Souska bit back a fearful retort and forced her feet to move forward, one step at a time, only six more of them until she was close enough to touch the huge beast in front of her.
“May I pet you first?” Souska asked.
(Of course.)
She reached out tentative fingers until the soft fur tickled her. She smiled. “You are as soft as a cat.”
Another chuckle from Shayla in the back of her head gave Souska the courage to touch her palm flat and feel the sturdy hide beneath her hand.
(I am strong. I will not fail you.)
“I know that.” Then Souska closed her eyes, gulped back her reluctance to encounter something new, and threw her entire body into mounting. She had to stretch her legs longer and wider than she thought possible and strain her shoulders to pull herself upward, but eventually she sat on Krystaal’s back between two sharp horns, both hands clasped around the front one, loving the hard, smooth texture that promised not to break. “Stronger than a magician’s staff, and warm, but bright as . . . as a star against a velvet black sky!”
(Which is why my name is Krystaal.) Without further ado, the dragon took six running steps across the wide opening in the forest, pumping her long wings, and lifted eagerly into the sky, nose pointed into the wind.
Dragon delight infused Souska even as she clenched tighter with hands and knees to keep from falling off. “I’m riding a dragon,” she said. “I’m riding a dragon!”
CHAPTER 19
BEFORE THE SUN rose, Scurry and Badger awakened Robb and rushed him through a quick wash and gulp of breakfast. Then they climbed back on the steeds. Robb groaned, not certain if the pain in his back was worse than in his thighs, or than the blistering heat and sun glare. Scurry handed him a straw hat with a wide brim, the kind farmers wore when in the fields all day. The hat’s shade instantly cooled his face and made the rest of him more comfortable. But he still hurt from the unaccustomed stretch and jostle to his entire body.
Lokeen rode quietly, yesterday’s affability subdued. Robb didn’t know what had changed with the king, only that this quieter man seemed more dangerous than the laughing conversationalist.
The road meandered east by northeast into the sunrise and alongside a deep river that grew narrower and more rapid with every turn. The road shifted from a slight upward incline to a steeper track. On the other side of the river, the land rose sharply in sheer cliffs punctuated by waterfalls. Above the ridgeline rose more rounded peaks. Behind them he caught an occasional glimpse of a sharp point covered in snow.
“Will we be climbing those mountains?” Robb asked Badger as the line of riders shifted from two abreast to three and back to one.
“Pass climbs high but cuts through the range,” Badger said quietly. A brief shake of his head indicated that Robb should ask no more questions about their journey, or their destination.
A ley line beckoned to him from across the river, where it ran halfway up the cliff. An odd place for it. He’d never seen a line anywhere but beneath his feet, even in the uplifts of the mountains. This one spoke of strange upheavals in the landscape. He didn’t care as long as one of its feeder lines gave him a bit of power. He drank it in eagerly, letting it replenish his starving body and mind.
At noon, they changed mounts at a way station, to shorter and sturdier beasts with shaggy coats and a blessedly smoother, plodding gait. Broad pastures stretched quite a way up the slopes. Small specks of movement—grazing steeds—indicated the extreme distance before the land reached for the skies again. The grass was thicker here than anywhere along the road. Robb searched and found a line of trees that bordered a small river that fed into the bigger one they followed. Everything else looked dusty, green fading to brown.
His lungs strained to catch enough of the thin air. A bit of dragon magic filtered into him with each labored breath. He began to feel almost normal and wondered where the dragon was that had left him this gift.
A little farther along the road they passed over a stone bridge single file. Beneath it, the lesser river fell over a cliff into the greater expanse of water. He estimated that they’d climbed to near the peak of the pass.
For another hour they climbed. The bridges in this stretch all spanned dry ravines. A few spiny plants struggled to grow between tumbled rocks along the banks. They’d not see much water until deep winter, when the storms came fast and furious toward the coast and roared through the pass like a wild beast on a rampage. He wondered how deep the water would run in these narrow breaks.
Thunder boomed ahead of them, resonating on Robb’s back teeth, without a sign of a cloud in the sky. Mist rose high, swirling in the afternoon breeze, creating a wind of its own and cooling the tired travelers. Then he saw it, on the main river, stretching into a wide curved cliff, a fifty-foot drop—as if the Stargods had taken a cleaver to the rock and cut away the bottom portion. A massive white sheet of water pelted down that sheer precipice, bouncing and roaring among the tumbled rocks at the bottom. A lot of water in the dry season; this must be a major drainage from deep in the interior. When rain swelled all the creeks and tributaries, the falls would spill over the riverbanks and saturate the land for hundreds of feet to each side.
He wanted to stop and stare in awe at the marvel. Nowhere in Coronnan did such a waterfall grace the land. Scrurry’s steed nudged his own to move forward into the parched and glaring desert beyond. How could Lokeen even think about turning such a magnificent landscape into a waterless wasteland? For that was what the Krakatrice would do.
The sun had just touched the western horizon when the land leveled out, along with the river. A light breeze sprang up, cooling sweat and relieving tired men and beasts. And then he spotted a cluster of buildings forming three sides of a square. Men and women with broad hats and stooped backs moved listlessly to herd a lowing cow toward the long, low building marking the southern boundary of the compound.
