The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 (13 page)

G
LENNDON KICKED THE
door to his room. It remained sturdily closed. A judicial bit of magic into the lock . . .

“I wouldn’t advise it, Your Highness,” General Marcelle said from behind him.

Glenndon stared at his stretched fingers as he withdrew the energy from them that wanted to scream forth and fry something, anything, to dust. By will alone he evened his breathing and centered himself, pushing the heat and light of magic back into the wooden floor beneath his light, indoor boots.

“What can I do for you, General?” Glenndon asked, keeping his back to the man and his voice artificially polite.

“We are going hunting.” The slap of a riding crop across a palm emphasized his words.

Glenndon groaned. Audibly.

“Best way to learn to ride is to spend as much time steed-back as possible. Hunting is necessary to put meat on the table and to practice any number of useful skills, like shooting a bow at a moving target while guiding your mount with your knees.”

“But . . .”

“No buts about it. We are going hunting. It will also give you a chance to vent your frustration in private to a sympathetic ear.”

“You believe me?” Glenndon whirled to face the general, one of his father’s most trusted companions and advisors.

“Of course I do. So does the king. But His Grace has other things troubling him and keeping the trade agreements with Amazonia intact is only one of them.”

“Why would the ambassador lie?”

“The same reason he took ship half an hour before his letter of complaint was delivered. To gain something in those treaties he doesn’t think he’ll get without coercion?” The general cocked his head and widened his eyes, an expression Glenndon had learned meant for him to think it through.

“What do we have that he doesn’t?”

“A princess nearing marriageable age.”

Glenndon’s gut turned cold. “Linda is too young . . .”

“Princess Rosselinda is royal. If you listen to the gossip on the wharfs, the ferry crew and merchants alike, you’d know that King Lokeen sits on a shaky throne. He needs a strong alliance to keep it. Something about tracing their lineage through the women. His wife has died. He has two sons. No daughters.”

“Why haven’t I heard this before?”

“Because official representatives of Amazonia don’t talk. At all. What we know officially about their city-state wouldn’t fill a thimble. What your father’s spies learn on the docks is enough to disturb us. Lokeen should have relinquished his wife’s throne and crown to
her
cousin on the day of her funeral. He didn’t. One son has tried repeatedly to take Temple vows. The other son has disappeared. The queen’s relatives are restless. His only hope is to remarry and produce a daughter. Who he courts is still an open question.”

“They have the opposite problem of Coronnan, requiring a legitimate male heir. Both Mikk and I are illegitimate.”

“You’ll look more legitimate if the people see you acting like a prince. We’re going hunting.”

“Can’t you take Mikk?”

“Oh, he’s coming too. He just doesn’t know it yet. Now change into serviceable leathers and decent boots. Your presence is required in the forecourt in a quarter hour.” General Marcelle stalked around the landing to Mikk’s suite and pounded on the door, most emphatically.

Glenndon sighed and opened his own door with a mundane twist of the latch. If he had to put up with the discomfort of riding, he’d take his staff, let it rest in the spear holster on the saddle.

But first, he’d scry Linda to warn her of this newest threat to her independence.

Skeller grabbed Telynnia out of her carrysack and ran his hands along the wood, testing her for any signs of swelling or bubbling in the rapidly changing humidity—walking through liquid air one day, then air sere enough to give him a sore throat the next. He ran through his mind lively tunes he could play without singing, rather than strain his voice. Presuming Telynnia held up to the changes.

He plucked a chord on the loosened strings. No more out of tune than the slackening of tension would produce. His most prized possession, his livelihood, his friend remained alive and ready to quicken beneath his loving touch.

“We’re safe for now,” he whispered to her as he watched Lily settle Lady Graciella into her litter with a cup of wine cooled in the creek while they had eaten a noon meal—the stop was more to rest the livestock than for the refreshment of the travelers.

Soon, another two days at most, they would reach the crossroad and divide into two caravans. He needed to check on Lily as often as he did his harp in the coming trauma. She relied upon her younger sister for her own mental health. As smart as Valeria, and more vibrant of personality, he would expect the relationship to run the other way.

Briefly he wondered what secrets they harbored. Certainly they had normal sisterly secrets, but this unbalanced dependence harbored a bigger secret. A much bigger one.

For Lily’s sake he needed to find out what.

