of the guard, Young Frederico—his father, Senior Frederico had held the position before him—emerged from the cellar door that led to the royal treasury (a different wing with a separate entrance from the dungeons). He cradled in both hands an object covered in costly blue silk, and stepped gingerly as if afraid of tripping and breaking the precious and fragile artifact.

  Maria recognized the cloth. The previous mage had taken it from the current mage when he arrived along with the staff. Then Sir demanded that Maria open the treasury—she had one of the two keys, Lokeen had stolen the other from his wife, the other rightful keeper—and hide the magical tools there. “Two more precious items resting among the ancient religious artifacts as well as the gold and silver to run the kingdom,” he’d said. “But unlike the rest of the treasury, you, Lady Maria, must never, ever, under any circumstances touch either the glass or the staff with a bare hand. It will burn you to the bone.”

  The ancient Spearhead of Destiny was like that. No male could touch it unless it was given to him by the woman in charge of it. She hadn’t mentioned the Spearhead to Sir. He didn’t need to know about it. Neither did Lokeen.

  “I will take that to the magician,” Maria said firmly to Young Frederico.

  He hesitated.

  “Would you carry the Spearhead of Destiny into battle against the Krakatrice without me giving it to you with a blessing?”

  He held out his cupped hands and bowed his head to her authority and the conclusion that this artifact fell into the same revered class as the Spearhead of Destiny.

  She folded the silk more closely around the round treasure—such a wonderful texture in silk; like free-flowing water over a parched hand—and took the precious object from him. Then she looked up the long and winding stair. Practicality won out over awe, and she pocketed the round glass with a gold rim so that she had two free hands to clutch the railing.

  Young Frederico must have more intelligence than his underlings, for he stepped up beside her and held out his arm, silently, politely looking off into the distance, not acknowledging her weakness, just accepting it. Just as the mage Robb had done yesterday. Had Frederico witnessed the mage’s behavior and mimicked it?

  “How fares your sister, Frella?” Maria asked.

  “Well enough,” he replied flatly.

  “Only ‘well enough’? I’d hoped for better for her.”

  “She works at the stables outside the city walls. She’s happy working with steeds day and night. But they aren’t of the quality in the royal stables,” he said, almost as if reluctant to speak of his sister out loud.

  “Please send her my greetings and let her know I am pleased so many of the women warriors have found employment in the city since . . . the king dismissed them from palace duties.”

  “I’m certain she will appreciate your concern.” He ducked his head and allowed a tiny smile to tip the corners of his mouth upward.

  With his arm and the railing balancing her steps, a
nd moving slowly, with dignity, as one should in a royal procession, she mounted the stairs without stopping for breath or to ease her pain. Frederico held open the door to the turret cell with deference. Someone had taught him some manners after all.

  Maria liked this new order—a renewed order of respect for her. Something she hadn’t seen since her sister, the queen, had danced through life happy and healthy. Before the birth of her first son which had nearly killed her. The second son had made her an invalid.

  She found Lokeen pacing the circular confines of the room. Robb sat on a high stool before the window that overlooked the harbor and the ocean beyond, opposite the courtyard that looked only upon the dungeon cells where Lokeen kept his pet Krakatrice, eyes closed, breathing deeply, and conserving his strength for the work to come.

  He’d eaten well, bathed, and shaved. A very handsome man had emerged from the layers of grime and beard. Maria’s heart beat a little faster.

  She tamped down on her longing and cleared her head. She needed to observe the spell closely, learn how it was done, so that perhaps she could perform it herself in the future. Surely, if Coronnan had so many magicians that they filled a University with practitioners, then the myth that only people born with a special talent could work magic was just a myth. What people needed was not talent but training.

  “We have brought you a bowl of clear water, an oil candle, a flight feather from a sea bird that we left living, a gold coin from Coronnan, and your glass,” she announced as she placed the silk-enshrouded glass on the table along with the other symbolic materials.

  Robb exhaled deeply and nodded. But he did not move from his place.

  “Get to it, man!” Lokeen shouted.

  Robb took another deep breath, held it on a long count and exhaled it again before turning to face his captor. A strange glaze covered his eyes as if he looked far away beyond the limits of the walls, further than the ocean horizon, and deep within himself at the same time.

  “I am ready.” His voice echoed deeply, as if it came from another body, one that was not here. Up in the skies perhaps. Or deep on the ocean bottom.