The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2

by Irene Radford

  I need their dreams to know that my weapons are still in place, dormant but ready to awaken when I tell them to and not before.

  I need to remove the twins. My tools for their demise are in place and remain undetected.

  The king and his queen have not the familiarity with their people to organize them and lead them in overcoming the disaster I throw at them.

  My plans and spells come together. I must watch and manipulate from a distance for my own safety.

  And when all three children of the current Senior Magician are gone, Jaylor will know the grief I have known. Glenndon will go sometime tomorrow I expect; and the twins when they reach their destinations. Jaylor will suffer as I have suffered. His blindness is just the beginning of the pain he will endure for his crimes against me, against the world. Against magic itself.

  CHAPTER 19

  JAYLOR FINGERED HIS quill in dismay. The feathered edge brushed the side of his hand and wrist reassuringly. This was his favorite pen. He used it often, fitting new metal nibs on the tip every few months.

  “I can do this,” he whispered to himself, smoothing a square-cut piece of parchment with this left hand and marking with his index finger a spot on the left-hand side about an inch from the top.

  Then he reached to dip the nib into the inkwell that was always, precisely six inches to the right of the parchment edge.

  “Habit,” he continued to reassure himself. “Writing is the habit of lifetime. I don’t need to see more than the outline of my paper. I’ll know if I form the letters correctly. I just need to slow down so I don’t make mistakes I can’t correct. Presuming I can figure out what I need to say.”

  Brevelan had gone to the University to help Maigret teach an advanced class in gathering plants and minerals for potions. She’d taken Jule and Sharl with her, leaving Jaylor alone with his thoughts. Alone with the knot of uneasiness that gnawed at his gut.

  “I know I can mend whatever is wrong between Lukan and me, if I can just find the right words.” A thought occurred to him. He needed to start the letter with affection; reaffirm his love for all of his children.

  Somehow he misjudged the distance and knocked the pewter inkwell off his desk onto the floor. It thudded, bounced and then glugged as the black fluid emptied into the rush-covered dirt.

  “S’murghit!” he roared at the top of his voice. “Who put my inkwell in the wrong place?”

  “Did you call for me, Master?” a young voice, probably female, just firming into maturity, asked from the doorway across the cabin’s main room.

  “Who the hell are you?” He could just make out an outline, backlit by sunlight in the Clearing beyond. She wore a pale robe. He could tell nothing about her coloring as a pale scarf covered her hair, and only a few darker tendrils escaped to frame her blurry face. Pale robe and scarf, an apprentice. By her height he guessed she’d reached adult proportions, and therefore had some experience.

  “I’m Linda, sir. Master Marcus sent me to assist you.”

  “Linda.” He rolled the name around his brain seeking familiarity. “Linda?” he roared. “Princess Rosselinda?”

  “Just Linda now, sir. Mistress Maigret had it from Mistress Brevelan that you needed an apprentice to bully. Master Marcus sent me.”

  “I can’t bully you.”

  “Mistress Brevelan said you need to try. And that I need to accept that I can learn from you, but not be so accepting that I let you bully me.” She stood firm and straight. From the tilt of her head, he guessed that she leveled a steady gaze at him.

  “I . . . I don’t need anyone. Least of all a pampered princess who has only been here a few months.” He stood and faced her, fists on hips and chin jutting forward.

  “Yes, you do need me. I have clerical skills, diplomatic training. My control of my talent may be borrowed from Glenndon, but I can help you with all of your administrative duties better than anyone at the University.”

  He knew without looking just how her stubborn chin lifted. Her father and her mother were just as stubborn. More stubborn than he.

  He didn’t need stubborn, he needed a student he could teach . . .

  (You’re over-thinking again. Just like you did when you were her age,) Baamin reminded him with his usual dragon humor. The old man hadn’t laughed as much or as often when he was Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University. Nor had he dismissed inadequacy with a joke. Maybe there was something about assuming a dragon body that mended an overly serious mind and personality. He could learn from that.

