He stopped in the doorway, needing permission to enter, though Marcus was never one to stand on ceremony, unlike his former partner Robb.
“I may have a general location for Robb, his three journeymen, and two apprentices,” Marcus said, waving Jaylor closer to his desk where he peered through a large master’s glass, a smooth slice of clear glass in a gold frame. From a distance, and without joining the other man’s spell through physical contact and a sharing of talent, he saw only a candle flame shimmering behind the glass.
But Marcus had no candle or scrying bowl before him.
“Thank the Stargods they didn’t get lost in the void during a hasty transport!” Jaylor shouted, leaning over Marcus with hands on the desk and his chin atop the younger man’s head—a position he often took when teaching apprentices, including Marcus and Robb when they were much younger.
“What do you see?” Jaylor asked more quietly. “Aside from the flame.”
“Dirt and stone, a sense of confinement. Solitude. Only a single candle for company, a new one each day, brought with a meal.”
“Prison,” Jaylor said on a sigh. “Where? Who could kidnap a master in the middle of a transport spell?”
“Another master,” Marcus returned. “A rogue.”
“Or an exiled and disgruntled master.”
“Neither Samlan nor any of his followers had enough skill to do that.”
“On that I agree. But if they are somewhere they can still gather dragon magic, they could, with patience, possibly join together and grab one of the journeymen without any finesse. They were all linked so that they’d arrive at the same point at the same time.” Jaylor began pacing, mulling over possibilities. He’d never thought of kidnapping a person out of transport. Never needed to. Or wanted to. Transports were dangerous enough without interference.
He’d been lost in the void once. Lost in the wonder of having no body to feel with, no eyes to see with. Only his mind perceived the dozens of bright, pulsing umbilicals of life. Each one carried the color of a person’s essence. He’d seen his own blue and red braid for the first time, a pattern echoed in the twists of his staff. Brevelan’s green, yellow, and bronze had coiled around him with love and concern. King, then-Prince, Darville’s green and gold had twined through both of them. Somehow, the love the three of them shared had reached through the void to find him and brought him back to reality.
He didn’t know if the bonds of love and friendship among Robb, his wife Maigret, Marcus, and his wife Vareena were strong enough to snatch Robb back.
“How do we find the location of his prison?” Jaylor asked, before he lost his thoughts in an endless loop of memories and despair.
“I don’t know,” Marcus replied softly. “I’ve tried everything I could think of, and this is the first glimmer of success in three months.”
A hesitant knock on the door roused them from sinking into depression. “Yes?” they both answered at the same time.
Heat flushed Jaylor’s cheeks, and he deferred to Marcus with a gesture. This was no longer his office, though technically, as Senior Magician he outranked Marcus, even here.
“Sir,” came a young voice that deepened from adolescent squeaks to an even tenor but still held the variability of youth.
Jaylor looked up to find himself staring at his second son, Lukan. Actually his first son, since Glenndon had been sired by Darville on that night long ago when Jaylor had lost himself in the void, too enthralled with an abundance of Tambootie hallucinations to know where he was.
“Da?” The boy stared back in surprise. He tossed his dark auburn hair out of his eyes with a flick of his head that reminded Jaylor of Brevelan. As usual, his three-strand queue had loosened to the near nonexistence typical of Jaylor when distracted. The burning slash across Lukan’s cheek, left by a stray spark of magic, still looked angry and raw. It would scar rather than heal clean. “I didn’t know you’d return, sir.” Lukan looked away, concentrating on Marcus, his master and tutor instead of his father, whom he hadn’t seen in weeks. “I thought about finding Master Robb while I was studying the maps of Coronnan’s coastline.”
“And?” Marcus asked.
“What if we did a scrying spell with the bowl and candle placed atop the map?”
“I’ve tried that,” Marcus said sadly. “I saw only this candle flame illuminating a dry prison cell.” He gestured to the paraphernalia on the desk.