Within seconds of the cow’s disappearance into the shadows, Robb smelled the coppery scent of fresh blood and the foulness of loosened bowels. The three people who had led the cow in came running out, slamming the plank door shut and dropping the crossbar with a loud thunk.
But not before the stench of rotten magic overwhelmed his senses and robbed him of the tendrils of magic he’d been gathering all day.
Every person moved rapidly away from the charnel house.
“Ah, we have arrived at feeding time!” Lokeen exclaimed. Animation creased his face once more after a day of sullen silence. “Such a treat to know that my pets thrive here at the farm.”
“Do the followers of Helvess form permanent bonds?” I ask the two women who help me bathe.
“We are encouraged to do so,” the shorter one whispers. The taller and more dominant woman pats her shoulder affectionately. The two exchange a fond gaze for so long I could almost believe they forget me and their duties.
“But there are others who have not yet found their lifemate and actively seek them,” the slighter woman adds.
I wonder if she regrets her current partner and allows my hand to brush her body as she helps me into the sunken pool. The tiles are the soothing green of a shallow sea, edged in the cream of wave-froth when it breaks upon a shore. The young woman blushes deeply but does not avert her eyes from my body. Her partner firms her grip on a slender shoulder and jerks her away from water’s edge.
I sigh deeply as I rest upon a wide ledge that allows my legs to dangle freely in the constantly moving water while the surface laps sensuously upon my breasts, just barely covering the dusky tips.
“Are we alone here?” I ask, feigning innocence. “Bette and Geon need care after our long journey. I am not used to being separated from them.”
“Your two servants are cared for in another part of the temple,” the big woman says. She pushes her partner out the door, jealousy written all over her face. “They will find comfort among our numbers. Their attendants have not yet found partners.”
“Geon has come to find one in partic
ular,” I say, eyeing the woman beneath lowered lashes. “The one known as Faelle.”
“The king’s son has not yet bonded, but he is a highly respected healer and does not aid in baths. He turns his talent toward helping the injured recover their mobility and return to the outside as useful workers instead of beggars.”
“And you?”
“Bonding is a sacred ritual among us. It affirms that we are like outsiders; we seek mates and family. We have talents and skills and offer no threat to them. Promiscuity only confirms outsiders’ mistaken belief that we are immoral and should be eliminated from normal society by death or banishment.” She turns her back on me and fetches towels and soap from a cupboard in the big watery room.
Disappointed, I am not so eager to linger here. There are things I must do, people I must see, and appointments I must make. I wonder if Faelle does indeed have the ear of the king, or if I must move closer to the castle. An inn, perhaps? These people are too quiet, unwilling to draw notice to themselves or their way of life.
And yet I sense a deep undercurrent of anger and hurt in the few I have met. They have all been shunned, ostracized, possibly tortured for their life choices, much as magician children are treated by ignorant villagers when their talents awaken. I can use their anger. If only they will let me. Is it possible that they all try to suppress that anger with good works in nursing the sick and dying? The emotions are there, even if hidden.
I need only a short time with Faelle, to convince him that I can be an advocate for him and the followers of Helvess with the king his father. I think I need to invent a variation of their gentle goddess that is more to the liking of me and my coven. I must convince them that their goddess is not the true one. Yes, I like that. I am now the leader of my own religion. I must learn to swear by the fearsome Helvess, who never existed, instead of the great Simeon. He was only a man. A wonderfully creative man, but still human and mortal.
“I don’t know this part of the city,” Skeller said quietly, turning in a circle, gaze staying level with ground-floor doorways.
“How could you have grown up in this city and not have learned all the alleys, nooks, and crannies?” Lukan asked in disgust. “King Darville’s exploits as a boy are legendary. He and my father were the terror of the marketplace and explored each and every island, even the ones they had to swim to!”
A strange warmth spread through Lukan as he revived the tale. He’d known his father was a living legend and always resented it—resented that he’d never live up to it. Now he wanted to brag about it.
“I had not the freedom,” Skeller said flatly. His expression grew stony, devoid of emotion and animation. And the music left his words.
Lukan gave him silence. He’d speak when he needed to.
“My mother was always ill. Especially after Faelle was born. She kept us close. Fa . . . the king didn’t care about us. We were not girls, and he’d not be able to rule through us after Mother died.”
“That sounds so strange,” Lukan admitted. “In Coronnan we almost had a civil war because Darville has only daughters.”
“What of your brother Glenndon?”
“Half brother and born on the wrong side of the marriage vows.” Disgust roiled through Lukan’s gut, then evaporated. He couldn’t hold on to it, nurture it, and let it dominate him. He had more important things to worry about now. “The king acknowledged Glenndon and legitimatized him, but he still had to bring Ariiell’s son to court as second heir to pacify some of his lords.”
“The lords,” Skeller mused about that. “Our royal families rule absolutely within their city-states. They appoint advisers—that’s how Samlan came to have influence over him—but the nobles report to no one.”
“That’s dangerous,” Lukan mused.
“Very dangerous,” a new voice said.
