The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2

by Irene Radford

  He had to pause and think who might be summoning him so urgently.

  If only Linda had stayed to help instead of returning to Mairgret’s lessons. She’d be able to interpret what came through the glass, even if she couldn’t receive the message.

  Souska? She murmured quietly to Brevelan, urging her to rest some more. No he wouldn’t bother her with so trivial a task.

  Absently he carried the glass over to the bowl of water and unlit candle he kept on the small worktable by the bedroom door that had become his office while trapped in the Clearing, nearly blind. He snapped his fingers. A spark leaped to the candlewick. When he could discern that the flame had caught and burned steadily he dropped the glass into the water, murmuring a few words that triggered a spell in his mind and carried it to the glass.

  These rudimentary skills he could manage. Any second-year apprentice could.

  “Master Jaylor?” an uncertain voice came through the spell, weak and unfocused. And yet the signature twist and knot had been solid and strong, if colorless.

  “Here,” he replied, more curious at the caller’s identity than alarmed at the seeming urgency of the rapid buzz that still irritated his physical ears and his mental hearing.

  “Boy, we’ve got problems here in the city!” A face began to emerge through the water and the glass, still not much more than an outline framed in white.

  But he knew the voice now. He’d heard it admonishing him on his first day as an apprentice at the University. And there was only one man left among the ranks of master magicians who dared call him “boy.” But then Master Aggelard called everyone under the age of seventy “boy.”

  “Master Aggelard, what sort of problems?” Jaylor replied, relaxing a bit. This he could do, sort out problems and delegate others to implement his solutions. But he hated delegating. Hated sitting on his arse while others went out and did.

  “Remember that traitorous bastard Samlan?” The voice came through stronger now, the old librarian’s age no longer coloring the tone.

  “How could I forget?” Jaylor said, his sense of achievement vanishing, turning him once more into an inadequate student.

  “He’s conjuring a storm that could destroy the city. Flood it above the five hundred year mark.”

  (Do something!) jumbled dragon voices yelled in the back of Jaylor’s mind. (Before this storm destroys everything we have built.)

  (Save Glenndon,) a calmer but saddened dragon pleaded. (You have to save our boy.)

  “Glenndon!” Jaylor wailed. The son of his heart, if not his body, was in danger and he could do nothing.

  And the twins! Were Valeria and Lillian far enough away from the city to avoid the storm? He needed to do something.

  He couldn’t leave Brevelan.

  But if any of her children were in trouble she’d not rest and heal as she needed to.

  (We can’t get through the wall of air!) the dragons wailed.

  Jaylor sank onto a tall stool in despair. If the dragons could not get through the wall of air, then Jaylor doubted he could with a transport spell. Even if he could see well enough to build up the layers of visualization to determine his destination and the tricky timing of sunlight angles and shadows.

  He couldn’t leave Brevelan.

  “Glenndon?” Aggelard asked. He obviously hadn’t heard Jaylor’s silent communication with the dragons. “Nothing wrong with the boy that I know of. He’s a magician. A strong one. He can take care of himself. It’s the city that’s in danger. We’re facing a massive storm surge and flooding. It may wipe out everything. Even the islands grounded on bedrock.”

  Jaylor gulped, forcing himself to think beyond his personal anguish. “A big storm,” he said as much to himself as Aggelard. “How big?”

  “Don’t know. Clouds too thick to see a horizon. And those damn clouds are soaking up every bit of dragon magic I can gather.”

  “An unnatural storm.”

  “That’s what I just said, boy. Are your brains addled?”

  Jaylor didn’t dare tell the old man the truth, that without his sight he felt stupid, sluggish, old, and useless. With Brevelan ailing he was lost and uncertain.

  “Keep me apprised of what is happening. I’ll get you help. Gather a circle, even a small one, and try breaking up that storm.” Jaylor rose and bent to blow out the candle, thus ending the communication.

  “That’s what I’m trying to tell you. Samlan has a circle. By the look of things, a big one. And he’s drawing every scrap of dragon magic into his circle and forcing it into the storm. We don’t have any magic left.”

