The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus)

by Irene Radford

  “Where are you going, Souska?” Lily called after her. She stood in the doorway, holding onto the frame as though she didn’t have enough strength to follow.

  “I’m going to call a dragon.”

  Robb stumbled heavily on the upslant of the dungeon corridor. If he took one more step, he thought he might vomit, or pass out from exhaustion.

  Lokeen had not believed him when he said he could do nothing more after throwing the spell to find Samlan. He’d barely had the strength to eat, let alone ride another half day into the city.

  Now he knew why scrying into the past was considered a spell of last resort. If looking at events only a few moons away from the present cost him this much strength, what would peering at history do to a magician?

  He wondered that those commissioned with solving crimes ever tried it. They could see the truth but they might not recover enough to tell others what they’d conjured.

  At this moment, Robb didn’t care if he lived or died. He just knew he could stand no longer.

  His guards threw him into the nearest cell, closer to the stairs and as far away from the Krakatrice pen as possible. His window, high up on the outside wall of the cell was small, barely an air opening. He didn’t care. He probably wouldn’t live long enough to breathe the freshness of the back courtyard anyway.

  He landed on a pallet that smelled fresh, rolled onto his back, and let blackness creep over him.

  A sound disturbed him. The light had shifted. He must have slept several hours. Not enough. He groaned as he rolled to his side, every muscle and joint in his body protesting the movement.

  “Can you sit?” a woman asked. Not a harsh voice, nor the shy whisper of Maria.

  “Who?”

  “I’m Gerta. Maria sent me with broth and bread.”

  He cracked one eye open to see a tall silhouette standing beside him. She gave the impression of long, raw muscle, not an ounce of fat on her body. She wore a version of the palace guard uniform: black trews and tunic with red piping at the collar, cuff, and down the outside leg seam, and a red sash around her waist. He thought the sash might hide pockets and sheaths for weapons. Even if she hadn’t discarded weapons before entering the cell—as all of the male guards did—he didn’t have the mental or physical strength to steal one. He doubted he’d best this woman in a wrestling match even in his prime.

  “Can you sit?” she asked again, patient and withdrawn, showing no concern.

  “With help,” he choked out.

  She knelt, placing a fragrant tray on the floor as she thrust one well-muscled arm beneath his shoulders and grabbed his left arm above the elbow with the other. He didn’t add much help to maneuvering him up enough to lean against the wall, panting from the effort of moving at all.

  “Must I feed you too?” Now impatience worked its way into her voice.

  “Give me a moment to breathe.”

  “You’ve had three hours.”

  “I need about forty-five more.”

  “You don’t have it.” She thrust a morsel of bread into his mouth.

  It tasted like . . . the aftermath of the best sex ever, sweet, aromatic, light but full of seeds and texture.

  “Don’t swallow it whole, you’ll be sick. Take time to chew.”

  He obeyed, savoring the wonder of fresh-baked bread while he tried to remember how to swallow. That accomplished, she held a bowl of warm liquid to his lips, salty, rich broth. He swished it around his mouth letting some of the moisture penetrate before forcing himself to swallow. It came easier this time, like an old skill he hadn’t practiced in a long, long time.

  More broth, more bread. By the third dose of each he was able to hold the bowl himself.

  “Finish it, then sleep a bit more. Friends will come to your window at midnight.”

  Only the click of the latch on the outside of the door and the presence of more of his meal told him he hadn’t dreamed her. She reminded him a lot of his Maigret when they were young and carefree, wandering the world without plan.

  “Maggie, I miss you.” He fell asleep and dreamed of his wife.

  Lukan paced the opulent suite Lady Maria had assigned Skeller. Plenty of room for the bard and Lukan and Chess to share. Lukan had appropriated the valet’s closet—an alcove with a normal-sized bed and built-in cupboards for his own meager possessions and a full wardrobe for the prince’s. And he had a door to close for privacy. His parents’ bedroom back home was smaller.