Jaylor noticed the map for the first time. He’d been so interested in the vision within the glass he hadn’t noticed anything else.
“But you don’t have a candle and bowl of water . . .” Lukan protested.
“Not this time.” Marcus heaved a sigh. “Thank you for sharing your thoughts, Lukan. This matter concerns us all. If you think of anything else . . .”
“Have you tried a crystal pendulum?” Jaylor interjected, happy that his mind finally worked. He smiled at his son and beckoned him forward.
Lukan remained rooted to his position in the doorway, pointedly ignoring his father.
Jaylor lifted his eyebrow in question. Lukan kept his gaze level with his master.
“A crystal, hmm. Vareena suggested the same thing,” he mused. “My wife uses old hedge witch practices. I dismissed it, thinking gathered magic was stronger, more accurate.”
“Never dismiss the gentle magic of a hedge witch,” Jaylor laughed, thinking of Brevelan’s subtle powers that outlasted and worked with finer detail than many a master spell.
“Lukan, can you please fetch me a crystal and a . . . an uncut crystal and a leather thong, I think. A silver chain and jeweler’s tools might taint the primitive intention of the quest,” Marcus said while peering at the map spread out on his desk.
“Like this, sir?” Lukan pulled a piece of opaque quartz from his pocket. It dangled from a thin strip of blonde leather knotted around the center of the vague lump. “I thought that if he’s underground, maybe we’d need something raw, like it was just dug out of the ground.”
“Good thinking, boy.” Jaylor smiled at his son, almost surprised at his logic. The boy had run so wild, with little concentration on anything but his own whims that Jaylor tended to dismiss his intelligence and talent. Then too, Glenndon so outshone everyone as a person and a magician that Lukan kind of faded into the background.
“Marcus, you’re closer to Robb than I,” Jaylor said. “Perhaps you should hold the pendulum.”
Lukan snorted.
“What?” Jaylor demanded, anger heating his face and tightening his fist.
“If closeness is your criterion, then maybe you should have Robb’s wife Maigret, or one of his children hold the leather.” Lukan threw the crystal at his father, turned sharply, and near ran out of the room.
“What?” Jaylor asked, totally bewildered.
“He’s seventeen and still an apprentice because no one thought to promote him to journeyman until after his older brother made the same step. He’s not the miracle worker Glenndon is, so everyone presumes he has no talent or intelligence at all,” Marcus said quietly. “And you promoted his two younger sisters, barely out of the schoolroom, passing him over once again.”
“I know that! I needed the girls and their keen observation. Their journey takes them into realms where a boy, no matter how skilled or senior, would not suit.”
“Does he know that?”
“Um. I think the operative word in your castigation of me is that Lukan is seventeen. I forgot how I felt at that age when I was passed over for promotion because I couldn’t explain how I threw my spells, which is important when working in concert with others. I was too full of my success in knowing the spells worked, and worked well.”
“He feels forgotten by both his tutors and his family. Let him sulk for a while. I’ll bring him into a circle of magicians to work this old and primitive search for my friend. I had already planned to promote him tonight. And I will bring in Robb’s two sons, young though they are, they can still gather magic and join with the circle to incre
ase the power of the spell.”
“May I join your circle?” Jaylor asked meekly. His former student had just proved to him how well-suited he was to this office.
“I don’t want to take you away from precious time with your family, sir.”
“All of you are my family. Especially you and Robb. You were always my favorite students. And I now realize that teaching my own family is not always the best idea.” His gaze strayed to the doorway, which still seemed to hold Lukan’s shadow. “I’m too close to the boy, and lacking patience when I know he must learn, but want him to be my equal from the beginning.”
CHAPTER 8
GLENNDON SHRUGGED AND rotated his shoulders to ease the binding of his fine golden brocade tunic. He’d spotted General Marcelle lurking in the shadows of an interior buttress, slapping a riding crop across his palm and waiting to ambush Glenndon or Mikk for another lesson. Quickly, he darted into the illusory refuge of a different alcove. If he stood absolutely still and willed himself to blend with the stone wall, then maybe, just maybe, the general would give up and go away.