Then he needed to decide if his mission would force him to follow the westbound caravan with Lady Ariiell, or stay southbound with Lily and Lady Graciella. Which one was King Lokeen manipulating into aiding and abetting his latest plot to keep his throne?

His back itched with odd familiarity, but he couldn’t find the notes in his memory that would trigger full memory. Maybe it was just a storm brewing. He’d weathered bad storms before, traveling with trade caravans in Amazonia. A big continent generated big weather. Coronnan was tiny in comparison, the open stretches cradled and protected by mountains. Anything they’d encounter out here was nothing compared to the tornado he’d seen last year that hopped, skipped, and jumped across a thousand miles, demolishing crops, livestock, houses, and towns wherever it touched down.

He turned to hang Telynnia’s carrysack across his back, not trusting the hooks on the sledge’s back frame to hold his precious friend, but he stumbled.

“Merrow!” a cat protested, more plaintive than outraged. He’d never known a cat to endure gracefully the insult of someone stepping on them, even when they’d put themselves directly in the path of the stepper.

He looked down to find a large black cat with one white ear stropping his ankles. Her fur was matted across her shoulders, behind her hind legs and along the extra-long length of her skinny tail.

She broadcast her need to be picked up long and loud. He didn’t need to worry about his cumbersome harp she informed him with posture, expression, and more stropping. He could discard it. Her need to be held and petted was greater.

“I’ve met your kind before, cat,” he said, stooping to scratch her chin and ears. Telynnia settled between his shoulders quite comfortably, allowing him full freedom of both arms. “You will survive another ten seconds while I take care of Telynnia.” He shrugged and twisted, making sure his harp nestled snugly against his hip and ribs. Where she belonged.

“Now I can give you some attention too, little lady,” he said gently as he began scratching one ear then extended his hand along her spine and around her slender middle. “You’ve been through a rough patch,” he continued talking to the feral cat as he examined her with knowing hands. “Those feet look tired and sore.”

A loud rumble erupted from the cat’s throat. His hand tingled with the affection she exuded.

“Mind if I pick you up?” She pressed her head deeper into his cupped hand. “I’ll take that as agreement.” He squeezed her middle in preparation for picking her up.

She didn’t protest the pressure so he lifted her in both hands as he stood up. The cat reached for his neck, claws politely withdrawn. He held her against his chest and she nuzzled him, front legs wrapped around his neck in a strangely intimate embrace from a feral. Judging by the prominence of her ribs, he guessed she was hungry. Had been hungry for a long time.

“Let’s see if Cook has any fish left for you.” Cat’s purr grew louder. He cradled her lightly with one arm and took steps closer to the campfire. He smelled the pot that Cook hadn’t managed to clean just yet. Fish stew. He’d eaten two plates full of the savory meal.

Lily hadn’t touched it. She never ate the stews with meat, even fish, settling for piles of cooked and raw vegetables. Her sister ate anything and everything.

A shadow skittered across his peripheral vision. He peered into the shrubbery lining the creek. The only movement he saw was a fern frond waving back and worth as it dipped in and out of the rushing water.

He shook his head and headed toward the campfire, Cat wiggling to take the best advantage of his hold on her.

“Skeller?” Lillian asked. She sounded hesitant, almost suspicious.

“Yes?” He turned to face her. Cat stiffened and bristled. “It’s okay, Lily’s a friend,” he reassured the animal with extra strokes along her spine.

Cat did not believe him.

“Um . . . Skeller . . . uh . . . do you know what you have there?” Lily remained on the step beside the litter. Odd. She usually took every opportunity to stand close to him. As he did with her.

“It’s a feral cat,” he said back to her. “A hungry and footsore one at that.”

“That’s . . . that’s not just a cat.”

“What do you mean? I’ve nursed a lot of cats back to health. They follow me quite readily. Dogs are more likely to let me pet them though. Sort of like Champion over there.” He tilted his head toward where the drovers harnessed the steeds for the afternoon’s journey south.

“Skeller, put the cat down,” Lillian said firmly, carefully avoiding making eye contact with him or the cat.

He looked deeply into Cat’s blue eyes, ringed in pale green around a
round
pupil. Unusual, but not unknown eyes. Unusual cat.

Cat purred louder, her sides visibly vibrating.

“It’s just a cat. I’ll let her ride on the sledge full of food supplies. She’ll keep the mouse population down.” He grabbed a wooden spoon with his free hand and dished out a morsel of fish from the stew pot. Cat nibbled at it daintily, directly from the spoon, still keeping her front legs on his shoulders. Nice manners for a feral.