  Chess found another closet on the other side of the master bedroom for his own use. That left Skeller alone in the center room with a bed big enough to sleep all three of them, and a couple more. He had to use a set of three portable steps to climb onto the down mattress. No thank you! Lukan thought to himself.

  At the moment, all three of them waited in the front room or parlor. Waited for what, Lukan didn’t know.

  Then he wondered if Glenndon had a similar suite at the palace in Coronnan City. He didn’t envy his older brother the lack of privacy, or the necessity of maintaining a large wardrobe, or . . . much of anything at this moment.

  At least this suite was up, on the third story. Lukan really wanted to find a way to the top of the massive tower, to stand outside and let the wind wash him clean of the confining toxins of living in a city. He hadn’t been higher than the two-story rooftop of the blacksmith shop since leaving the ship. The entire city seemed to move onto their flat roofs the moment the sun touched the horizon in summer. He understood the need and liked the idea. A lot.

  “What are we waiting for?” Chess finally asked.

  Skeller looked up from tuning his harp, something he did a lot, especially to fill idle hours, a familiar ritual to ease his thought process. If he were truly troubled, he’d be plucking random chords from the instrument. “Aunt Maria said we must stay here until summoned. I presume she’s waiting for the king to find out we’re here.”

  “If the population of this castle is anything like the University, someone informed him before he dismounted in the courtyard,” Lukan muttered. He snapped his fingers to light a candle against the growing darkness. Nothing happened. He tried again. This was a truly simple spell, one of the first taught to new apprentices.

  He tried a third time. Not even smoke left his fingertips. In frustration he slapped the candle and its pewter holder with the back of his hand.

  “I’ve heard rumors that there is something in the castle that prohibits magic of any kind,” Chess offered meekly.

  “Then how did my father dispatch letters to me?” Skeller asked.

  “You’ll have to ask him yourself,” Gerta said, appearing at the door. She closed the door behind her and leaned heavily against the solid barrier. With her eyes closed, she breathed deeply and her posture relaxed.

  “You look different in uniform,” Lukan said in sympathy. He wouldn’t like the stiff fabric of her tunic and trews, or the red piping that had to lie in straight lines no matter how weary she was.

  “I’d forgotten how tense everyone is, how wary. No one trusts anyone else, and I hate it. But Lady Maria needs me to protect her and to reach out to the other women soldiers and rebuild our unit.” She heaved a big sigh and lurched straight once more. “His Majesty has demanded you present yourself and explain your unannounced return, Your Highness,” she addressed Skeller formally.

  “And so the dance begins,” he muttered. Reluctantly he slipped the harp into her case, staring at it a long time.

  “I don’t think the king will appreciate your bringing the harp to a formal audience,” Gerta said.

  “Then bring her I must.” Skeller fitted his arms through the straps and turned to face the door, grim determination firming his jaw. “And I do believe I shall play a spritely dance for him. He hates dancing.”

  Lukan groaned. He’d played similar games with his father and masters, doing his best to unsettle and challenge them because . . . well, because he could.

  Somehow, he sensed that Skeller played a much more dangerous game. The scent of
fear still permeated the city.

  “Um . . . Lukan, you can’t bring your staff,” Gerta said, staring straight into his eyes with deadly determination.

  CHAPTER 25

  “I AM A magician. My staff stays with me,” Lukan insisted, clutching the precious instrument with pride.

  “Precisely. It brands you as a magician. Lokeen already has one magician in his dungeon. He’ll throw you and Chess there as well at the first whiff of magic. And believe me, you do not want to be a prisoner in his dungeon,” she returned, standing squarely in front of him. “The Great Mother only knows why he hasn’t imprisoned Princess Rejiia. She reeks of magic, and I have no talent for recognizing it!”

  “Rejiia’s magic is designed to cast a veil over the eyes of her victims so that they see only her allure and not her purpose. She will present obstacles if she recognizes us.” Lukan met Gerta’s gaze, realizing once again that he topped her by only an inch, and he was headed toward being as tall as his father and brother. Her muscles, honed by years of working the forge, and weapons training before that, probably gave her strength well beyond his, and he couldn’t work any magic within the castle to compensate for the difference.

