The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 (21 page)

“Sir?” Mikk swallowed his curiosity long enough to ask one burning question. “Could the person who conjures this storm have stolen the book and cloaked its absence with a spell?”

“No!” Aggelard shouted. He waved his hand over the bowl of water, mumbled something and peered deeply again.

“Yes,” Bommhet said more quietly.

“But . . .” Mikk protested, looking back and forth between them.

Bommhet waved away his protest. “Help me up. My knees don’t like squatting so long.” He stuck out a long arm for Mikk to grab.

Mikk had done this many times for both his grandparents. He locked his grip around the master’s elbow and braced his own arm with his other hand. Bommhet mimicked his action as if he too had had to request assistance many times in the past. Mikk braced himself with a wide stance as he heaved and the magician levered himself upward with a grunt and a wince. When he was on his feet again, he bent double, rubbing his offended knees and brushing away some grit at the same time.

Together they made their way down the spiral staircase, Bommhet stepping sideways and gripping the railing with both hands. Mikk moved slowly, staying two steps ahead of the master, ready to catch him if he fell.

When they stood over Master Aggelard at the center of the ground floor, Bommhet braced his hands on the round desk and leaned forward until he was eye-level with the shrunken form of the ancient librarian. “Master Aggelard, our rival has four masters with him. Almost enough for a full circle. He may have added journeymen to his cause. I suspect they conjure this storm from exile.”

“But how could he get the book?”

“He was here before the Leaving.” Bommhet slapped the desk vehemently. “He knows this library. Undoubtedly he read the same chronicle you did and remembered it.”

“But . . . but . . . how did he get the book now, since our return to the old building and resurrecting the library from all its hidden places?”

“He could not have entered the building unannounced,” Bommhet agreed.

“A disguise? Or an accomplice?” Mikk offered, intrigued by the possibilities. No one outside the University spoke of these squabbles. Magicians always,
always
, presented a united front to the outside world.

Mikk had believed, like so many others, that the magical ability to read minds meant that magicians settled their differences easily and reached compromises amicably. Apparently he was wrong. Magicians were just like any other family or group. They fought each other as much as the Council of Provinces did. The recent, but short-lived, civil war among the lords echoed a split in the Circle of Master Magicians.

What other echoes would he find hidden inside this enclave?

“We have to accept that the book is not here. You, sir, have to remember as much of it as possible so that we can counter the spell,” Bommhet insisted.

“The city needs to prepare.” Master Aggelard’s voice quavered. “Even if we break apart the eye within the circular winds, the storm surge already building will flood the city halfway up the palace walls.”

“Boy,” Bommhet said in his most commanding voice; there might have been a bit of compulsion behind it.

Mikk found himself straightening to show his attention.

“Run to the king and warn him. Set the temple bells ringing. We are out of time!”

T
HE SMALL CIRCLE
of glass, framed in gold, buzzed and nearly bounced out of Jaylor’s pocket. The noise and smell of fear in the inner room of the cabin had quieted. Thank the Stargods. He wanted desperately to be in there, holding Brevelan’s hand, soothing her brow, fetching and carrying for her.

He hadn’t been here when she’d collapsed. He’d been closeted with Marcus at the University, just talking about everything and nothing. Wasted time. Wasted energy. He should have stayed home.

And now he needed nothing more than to be beside his wife.

But he couldn’t. Maigret had banished him until Brevelan had slept and eaten and slept again. She still slept with Souska sitting at her side. He could give his attention to the summons instead of biting his cheeks in worry over Brevelan.

Maybe he needed something to take his mind off his ailing wife. His
wife!
His companion, lover, friend, helper. The mother of his children. Their lives had been so intricately twined since that long ago day when they’d first met . . . here in the Clearing. She with a song of joy in her heart, and he with a mission that lost importance the moment he caught a glimpse of her bright red hair shining like fiery gold in the sunlight . . .

He turned away from the bedroom, holding the frame as if his fingers alone kept it upright, and fished the annoying glass into view. He had to squint and hold the thing up to his nose to pick out a complex twist and knot of five strands of light in varying shades of gray.

Though his sight had improved a bit, he still had trouble making out colors. Magical patterns tended to carry vivid hues akin to the magician’s personality. The pattern belonged to . . . no one he could think of offhand, and he couldn’t get any clues from the colors.

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.
A
nd 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.