“If she’s just a cat, then what is that tin-colored weasel with gold-tipped fur doing lurking beneath the saber ferns?” Lillian asked haughtily.

“Huh?” The conjunction of the cat and the weasel made no sense to him.

Lily cocked her head in the peculiar way as if watching the sky for the appearance of a dragon, and listening for them as well. She clung to the litter as a lifeline, or protection from some unseen menace. Maybe weasels in this part of the world carried some horrible disease. Had it infected the cat as well?

He looked more closely into those mesmerizing blue and green eyes; clear and bright, no trace of film over the moist iris or crust at the corners. Though skinny and paw sore she wasn’t starving, and he’d found no ulcers or weeping sores.

Cat purred some more and rubbed the top of her head on his scraggly chin. Reassurance flooded him, as well as affection. He gave her some more fish. She still ate carefully, not gobbling as he’d expected. Hungry and thin, but not starving.

That should tell him something.

Lily’s fear puzzled him more.

“You’re just a cat, aren’t you?”

“No she’s not!” Valeria proclaimed from beside Lily.

Where had she come from? And so quickly.

“Put the cat down,” she insisted. “Then walk away very slowly, and very carefully.”

“This is ridiculous.”

“Please, Skeller, do as Val says. This is important,” Lily added her pleas.

“If you insist. But I’d really, really like an explanation.” He stooped and released his hold on Cat. She clung to him a moment longer, extending her claws into his leather jerkin.

“Come to me tonight,” he whispered in that special chanting voice he reserved for the animals who seemed to adore his singing. Champion understood most every word when he used that voice. The cat should too.

She caught his gaze with her own and passed reassurance to him before scampering off toward the head of the caravan. Toward Lady Ariiell’s litter.

The direction Skeller didn’t want to take. When the caravan separated at the crossroad he wanted to stay with Lily. He was sure that his quest needed him with Lily and Lady Graciella. Lady Ariiell couldn’t possibly hold any value for King Lokeen and his magician counselor.

Or could she?

Suddenly he doubted his own judgment.

Lily slipped her hand in his. “Thank you. Getting rid of the cat is important.”

He nodded as he watched Valeria stalk off after the cat, glowering in anger and determination.

“She’d better not hurt the cat,” Skeller said, still bewildered.

“It’s not a cat. Not really,” Lily said softly, as if afraid someone other than Skeller might hear her.

“Magic?” he asked in disgust. “Useless and violent.”

“Evil magic. Magic so evil we’re better off not even thinking about it.”

V
ALERIA MARCHED THE
length of the caravan cursing beneath her breath. “Lady Ariiell was right all along.” She slammed her fist into her thigh to release some of the emotions roiling within her. “If Rejiia is flirting with Skeller, then he is doubly untrustworthy.” She honestly didn’t know if she should send Da a summons or not. A journey was about learning to solve problems on her own. The living presence of Krej and Rejiia endangered all of Coronnan. But not until they found a way to transform back to their human bodies.

Just then the cat scampered past her toward the muted draperies hanging from the litter.

“No, you don’t. You are not going to corrupt my lady again!” Val dashed after the cat. Ariiell might have enough magical talent to reverse the transformation spell. Fifteen years ago she was probably the only magician alive interested in restoring them.

Now?

In the way of a normal cat, Rejiia did not run in a straight line. She arched her hind end and skittered half sideways until she nearly tangled with the restless feet of a steed succumbing to the control of a harness. Then the black cat locked her front legs and bullied through the crowd of people readying sledges for the afternoon march.

Val headed directly for the litter, intending to block entrance to the cat. But just as she slowed to control a stop, the cat dug her claws into the ground and swung her tail around to take her away from the litter, almost tipping her nose into the dust. The moment she had her balance again, she was off, toward the front of the caravan. Two sledges forward she ducked beneath the raised end of the conveyance and disappeared into the undergrowth of the rolling grasslands.

That moment of redirection allowed Val to shorten the distance between them. She didn’t have Lily’s strong empathy but this beast had no controls over her thoughts and feelings; neither fully human or fully feline. Val drew closer, close enough for her to encounter the wall of heightened emotion and cunning that described Rejiia in any form. Elation gave way to disappointment and frustration. So close to Ariiell. So close and yet not close enough. A wall of subtle magic that smelled of poison and sorrow blocked her.