  “If I may offer a compromise?” Skeller asked. A half smile played around his mouth, as if he knew something they didn’t and found it amusing.

  “Such as?” Lukan and Gerta replied together, still staring at each other and still snarling.

  “Gerta, will you lend me your dagger? I’d use mine, but then I’d have no weapon at all and I know you have at least a dozen others,” Skeller continued. He sauntered over to the bed, threw off the coverlet and stripped the top sheet from the mattress.

  “What for?” she demanded, finally breaking eye contact with Lukan.

  “An old trick used by scallywags and scoundrels on the caravan circuit.” He attacked the sheet with his knife, tearing off several long strips of fabric, each about as wide as his palm.

  Cautiously, Gerta drew her long knife from its sheath.

  “No, the whole thing, sheath too, but not the belt.”

  She unbuckled the belt and slid the sheath’s loop along its length until it was free, and then handed it to him.

  Quickly, Skeller wrapped one strip of fine linen—so fine Lukan had thought it silk at first—around and around the sheath until all but the very tip of the pommel was covered. “Lukan, your arm?”

  Lukan proffered his right arm, the one that wasn’t holding his staff.

  “Your left arm. You want the right free for defending yourself, or whatever.”

  Lukan shifted his grip on the staff from left to right and stuck out his arm. Skeller placed the wrapped dagger on the outside of his forearm so that the pommel rested just above the elbow and bound it in place with a few light wraps at wrist and middle arm. The he returned the staff to the crook of Lukan’s elbow and wrapped some more.

  “This is very awkward,” Lukan complained.

  “It looks like a crutch,” Chess offered.

  “Exactly,” Skeller confirmed. “Now, a few sharp bits of gravel, I keep on hand for throwing in the eyes of attackers, wrapped in more linen and bound to your bent knee.” He stooped to finish his disguise.

  “That’s going to hurt like . . . an unlanced boil,” Gerta said.

  “Only if he straightens the leg. Limp a lot, Lukan. It makes the crutch more plausible. You are now a homeless cripple and not worth noticing. I doubt even Rejiia will recognize you.”

  Chess began giggling.

  “What?” Lukan said a little too loudly. He liked the idea of a disguise, but this . . . this was humiliating.

  “You need an eye patch. Then you’ll look even more helpless.”

  “He’s right,” Gerta agreed.

  Skeller dug in his pack, the one he hadn’t bothered unpacking because the wardrobe held more of what he’d need in the castle than his wandering essentials. “I really like this shirt. But it’s so threadbare with ingrained dirt Aunt Maria won’t let me wear it in her presence.” Grimly he ripped the hem off the garment and tied it diagonally around Lukan’s head so that his left eye was covered.

  “I can still see daylight and some outlines through it,” Lukan said.

  “Good. Then you aren’t as blind as people will think and you can still defend yourself with the staff on that side.”

  Lukan experimented with lashing to the left and behind with the staff. He had control.

  “And you, Gerta, can extract the dagger if you must just by pulling on the pommel. But leave it in there as long as possible, not only to hide just how well armed we are, but to give the arm brace a bit more stability.” Skeller pulled the dagger free of its double sheath about an inch to demonstrate.

  “I guess we’re ready then,” Chess said. He sounded disappointed that he didn’t have a weapon or a disguise.

  “Not quite yet.” Skeller returned to his pack and withdrew a thick canvas sack smaller than his palm with a tight drawstring. “Pepper powder. A pinch blown into the eyes is guaranteed to temporarily blind anyone getting too close.”

  Chess smiled hugely. And they trooped out the door, Lukan trailing behind as he discovered just how much star gravel on the back of his knee hurt.

  “You will not punish the boy!” Maria screamed at her brother-in-law. She didn’t know where she found the courage to defy him.

  “My son is no longer a boy. He must take responsibility for his actions,” King Lokeen said lazily, lounging in his throne, nibbling on honey-dipped walnuts imported from Coronnan.