  (Of course you can. We all need to continue learning. Every day of our lives. Our princess knows that, so why don’t you?)

  “What kind of quill do you prefer, Linda?” Jaylor asked mildly, not ready to roar at her yet. He’d learned roaring as a teaching technique from Baamin. Maybe it was time to amend his methods.

  (About time you figured it out. Not everyone loves your roar because they love you as Brevelan does.)

  Jaylor humphed.

  “I like a brass tip fitted over a flight feather from a flusterdrake, sir,” Linda replied proudly. “And I like my ink mixed with alcohol, not water. It dries quicker and cleaner.”

  “You know how to write formal letters. Can I trust you with personal correspondence?”

  “Yes, sir. But my spelling is archaic, more useful in formal settings where I must observe rituals of address,” she replied, assessing the interior of the cabin with quick jerks of her head, right and left.

  “Cloaking true meaning in the codes of formality I can do. Finding the right words to mend an argument . . .”

  “Difficult for everyone, sir. We can only try.”

  “You’ll do.”

  He pushed her in the direction he thought the desk lay, indicating the fallen inkwell. She stooped to retrieve it, brushing off bits of straw from the graceful cylinder, smaller at the top and solidly broad at the base.

  “There’s not much left, sir.”

  “I’ll grate charcoal for more while you use that up.”

  “What do you need written, sir?”

  That “sir” was getting on his nerves. Proper for an apprentice addressing a master, but from Linda . . . she was the daughter of his best friend, half sister to Glenndon, his near equal in social rank. Surely they could compromise on something less . . . less. . . .

  No, they couldn’t compromise on respect for their new positions. When she returned to her home and family, then they’d discuss proper forms of address.

  “How shall I address the letter?” she asked again, sweeping the skirt of her robe smooth to sit straight on his chair without wrinkling it.

  “A letter to my son.”

  “Which son, sir?” she asked, fidgeting for a comfortable position in his oversized chair. She had to stretch to peer over the top of his desk. Her feet dangled, not reaching the floor.

  “Um, maybe you should sit over there.” He waved vaguely toward a smaller worktable with a Brevelan-sized stool.

  She shifted to the more comfortable seat, taking parchment, quill, and inkwell with her. “Which son, sir,” Linda asked again, pen poised over the parchment.

  He paused a moment. Maybe he should shift his plans. Lukan had not showed his face at home while the family was awake since . . . since the accident that had near-blinded Jaylor. Brevelan knew he’d been in the cabin by the missing food she left out for him each night. They guessed he slept in a dormitory at the University. Jaylor hadn’t the courage to ask Marcus, or maybe Maigret, for confirmation.

  He’d planned to leave a letter of explanation and love for Lukan.

  No, that was far too personal a message for a stranger to compose. Linda wasn’t exactly a stranger, but that communication touched raw nerves around Jaylor’s heart he was not willing to share with anyone except Lukan.

  His relationship with Glenndon, however, was already the stuff of legend, a part of the history of the country. Linda shared a special bond with Glenndon. In one intimate healing spell they had shared and absorbed
all of each other’s knowledge, memories, and secrets. She’d taught him to speak in two heartbeats. He’d taught her every bit of magic he knew. The words Jaylor needed to send to his golden child weren’t as personal as what she already knew directly from Glenndon.

  “Your oath of secrecy, Linda,” he demanded. He knew she could be discreet. But he needed formal affirmation.

  He watched her spine bristle with indignation. At least he hoped that was what his broken eyes told him.

  “Of course, sir.”

  “Your oath,” he insisted upon the ritual.

  “My oath as a magician, I promise never to reveal the contents of this letter to anyone, not even a dragon, on pain of imposed magical silence.”

  He wanted to chuckle as the words suddenly took on new meaning for him. “The dragons will know even without telling them.”

  “Sir?”

  “They live as much in my mind as they do in their lair up the mountain.”

  “Have you been there, sir?” Awe tinged her voice.