Now I’ll have to find a new time and place to convince Ariiell to change Cat back into Rejjia
. The cat’s thoughts spread wide and clear, fully understandable to anyone who might know how to listen.

Val stumbled to a halt right where Rejiia had made her about turn. “Just as I thought, Ariiell is the only magician strong enough to reverse the transformation spell who might be willing to do it,” she muttered as she examined the litter with all of her senses. Something in or around it had stopped a relentless sorceress. What?

All she could filter through the persistent smell of steed and trampled grass, the sense of impatience to get moving again, the bloating from eating too much not-quite-cooked-through flatbread, and nervous checks of the sky for signs of a storm, was the usual sense of isolation surrounding the litter. It didn’t smell any different than it had twenty minutes ago.

Val shrugged and opened the draperies.

“I need to write a letter of apology to Lady Lynetta,” Ariiell greeted Val without preamble. “She treated me with kindness, raised my child into a normal, healthy young man, and all I did to her was attack her cats without reason.”

Val paused a moment. So, her attempts to flake off bits of guilt from the knot of ugliness in the lady’s mind were working. Lukan had given her some help in finding a wedge to insert into the knot to begin breaking it up. She smiled to herself. A mentally healthy Ariiell was the best defense against Rejiia’s manipulations.

“If you would rather offer your apology more personally, I can summon her household magician and bring the lady into the spell,” Val offered.

At the look of horror on Ariiell’s face, Val knew she’d pushed the healing too far, too fast. “Very well, we can compose the letter this afternoon and I’ll dispatch it to the lady this evening.”

Then I’ll summon Lukan. I might not ethically report to Da or the masters, but I can talk to my brother. I can warn him about Rejiia. And where that cat runs, Krej cannot be far behind.

Jaylor winced as a candle flame passed before his eyes. He slammed them shut before the blinding light could stab deeper into his brain. His head ached all the time. He hated making it worse.

“Well that’s an improvement,” Brevelan said blandly.

“Improvement?” he asked around a dry mouth.

Sharl, his six-year-old daughter, passed him a mug that sloshed with water. He took it from her with a smile, wishing he could see her sweet face with tousled red-gold curls, cheeks just losing baby fat, and big blue eyes that saw a lot more than he wanted her too. Like his shaking hand.

“If you can perceive light, then the blindness is fading, albeit slowly,” Brevelan said. She sounded worried, even though he knew she put on a bright face for the children.

Children. Once the cabin had been full to overflowing with six children and a seventh on the way. With only Sharl and two-year-old Jule left in the house—Lukan should be here too, but he slept elsewhere, creeping in silently in the middle of the night to take the food Brevelan left for him and eat it somewhere else—this home seemed eerily silent.

And dark. If all he could see was a blur of light, and that stabbed him with knife-sharp pain, how could he throw a spell? So much magic depended upon layering images one atop the other and timing by the angle of the sun. Without those markers he was helpless, defenseless.

Useless.

His insides withered into a tight knot centered in his belly.

“You’ll figure it out,” Brevelan said. Her voice moved away from him. Her skirt rustled against her bare legs and feet. The metal pot hook creaked as she pulled it out of the hearth. Then he heard a slight click as she hung a pot on the hook. His nose detected fresh-cut onion, garlic, and sliced carrot before he heard them sizzle in hot fat.

A lessening of warmth on his other side told him that Sharl moved away from him to help her mother. Then the tug of a tiny hand against his knee and he reached to pull Jule into his lap, knowing the little boy still sucked his thumb in uncertainty.

These things he knew. He could even walk to the bedroom he shared with Brevelan at the back of the cabin and only bump into three pieces of furniture. The chair, the chest, and a worktable helped him mark his location.

But how could he throw a spell?

“It’s just backlash from the ungrounded spell,” Brevelan continued. Her utility knife sliced through a yampion, the thick tuber flesh sounded crisp and only half-willing to separate under the pressure of the blade. Then the plop as the bit of vegetable landed in the pot with the other sizzling components of their midday meal. “It will pass, in time.”

“Will it?” He sounded petulant to his own ears.

“If you give it time and don’t go hurrying off to manage the entire world all on your own.”

“I don’t . . .”

“You do.”

“I have delegated . . .”