  “Can anyone in your university tap a ley line?” Ley line magic didn’t compound exponentially like dragon magic did. But if enough magicians fought the storm with the same spell in different directions, they might catch Samlan off guard. Might whittle away at his power.

  “This is worse than anything planned by the Coven,” Aggelard said tightly. “They at least wanted the land intact. Samlan will wipe away all trace of humanity and civilization.”

  “Alert the king, I will do what I can from here.” This time he didn’t await a reply and blew out the candle as he began gathering tools and plans into a carrysack.

  Where was Linda? He needed help. Now.

  As he reached to pull the glass from the water, it bounced up and down and shimmied with another urgent summons. Violet. The colors in the glass showed a chaotic swirl of lavender, violet, and bright purple.

  Valeria.

  Why could he see her colors but not old Aggelard’s?

  (Because you love her. Because she carries your blood,) Baamin reminded him.

  Stargods! Had the storm grown so wild that it threatened the caravan, nearly a week outside of the capital?

  He relit the candle, desperate to know what was happening. They’d talked late last night. Had Krej and Rejiia threatened her in any way?

  The colors disappeared from the glass and the water. Just vanished as if swallowed.

  And why were the dragons so worried about Glenndon. Val and Lily were of more immediate concern. S’murghit he needed his eyes to sort all the tangled threads.

  “Jaylor?” Brevelan called from the bedroom, weakly. Anxious. “What’s happening?”

  “Nothing you can help with, dear heart,” he said, leaning on the doorjamb. “I’m needed at the University. May I borrow Souska for a few moments to guide me there?”

  “You are lying, dearest. I always know when you are lying. Tell me. Now. Tell me why the dragons are afraid.”

  Souska seemed to fade into the woodwork and scuttle into the big room at the same time.

  Resigned, he apprised Brevelan of the two summons.

  “Val and Lily!” Brevelan gasped as she collapsed back into the pillow that propped her up, little more than an outline beneath the sheets. What little color was left in her cheeks leached into the bedding until it was brighter than she. Her hands cupped her belly protectively. They clenched as if the baby twisted and fought confinement in her womb.

  “Glenndon too,” he admitted, beginning to worry in his gut about their children. If the dragons were afraid, then something dire plagued all of Coronnan. The storm. An unnatural storm conjured by magicians.

  A storm bigger and more dangerous than anything in their history.

  Brevelan reached for him. He eased beside the bed, knelt on the floor and clasped her hand against his lips. “Dear heart.” He kissed her fingers, letting her know how much he cherished her, needing to lend her whatever physical and emotional strength she needed. She clung to him desperately with fingers that felt like claws.

  “Our children will be alright. They have to be. All of them. They are strong and resourceful. If nothing else, they know how to hunker down and protect themselves and then deal with the aftermath,” he reassured her. And himself.

  “It’s just . . . just that . . .” She swallowed deeply and buried her face in his shoulder. “They are all my babies. And the dragons are afraid.”

  “I know.
I know.” He rested his chin on her hair, surprised to find the dark red silk brittle and dulled, partly by gray but also . . . something else.

  He rubbed her back. Her ribs and shoulder blades made sharp ridges beneath his hands.

  “Brevelan, my love, something is wrong with the babe. With you. Maigret wouldn’t say, only that you needed rest,” he said, tightening his hold on her.

  “Yes . . . maybe . . . I don’t know. That is no concern of the moment. You are needed. You have to go to the University. Do what you can to save the world. And save our children if you have a moment to spare for them. It is what you do. What you need to do.” She pushed him away and flopped back onto the bed. “I’ll . . . Souska will have a meal waiting for you when you come home. I have a feeling you’re going to need it.”

  Valeria hunched over a goblet, barely big enough around to allow her shard of glass to float on the scant inch of liquid. Wind rocked the litter so violently she dared not light a candle and had to rely on a tiny flamelet on the palm of her hand to send the summons skittering away across the plains to the foothills, along a rapid river and up several waterfalls, through the forest to the fishing village on the bay and then uphill along a twisting path to the Clearing.