  “Yes, Linda. I have. And if we both live long enough, I’ll tell you that tale. For now, write this: Dear Glenndon, son of my heart. I apologize profusely for not revealing the truth of your origins to you earlier. You deserved to know . . .”

  “So, I’m not good enough to receive a letter of apology,” Lukan snarled from his listening post beside the chimney on the roof. He heard every word spoken inside the cabin. Every S’murghin word. Not one of them concerning him.

  “Nor am I good enough to become your scribe, Father.” Anger twisted inside his gut, turning his breakfast to acid that wanted to burn itself out and up.

  “Of all the apprentices in the University who know how to write a fine hand, I’m the last one to be considered for the job. I’m not good enough for anything. So why am I still here?”

  (Your mama needs you,) Indigo said sadly.

  Lukan looked up for some sign of where the young dragon might fly. Nothing. Not even the flash of sunlight on an iridescent wing. The entire sky looked as dull as his heart felt.

  “Mama only needs Da. Her children are always second in her affections,” he replied, justifying his anger and hurt.

  (Is that so?)

  “Of course it is.”

  A void opened in Lukan’s mind where the dragon voice had been.

  “I know, I know, that means I should think about it.”

  (Agreed.) Another long moment of silence followed. (Have you thought about it?)

  “Yeah,” Lukan replied reluctantly. “Mama loves us all. Equally.” He hated that the dragon was right. The dragons were always right.

  (And?)

  “And, I don’t think Mama is well. The new babe weighs heavily in her belly and in her heart. She turns to Da because he has always protected her.”

  (The little ones are too little to help her. She needs you to lift and carry. She needs to lean on you when she walks.)

  “Is she going to be all right?” Worry replaced anger but still roiled in his gut.

  Indigo did not answer. He was still inside Lukan’s mind, but didn’t have an answer.

  “I have to stay here and help Mama. Da can’t. Jule and Sharl can’t. There’s no one left but me, and I’m an inconsequential second best.”

  (You are what she needs.)

  “But not what my father needs.”

  A flap of huge wings rising from the bathing pool answered him. Indigo flew away, deserting Lukan as everyone else had.

  “I need to write a letter to my father,” Lady Ariiell said flatly the moment Valeria returned to the litter.

  “Directly after we eat,” Val replied. She’d given up calling the evening meal dinner. Dinner implied something more substantial and interesting than the inevitable stew made with dried meat, tubers, and whatever the cooks could glean along the road for greenery. She expected grass to begin showing up in the pot before too long.

  “I don’t know that I can wait that long,” Ariiell confessed around a trembling lower lip.

  Val paused a moment, as much to gather her courage as for effect.

  Ariiell grew impatient and fidgeted nervously.

  “Are you ready to try a summons?” Val asked tentatively.

  “My father is as mind-blind as those flusterhens going into the cook pot.”

  Val raised her eyebrows; in some ways the birds were more closely in touch with the magic in the land, the air, the rain, and the ax that would end their existence, than most humans. But she understood Ariiell’s assessment.

  “From whom did you inherit your magic?” Val knew the answer, but she needed Ariiell to say it, acknowledge it, and put it behind her, not forgotten, just accepted.

  “My mother.” Ariiell turned her head away. “No one gave her training to control her talent. It drove her insane and she threw herself off the highest tower of Father’s castle in Aporia.” Again the flat intonation, no emotional involvement. As if she denied guilt in the event.

  “What did she hear telepathically that she wasn’t supposed to that drove her to such desperate straits?” Valeria settled into her cushions facing Ariiell. This could take awhile. They’d been through a similar routine before they composed letters to King Darville and Da—Lord Jaylor.

  “I . . . I don’t know.” Ariiell looked up with that thought. Bewilderment clouded her eyes. “I was very young and alone. She didn’t love me enough to stay, to help me learn magic properly, to explain anything to me. No one loves me . . .”

  “Was she trying to hide her talent?” Val prodded.

  “I guess. I was young, not quite eight when she . . . when it happened.”

  “Did she try to teach you anything about controlling your talent?”