Lukan whirled to face a young man, dressed all in red, just stepping free of a residential doorway. All of his features, in height, weight, and coloring echoed Skeller. Except the pleasant voice carried no music. They could be twins.
“Faelle!” Skeller exclaimed and threw his arms around his younger brother.
“Skeller. I heard you’d returned and hoped to see you before you succumbed to Father.” Faelle held his brother at arm’s length. The whiteness of his knuckles betrayed the fierceness of his grip.
“Are you well, little brother?”
That phrase echoed in Lukan’s mind. Glenndon had used it frequently, though only eleven moons and only an inch or two separated them. The love between these two brothers was obvious in their assessing gazes. Would Lukan ever be able to hug Glenndon again in love with no shade of anger between them?
“I fare well. Life in the Temple suits me. The people accept my gifts, though Father never will.” He shifted a little to the side to show the leather satchel slung across his shoulders. A painted sigil in the oldest of languages—it looked like a snake climbing a magician’s staff—proclaimed him a healer. “But how are you? I see pain behind your eyes. Why have you returned?”
Skeller drew a deep breath. “My hurts are of the heart, not of my body. I came home to settle matters with the king. Only then can I return to my love, my friends, my new home across the sea.”
Faelle closed his eyes and nodded. After a moment his face cleared of emotion. “So be it. Do you have shelter?”
“Yes, with the blacksmith,” Lukan said. From the way Skeller’s throat apple bobbed, he guessed his friend tried to swallow strong emotions and couldn’t get words out for the moment.
“Send for me if you need me,” Faelle said, dropping his grip on his brother. “Most everyone in the city knows my name and where to find me.” He took a step backward in preparation for leaving.
“Faelle, Master Healer” Lukan addressed him. “Be warned. There is a woman sheltering in the Temple who is not as she seems.”
“Ah, yes, the Lady Rejiia. We suspect her motives do not align with ours. But until she violates our hospitality we are obligated to give her respite.” He half-bowed and faded into the shadows of an adjacent alley.
A second shadow, much taller and thinner, followed him. Geon again. He seemed to be everywhere in the city. At least everywhere Lukan was.
Skeller surreptitiously wiped tears from his eyes.
Lukan looked upward and away for landmarks above the doorways while he gave his friend a few moments of privacy. He’d learned to look up when living in the mountains. Landmarks were always up, not in front of him. He spotted the castle tower far to his left. That meant they were facing the port, but outside the silent boundary.
He picked up their previous conversation, as much to hear his own voice as from interest in the topic. “Maybe because your countries are only as big as the city and supporting farmland, you don’t give political power to any but the king. We have many provinces with lords looking to one king, the first among equals. Now. Long ago we had all twelve provinces constantly at war with each other, every lord trying to gain power over the others.”
He almost felt Skeller shift away from his deep emotions regarding his brother.
“They still are vying for power inside and outside the system,” Skeller whispered, as if that were a great secret. “Like Laislac and his alliance with Lokeen.”
“We caught and deposed him before he could do any true damage. The rest of our lords now argue in the council chamber, not on the battlefield, where people die.”
“Not something I can do anything about,” Skeller shrugged.
Because you ran away rather than fight for what is right—and yours. Lukan had to bite his tongue to keep the words at bay.
“So how do we find our way out of here?” Skeller asked, still looking blindly straight ahead or at the cobbles in the road. He hunted the shadows for signs of movement, but Geon had gone, following Faelle.
“We ask someone who knows,” Lukan replied. Now he lowered his eyes to street level. A small, open well, surrounded by stones stacked to waist level, sat in the middle of the n
ext intersection. The houses and shops opened up to give the well space rather than crowding tightly toward the corners as he saw other streets doing. An old woman, bent at the shoulders, lifted a jug from atop her head and dipped it into the water.
“Let me help you with that, grandmother,” Lukan said, dashing to her side.
Gratefully she relinquished her hold on the fired clay jug with intricate designs painted around the wide shoulder of the vessel.
Lukan had noted similar bright decorations around doorways and . . . and replicated in colorful tiles set into the middle of intersections. Signs, identifiers, as individual as trees. They told people where they stood and where the road led, if only one knew how to read them.
“Bless you, boy,” the woman whispered, her voice old and worn rather than silent out of fear like those in the market.
“May I carry this to your home for you?” he returned in the same tone, letting bits and pieces of fear intrude.
“I can manage if you’ll just lift the jug for me. But I thank you.”
Lukan raised the jug with little effort and helped her balance it atop her head. “Thank you again. May the Great Mother bless you with many daughters.” She wandered off down one of the narrow streets.
He noted that the floral design of red and yellow on her jug matched the tiles at the intersection, and the painting around the doorways of each dwelling on the street, each with progressively fewer flowers in the paintings. Ah, more flowers, closer to the well, and thus more desirable.
“You sound like a native. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were musician trained,” Skeller said.
Lukan shrugged. “I was trained to listen and observe. Same as you. Mama sang all the time. I learned to hear her moods in how she held a note.”
“There’s hope for you yet. Now tell me what you heard and observed so we can find our way back to the blacksmith shop.” He started off down the street at a right angle to the old woman.
The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) Page 15