  “Da!” she shouted, barely hearing herself over the howling wind. She should be able to smell the clean scent of everblue sap. All her nose detected was dust and rotting magic. “Da, I need your help.”

  The glass bounced and hummed in the water, setting a buzzing along her veins and in her head.

  The spell shouldn’t do that. It should move silently until Lord Jaylor acknowledged it. Then she’d hear his words, see his beloved face, and he’d hear her plea for help.

  She pushed her magic through the glass again, knowing that she channeled too much of her strength into the spell. She might not have enough left over to survive the storm. Not enough to make contact with Lillian and hold on for dear life.

  “Can I help?” Lady Ariiell asked hesitantly. “I know the forms even if I haven’t worked such a spell in . . . in many years.”

  Valeria looked up at her companion, barely sparing her enough attention to raise her eyebrows in question. “This spell is basic. One of the first we learn. Surely you could have used it to speak to friends and family outside your tower.” She concentrated on the glass, willing her own violet colors to shift into Da’s brighter blue and red neatly braided through the reflection of the flame.

  “I didn’t dare.” Ariiell’s voice quavered as she gripped the frame of the litter with both hands. One heartbeat later the entire structure wobbled under the force of a particularly strong gust. Something beneath them splintered. The litter listed and dropped with a shudder that bent the frame. A wave of noxious odors rose from the crates upon which the litter had rested. She wrinkled her nose, not bothering to sort out the too-sweet, too-sour, sharp and acidic odors that burned her nose and made her eyes water. She’d smelled that before, but different. A flash of heightened smell and hearing when she had assumed the form of a flywacket—a cat so black her fur took on purple highlights and her feathered wings shimmered with iridescence. For half a heartbeat she was back in that body, able to separate and discern each component of every scent.

  Then it was gone before she could identify it. She only knew it made her gag. So much so the flamelet on her palm flattened and nearly guttered.

  Her will and fierce concentration kept the fire alive with the essence of its primary element.

  “Rejiia and Krej could easily eavesdrop on the conversation if I tried to summon someone. Or interfere and make me do things they wanted but I didn’t while I thought I talked to my father,” Ariiell admitted, also wrinkling her nose at the disgusting odor.

  “Now I’m glad I never spoke to him. He’d have only sold me to someone else earlier . . . before . . . before I had your help. Remind me to thank you when this is over.”

  Val stored that bit of information, not having the time or attention it deserved. Right now she needed to get through to Da.

  At last the colors in the glass swirled, folding her purple tones in with Da’s braid until they were all mixed up, indistinguishable one from the other. That shouldn’t happen.

  Then the colors dissolved, bleeding out of the glass into the water that supported them.

  Surprise at this oddity overcame her cautious routine. The magic broke loose from the spell and backlashed while she was still pushing new power into the summons.

  Lightning ripped across the skies, grabbing hold of her magic and sending it flashing through the enclosed litter, burning and savaging everything in its path.

  Light and pain penetrated her mind through her temples, all the colors swirled into one white blinding flash of lightning.

  “Valeria!” Lady Ariiell screamed. “Don’t you dare pass out and leave me to the mercy of this storm and my enemies.”

  CHAPTER 25

  (SAVE OUR BOY!) old Baamin’s dragon voice echoed again and again in Jaylor’s mind.

  “When did he become your boy?” he shouted back. Slowly, he swept his staff before him in search of obstacles that might stand between him and the path to the University. Souska had insisted she couldn’t leave Brevelan, even for a few moments, let alone long enough to walk the half mile to the University and back again.

  (You know,) replied the man who had commanded the University from Jaylor’s earliest days as an apprentice. The man who had personally handed Jaylor the position of Chancellor of the University and Senior Magician upon his deathbed, and then sent his spirit off to become a dragon, to live out his destiny. A destiny foreseen only by dragons.

  The words beat a path inside Jaylor’s mind, much as his feet beat one through the underbrush of the forest. “Glenndon was conceived in the void.”