  “No. I remember her saying that revealing that I could light candles and levitate food from the kitchens with only a thought would brand me a witch and I’d be burned for it. She did tell me to find a way to block out people’s random thoughts.”

  “Wise woman. Women possessing talent is more accepted now. But according to my history lessons, at the time, any woman who could do those things was considered evil, traitorous, in league with Simurgh.” She named the red-tipped dragon from before the time of the Stargods. The beast had developed a taste for human meat, not bothering to cook it with his natural fire or to wait until his prey was fully dead before eating. The Dragon Nimbus had outlawed Simurgh. Ever since then, his name had been used as a curse.

  “But I continued playing with my little tricks and Mother killed herself because of it.”

  “No, she didn’t.”

  “What?” Ariiell opened her eyes wide. A brief glimmer of hope crossed her face then died aborning.

  “Think about it,” Val advised.

  “I have and I know I’m responsible. I have to apologize to my father for killing my mother.”

  “No, you don’t. He needs to apologize to you for blaming you, for using your guilt to control you.”

  “He wouldn’t . . .”

  “He did. And he sold you to the Coven.”

  “But . . .”

  “You were only fifteen. You could not have met The Simeon unless your father introduced you. You did not run away with a charming man on your own. Your father sent you with him.”

  “I don’t remember . . .”

  “You have buried that memory along with many other horrible ones. Both your father and The Simeon needed you guilty and submissive, blaming yourself for all that happened afterward. They used you.”

  “Why? What could the Coven offer my father? He’s a powerful lord. He controls a wealthy province and has the ear of the king.”

  “King Darville was recently married at the time. He consulted his wife, Queen Rossemikka, more than his lords. Your father’s grip on power at court was slipping. Your brother was lost at sea. You were all he had left. A girl who couldn’t inherit.”

  “A girl with a magical talent,” Ariiell finished the thought. “I was his tool of alliance with the Coven. But what could they offer him?
”

  “Regency for your son. Mardall has royal blood, but a malformed mind. His child, your child, carries that same royal blood as the king’s aunt, Lady Lynetta. King Darville has only daughters, who can’t inherit either. Kill the king and who is next in line? A grandson of the king’s aunt? Lord Laislac was promised regency, with the Coven as his chief advisers.” Val was guessing at this. She knew bits and pieces of it based on lessons and morality tales. But it was the only logical explanation that combined all those elements.

  “They promised me the regency. All I had to do was seduce an idiot who didn’t know what he was doing.”

  “It must have been terribly embarrassing to you. To have others tell you what to do with your body.”

  “After what The Simeon did to me, in full view and participation of the Coven, Mardall was sweet and gentle. I did it because my body, my life, and my soul, were no longer mine. I was a slave to the Coven.”

  “Bought and paid for.”

  “Yes!” Anger flushed Ariiell’s face for the first time. An honest emotion generated by herself, not what others expected of her. “I want to talk to my father. Set up the summons.”

  “What are you going to ask him?” Val grabbed a fine white porcelain bowl to fill with water for the spell.

  “I need to know why he summoned me home after leaving me to rot in that tower for fifteen years. I need to know who he has sold me to this time.”

  In ten minutes they had their answer. Through the medium of water in a silver bowl and a fine beeswax candle set up by his magician adviser, Lord Laislac nearly bounced in his enthusiasm. “I’ve arranged a marriage between you, my beloved daughter, and King Lokeen of the city-state Amazonia,” he chortled.

  CHAPTER 20

  LILLIAN LOOKED AT the juncture in the road with dismay. The path to the west forked gently to the right, staying wide, straight, and easy across the gently undulating prairie. Val’s path. Lily certainly hoped her twin’s journey remained easy and free of obstacles. The South Road, however, the one Lily must take, narrowed and began to wander around hills and boulders the size of a house. A long ridgeline stretched east to west. Once past it, she would be fully out of sight of Val’s half of the caravan. Would she be out of mind as well as out of sight? Was this road merely a reflection of the changing landscape? Or ominous portent?