Then too, Glenndon needed to be wary of the gaggle of teenage girls milling around the hall. He ardently wished they’d turn and go the other way. You don’t see me, I’m invisible. I’m not here. He threw a hint of magic into his unspoken words, willing them to be true. Sometimes he liked having all of the female attention. Not now. They just got in the way of his work. And they never gave him any privacy.
Besides, they broadcast their lustful, greedy thoughts without a hint of a barrier. He barely needed any magical talent to read them. He didn’t want to try. He was a prince without a princess and old enough to begin looking for one: a valuable prize. Nothing more.
None of them saw him for what and who he really was. None of them eased his loneliness.
So far, he’d only approached a sense of belonging with his cousin Mikk and his bodyguard Frank. Mikk reminded him a lot of Lukan, half-forgotten, lost in an adult world, and trying desperately to fit in. But Mikk didn’t have Lukan’s anger and stubbornness. That made him all the more loveable and attractive to the girls. As a friend. Lukan attracted girls because of his rebellion against authority and the anger he used to justify it. The bad boy, always in trouble and forbidden to the girls by their cautious fathers. At the University they fluttered around him like moths drawn to a flame.
He shrugged his shoulders again and heard a tiny rip. Regretfully he returned his posture to the original, uncomfortable Court Slouch. Old Maisy knew how to make clothes fit. Now that she was gone, the other royal seamstresses seemed to have forgotten everything about measuring and fitting and allowing a man to move beneath the cloth.
“Nothing serious, Highness,” Frank whispered from behind his right shoulder. “If you allow your queue to drape over your left shoulder, no one will notice the separation in the seam.”
Glenndon grumbled something impolite. Stargods, he wished he had his staff with him. But Father had suggested he leave it behind at official meetings. Coronnan hadn’t yet discarded their deep distrust of magicians.
Then he looked up at the berobed clerk, a minor magician by his vague orange aura, wringing his hands beside the doorway into an official greeting parlor.
“Has the new ambassador arrived?” Glenndon asked the anxious messenger.
“Not yet, Highness.” He looked around, worry pulling his mouth into a deep frown, making him look older. “I arranged the seating beside the cold hearth and had the housekeeper fill the grate with fresh flowers, as you requested.”
Frank snorted. He didn’t approve of flowers for anything but presenting to a lady he courted. The idea of their perfume masking the scent of men recently returned from the practice arena didn’t occur to him. Glenndon had grown up with the rare luxury of soaking in a hot-spring pool with a dragon for a companion after heavy exercise. City folk settled for sluicing off with cold water when necessary and bathing only on rest day before Temple services.
Glenndon watched the messenger’s eyes. “Do I know you?”
“Not really, Highness. We were in first-year apprentice classes together, briefly. I was a late bloomer and so untalented your father assigned me to clerical duties. Quite an honor for my poor family to have a son allowed to learn to read and write.” Some of the tension bled out of his voice.
“I’m sorry, I forgot your name.”
“No need to remember it, Highness.”
Glenndon waited out an embarrassed silence.
“Keerkin, Highness.”
“Thank you, Keerkin. Tell your master I’d like you to be assigned to me henceforth. I find I need someone to keep track of all my appointments and the masses of parchment I am required to read and sign. And it wouldn’t hurt to have you transcribe my scribbled notes from Council sessions. I can barely read them and Mikk—um—Prince Mikkette has other duties as well. Anyone searching out laws and precedents would find my notes useless.”
“Yes, Highness. Thank you, Highness.” Keerkin bowed repeatedly in his gratitude.
“He prefers to be called ‘sir,’” Frank whispered conspiratorially. “This Highness thing is still new to him.”
“Very good, High . . . sir.” He bowed again.