“An illusion only. You are wearing yourself to skin and bone bouncing back and forth between home and Coronnan City. You stand at the king’s side, you run the old University, you check on Marcus here and have to approve every decision he makes. You have no time left for us, your family.”

He held his breath at the venom in her words.

“You haven’t complained before.”

“I had you home every night before you returned magicians to the Council of Provinces. You were busy. But you ate the food I put in front of you and you slept by my side. Every night. You talked to me. Shared everything with me. Now you talk to the king, to Marcus, and to Glenndon. Everyone but me.”

“Dear heart, I. . . .” What could he say in the face of the truth. “I’ve missed you.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, my love. You are the light of my life and the anchor for my soul. And if I never see again, the one image I will treasure in my memory is your face.”

“Oh, Jaylor!” She dropped things, the knife clattering against the clay bricks before the hearth, the tuber splatting in the same region. Then she cupped his face with both hands and kissed him long and hard.

But her lips felt more desperate than passionate. After nineteen years and many adventures together, he knew the difference.

He shifted Jule to one knee and tugged Brevelan onto his other, holding her tight around her swelling waist.

“We’ll get through this, my love,” she reassured him, resting her head on his shoulder. “And while you learn patience and how to rely on your other senses, you will allow Marcus, the king, and Glenndon to succeed or fail on their own. And when you are well, you can charge in and correct all of their mistakes roaring in displeasure and secretly triumphant that you know best after all.”

“I don’t do that.”

“Yes you do. Especially the roaring. I miss hearing you yelling at everyone and everything in your path. That is what worries me most. You sit and brood. Or pace and brood. One would think you are Darville and not yourself.”

“You could bring a few apprentices to me so that I can find fault with their technique in the loudest voice possible.”

“That I may do.” She shifted away from him, returning to her place before the cook pot. “If you will allow them to help you too.”

He heard her retrieve the knife and realized he could see her silhouette bend to pick it up. She clenched a fist against her lower back as she straightened up. Not a good sign for her to feel this much discomfort only five months into the pregnancy.

Before he could voice his concern she spoke. “In the meantime, think about where Lukan might be sleeping and how we can bring him back to us.”

“I fear he won’t come home with less enticement than a journeyman’s staff. He’s due for one. But I can’t just give him one. He needs a journey and at the moment I need him here.”

“Then tell him that. Make his work here his journey.”

“How can I talk to him, when he isn’t here?”

“Figure it out. For now let Jule lead you outside to the garden. I need more carrots. Surely you can figure out how to uproot a few without damaging them.”

He considered rejecting that order as impossible. How could a blind man dig vegetables?

“With your hands,” she replied contemptuously before he voiced his complaint. “Trust me, you’ll figure it out. But you have to learn patience.”

“Skeller,” Lily touched his arm tentatively as they walked behind the litter. Deep within the curtained dimness, Lady Graciella composed a new recipe for banishing a prickly heat rash. Lily didn’t understand how she could finalize the ingredients without actually mixing and mashing them together, but working it out with pen and ink first seemed to work for her. Perhaps the lady understood the soul of each plant better than Lily.

Skeller flinched his arm away from Lily, masking his rejection in a need to fuss with his harp case.

“The black cat with one white ear is a piece of legend out of our history,” Lily said, as if he listened to her closely. She knew he did. He just couldn’t let her know that. Not yet.

“I need to make you understand what you are dealing with in accepting her and offering her affection along with food.”

“There are lots of black cats with one white ear,” he said softly, still keeping his gaze and hands on the harp.

“Many years ago, when King Darville first assumed the crown—the Coraurlia, it’s this huge glass artifact gifted to our royal line by the dragons . . .”

He snorted, not quite trusting the importance of the magic-infused crown.

“The Coraurlia protects the wearer from magical attack, sends it back to the magician who threw the spell. We call it backlash. The magic compounds and gets really ugly. By the same token, no one who isn’t of the royal line and blessed by the dragons can touch the crown without burning to ash.”

Skeller made no noise, but he still wouldn’t look at her.

“The king’s cousin, Lord Krej, was a secret magician. In those days, neither the king nor a lord could legally possess a full magical talent. Krej wanted to be king. But he couldn’t do that without killing Darville. He devised a spell that would turn a living being into a statue. He turned Shayla, the dragon matriarch, into a life-sized glass sculpture. Inside the prison of glass she was alive and aware of all that was going on around her.”