  “He spent some time exploring the world, furthering his education. You dispatched letters to him, he returned. He has proven himself responsible and loyal,” Maria argued.

  “I have indeed returned,” Toskellar drawled from the doorway, leaning on the frame indolently. He looked as lazy and uninterested in the mob of courtiers gathered to watch the show of discipline that might end in bloodshed as he had when a rebellious teenager.

  But in the years since, Maria had learned much about observing posture and the way a man’s gaze flitted here and there, weighing, assessing. Within three flicks of his eyelids, she knew that her beloved nephew had noted every means of escape, including some she might not consider.

  “Introduce me to your friends, son,” Lokeen demanded. He scowled as Gerta took a place next to Maria, half a step behind her left shoulder.

  “Unnecessary. Waifs I encountered on the road and brought along for companionship.” Toskellar lurched upright from his slouch. He retained the lazy, arrogant posture.

  “Necessary,” Lokeen spat. “If they leech hospitality from me, then I will know them.”

  Maria took one painful step forward and spread her hands, palm up in an image of abject innocence. “A homeless teenager, a crippled beggar, and a female warrior who was exiled from this place two years ago; of what possible use can they be?”

  “You’d be surprised.” Lokeen glared at her.

  “Why did you expend a great deal of money and energy to pay a magician to summon me home?” Still looking indolent and only mildly curious, Skeller examined his fingernails rather than look his father in the eye.

  “I have found you a bride. We can hold the ceremony in a matter of weeks. Get her pregnant with a daughter, then you will be free to wander the world again and I shall continue as regent for your queen.”

  “No,” said a tall, black-haired woman emerging from behind Lokeen.

  All the little murmurings and shuffling of a crowded room grew silent.

  Toskellar and his crippled companion—who hadn’t been crippled a few hours ago—started and reached for weapons. Gerta was only a heartbeat behind in placing one large, callused hand on her sword grip and the other beneath Maria’s elbow to assist in their escape.

  Lukan stood almost frozen in place, gaze glued to Rejiia and the servants who lingered behind her. How could he look anywhere but at her magnificent beauty?

  He blinked and swallowed, knowing full well that she cast a magical a
llure around her. From the stillness around him, he suspected most of the men in the room had also fallen victim to her enchantment.

  (Knowledge is power.) The dragon voice in the back of his head crept around the edges of his need to move closer to Rejiia, touch her, kiss her, make her his own. He gripped his staff with his right hand, in an awkward cross-arm pose. He needed his essential tool in his hand, not cradled in the crook of his offside elbow.

  The staff tingled in his hand. Knowledge is power. I know what she’s doing, therefore I can break her spell. Another blink and a deep swallow and his eyes cleared. No longer did he gaze lustfully through a veil of softer colors and misty emotions. The sharp contrasts and straight lines of real vision jarred him the rest of the way back into control of his mind and body. I am stronger than she. She can only build upon existing lust. I know her for what she is and therefore have no lust, so her spell upon me is weak. I can break it.

  But he didn’t want to let her know that. So he modified his expression and continued to follow her movements with his eyes.

  King Lokeen almost drooled.

  Lady Maria and Gerta frowned. Good. They were immune, no lust or admiration to build the spell upon. For some reason Lukan couldn’t imagine, the magic bubble of enticement extended to the other court ladies in the room, but not to these two. Rejiia dismissed them as unimportant.

  Bad mistake.

  Gerta inched her long sword half-free of its sheath. “Who are you and why are you here?” she demanded.

  A tall man wearing the house colors of black with red trim and a gold sash from right shoulder to left hip stepped between Rejiia and Gerta. He too drew his sword an equal length from its sheath.

  Geon melted away and reappeared on the opposite side of the room.

  Lukan now had enemies on two fronts. He poked Chess with the tip of his staff, urging him to turn around and take note.

  The newcomer must be the captain of the guard, with that gold sash, the only person normally allowed to bear arms in the presence of the king. Gerta got away with her own weapons because she captained Lady Maria’s guard. In the old days she would have taken precedence over any male in the household, including the king.