  A sense of agreement in the back of his head.

  He flew back in memory to the night he’d experimented for the first time with leaves of the Tambootie tree. No one had written about the essential oil in the leaves that boosted one’s perceptions, one’s magical talent, and one’s sense of invulnerability. He’d eaten too much and crossed into the void, the true realm of dragons, without knowing how or where, or anything more than the wonder of finding hundreds of colored umbilicals that represented the life spirit of everyone he’d ever known, alive and dead.

  Darville and Brevelan had thought him dead and sought comfort together. Their love for each other and for Jaylor had reached out into the void and found him, returned him to his body.

  In the wondrous aftermath, none of them, except perhaps the dragons, knew who had fathered the child Brevelan carried. At the time they didn’t need to know. As the baby grew it became obvious. His coloring, his build, even his speech patterns, telepathic as they were, mimicked his true father.

  But his magical talent surpassed all expectations. That had always given Jaylor hope that some small piece of himself had become a part of the boy. Brevelan had a strong talent rooted in the Kardia. Her affinity with plants and animals was often overlooked as a magical gift. King Darville, Jaylor’s best friend and comrade in mischief, had a touch of talent, but only a touch, just enough to allow the Coraurlia, the glass crown given by the dragons to the rightful kings of Coronnan, to recognize him.

  Where had Glenndon’s talent come from?

  “The void. The dragons gave him what he would need at the moment of conception,” he whispered. Yes, Glenndon was as much their boy as Darville’s. Or Jaylor’s. They all claimed a piece of him.

  (You finally figured it out,) Baamin admonished him, much as he had when Jaylor finally threw a spell correctly during his apprentice years. (About time. Now what are we going to do about our boy?)

  “Whatever we have to.” Jaylor set his steps more firmly and promptly stumbled over a stump. He wasn’t on the path. “Linda!” he roared. “Linda, I need your help.” He hated admitting it. He felt small and useless needing a child to guide him.

  Then he remembered Linda had returned to the University for her
scheduled classes.

  “Lukan!” Maybe the boy was lurking around home. He’d taken off again the moment Maigret had proclaimed Brevelan stable and in need of sleep. No one had seen much of him since . . . since Jaylor had gone blind. “Lukan, I need you,” he said more softly. Contritely. He really needed to reconcile with the boy.

  “Lukan’s gone,” a small voice said to his left. “Let me help.” Sharl slipped her tiny hand into his and nudged him half a step the right.

  Amazing that she sounded so calm with her mother ill and in bed. Had anyone looked after her and Jule since Brevelan collapsed?

  “Mistress Maigret told me to take Jule to play with her boys. She didn’t say I shouldn’t come back to help you,” she said. A little uncertainty crept into her voice. Jaylor held her hand tight.

  He shouldn’t be surprised that she had understood his thoughts, even though he hadn’t spoken. She was his daughter after all. “Thank you, Sharl. You are a big help.” He moved another step in the direction she indicated.

  Immediately he felt the difference in the ground through the soles of his boots. The dirt on the path had been packed hard and solid by the passage of feet over the years. Off the path he felt only the softness of broken saber ferns and composted leaf litter. He tapped his staff on the path, memorizing the vibration through the wood to his hand. Then he tapped off the path and felt the tip sink in a bit.

  “Thank you, Sharl,” he repeated. He allowed his little girl to guide him even though he now felt more confident that he could manage on his own.

  Like combining and throwing dragon magic, he had more power to negotiate the forest with help.

  In that instant he understood the source of the storm that caused the dragons so much agitation, felt the wall of clouds, permeated with magic and every drop of moisture they could gather. The rogue magician who manipulated air and water like child’s toys had a dragon bone, like the one in Glenndon’s staff. Only it was a big bone, possibly a shoulder or thigh, or an entire leg bone, and he used it to hold all the magic he and his circle—probably standing in a half circle to contain the back edge of the storm—could gather. With a storage place for the power, the rogue and his companions could do much, much more than just throw wind and rain.