“Please announce the ambassador when he arrives and then join us to take notes.” Glenndon nodded to his new scribe and strode into the parlor, easing his shoulders and not caring when the fabric shredded a bit more.
Frank followed him and took up his post, behind and to the right of Glenndon’s high-backed chair. He rested his right hand on the pommel of his sword, leaving Glenndon’s dominant left hand free to draw his own near-useless ceremonial sword. The blasted decoration was supposed to make him look strong and virile. It was more often in the way when he wanted to sit, or move in a hurry. S’murghit, he wished again he had his staff, a tool and a weapon better suited to his skills.
Bright summer sunshine filled the room with warmth, despite the chill trapped within the stone walls of the palace. Sweet floral scents rose from the grate until they cloyed at Glenndon’s senses. His legs cramped from sitting straight in a chair meant for a shorter man. His fine linen shirt beneath the decorative tunic scratched his damp skin.
He stretched and slumped. Then he rose and paced. Frank prowled the room, poking his nose into every bit of furniture, scuffing at the green and gold carpet, peeking behind tapestries that depicted great moments of battle in the history of Coronnan.
Outside the Temple bells rang the noon hour. “He’s late,” Glenndon growled.
“Yes, sir,” Frank replied absently, finding the image of a red-haired Stargod hovering in silent observation and blessing of a victory more intriguing than the missing ambassador. The first ambassador from Amazonia in generations.
“My father sent me to greet the man, an honor, and then escort him to the king’s presence. Where the hell is he?”
“Unknown, High . . . sir.” Keerkin appeared in the doorway, looking over his shoulder along the long corridor leading toward the Great Hall. “Ah, sir, I see a messenger. One of the City lads, not a private servant.”
A scurry of footsteps on the polished wooden floor accompanied that announcement. Then a plainly dressed boy in brown wool slid to a stop before Keerkin, handed him a folded missive, tipped his cap, and dashed off again.
“Well?” Glenndon asked impatiently as Keerkin slid a finger beneath a black wax seal and unfolded the parchment.
“Ambassador Amazonia, they never give their real names over there on the Big Continent, just title and city-state of origin, sends his regrets and apologies. He has been unavoidably detained by a problem at Customs with a shipment of rare wine from his home.”
Glenndon fumed a moment in furious thought. Then he smiled. “Inform the ambassador that when he is ready to open trade negotiations and possible marriage alliances with one of my sisters, he may apply for an appointment. My father will consider if it is worth the time of one of his servants to serve him a cup of our finest wine while he
awaits our pleasure.”
He stalked off, shedding tunic and ceremonial sword as he headed for the barracks and training arena. “I need to bash some heads, Frank. Quarterstaff practice today.”
S’murghit! I had everything set to lure in the king, make him vulnerable to my cause and thus plant the instrument of his destruction. The crate with my other instrument of restoration is already on its way to my colleague in the rebellion I invoke. A necessary rebellion to bring the Circle of Master Magicians back to the proper path. The distance of my instrument’s journey is the only reason for delay.
Except His Grace is too busy to meet with me. Me! The ambassador of his newest ally. No he can’t be bothered to rule his land. He’d rather lock himself away and drown himself in hard drink. Oh, the nobles say he has given up liquor. But I know the lure, the craving, the demands of a body once used to it. ’Tis similar to the effects of the Tambootie. I’ve seen that often enough among magicians. But I’ve never been tempted by either. I am stronger than an addiction. King Darville is not. He just drinks in private now. I’m certain of it.
The people no longer know their king, or his ailing queen. They do not trust him.
So he sends his bastard son. Not only a bastard but a magician in a land that only recently allowed—by independent royal decree—members of the royal family to be magicians.
I could not chance that Prince Glenndon would recognize me. He can’t be allowed to report back to the Senior Magician that I am here in the capital working to bring him down, to end his tyrannical rule over the University and the king.
The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 Page 7
