The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (11 page)

L
UKAN FIRMED HIS grip on the yardarm of the tallest mast on the deep-sea passenger ship, indulging in a moment of listening to the cold sea breeze playfully biting at his cheeks and chin. Whispers of exotic lands and oddly accented words drifted past him. For an instant he thought he smelled sharp spices and heavy incense.

Then it was gone, and the sailor next to him shouted orders to release this rope, that knot. Lukan wished for his brother’s strong telepathic talent. Glenndon always understood what other people wanted because he could reach into their minds and find the true message that sometimes got lost in words. The Crown Prince had had his reasons for not speaking a word until after he went to court to become part of the king’s family.

Cautiously, Lukan tried a minor probe into the sailor’s mind. Not easy with only a boat and water beneath him. He needed land. And trees he could climb. But he had climbed the mast, a solid mass of wood that had once been a tree. Could he find a trace of the everblue essence beneath the layers of varnish?

His hands tingled. But he couldn’t tell if that was from the wood’s hidden life or from the cold engulfing all of his senses.

Then he saw it, clear and shining like a beacon in the dark, the knot he’d clenched when he steadied his balance. He needed to pull the strand to his left and that would . . .

Release the swaying rope he stood on.

A practical joke to test the new man on the crew. To see if he was as experienced as he claimed when he signed on.

Lukan tugged on the strand of a different knot, to his right and watched the mainsail loosen. As each man in turn manipulated the intricate lacework of lines, the heavy canvas dropped and flapped in the strengthening wind. Other men, on the deck below, secured other lines to tighten the fabric and its crossbar where they needed. Taut once more, the sail caught the wind and surged forward, warping the ship out of safe harbor and into the rolling waves of the Great Bay.

Foam on the crests of the waves sparkled in the bright sun. The wind played with the misting water droplets, sending colored prisms shooting forward in the sun’s path.

Lukan breathed deeply and flashed a grin at his potential tormentors.

“In the nest w’you,” grunted the joker on his left. His gaze traveled upward to the very tip of the mast swaying with the ship’s movement, and the tiny platform up there. No railing. No ropes. Nothing to cling to but the mast itself.

A mast that had once been a tree.

Lukan scrambled upward eagerly, letting his bare feet find the notches, only sorry that he’d had to leave his staff wrapped in canvas and tucked into the folds of his hammock belowdecks in the crew quarters.

“Don’t laugh so readily, young’n. You’ll be up there an entire watch. That’s four hours with nothing to anchor your stomach,” the sailor warned him.

Lukan nodded a brief acknowledgment. He knew what awaited him. Nothing worse than hiding from his father in the top of an everblue with only a dragon to ease his loneliness.

He settled his butt on the platform and wrapped one arm around the mast.

“Shout if you see aught cap’n needs to be wary of!” the joker called after him.

“Aye, sir,” Lukan yelled back, knowing that was the response required; his link to the man’s mind hadn’t frayed completely yet.

Then the line of experienced sailors scurried down the mast to where Rejiia’s minion watched every move Lukan made. Of Rejiia or her maid he saw nothing.

Time passed. Lukan easily matched his body rhythms to the gentle sway of the ship. He noted the slow passage of sun from high above toward the western horizon, deep in the foothills of the mountain range that divided Coronnan and SeLenicca. From up here, the line was clear, dark green mounds reaching upward toward snowcapped peaks. In the city he could see only the next building. He liked the sea view.

To the east he saw only the promontories, north and south, where the land curved in protective arms around the Bay. He guessed that they’d pass through the mouth of the Bay into open ocean about the end of his watch.

Home. This felt like home. His mind reached no farther than his eyes could see, and contentment gathered around him.

A roar of laughter jerked him out of a light doze. Hastily he checked to make certain he hadn’t slipped off the nest. Nope. He was firmly in place with one armed wrapped around the mast and the other hand shading his eyes against the sun’s glare. Another peek downward showed him all the sailors going about their business, swabbing decks, coiling lines, securing cargo against the bulwark. A few passengers strolled the cramped spaces. None of them Rejiia.

He sighed in disappointment. Or relief. He wasn’t certain how he should react to the woman when she was out of sight. And he free of her enthrallment.

That was it. Enthrallment. Was she so captivating that his heart and soul reached out to her naturally, or had she thrown a spell to trap him? He’d heard about such spells from Ariiell. At first Rejiia’s spells would only work while in her presence. But with repeated exposure the web of enticement grew stronger until it became a permanent part of a man’s mind.

He couldn’t let that happen and vowed to keep his distance. Even if he had to spend the entire voyage up here in the crow’s nest. No great hardship.

Another roar in the distance, near a line of clouds marring the eastern horizon. A storm brewing?

(Not yet
,
)
a distant voice whispered into his mind.
(Verdii here
.
)

“Lukan here,” Lukan replied with both his mind and voice.

“What can I do for you, Verdii?”

(You should ask why I was sent to follow you.)

“Um, why were you sent to follow me?” Anger coiled like a tight fist in the middle of his chest, cutting off his breathing.
I’m on journey,
S’murghit
! I’m supposed to do this on my own
.

(And I am supposed to keep secret the reasons of my elders.)

“Did my father put you up to this?”

(No.)

That was a bit of relief. He could well imagine Jaylor consulting with Shayla and Baamin, the matriarch and her favored mate of the dragon nimbus. Jaylor, Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University
and
chief counselor to the king, would feel no shame in asking the dragons to keep track of a son he didn’t trust to pull on his own boots or cast a competent summons spell.

But Jaylor was dead. Completely so—as far as he knew. Jaylor had not reanimated into dragon form to complete his destiny as Old Baamin had. No, Da and Mama completed each other. So with one gone into the void, the other followed.

“Then who sent you?”

(A friend. A friend who wishes you well and knows that you will face trouble beyond the means of the strongest master magicians. I am to watch only, and be your friend as well.)

“Oh.” Lukan had to think on that a few moments. “I have often wished for a friend. A true friend, not someone like Skeller who only travels beside me and will part when we reach his destination, never to see me again.”

(Friends we are, Lukan!)

“Friends we are.”

Verdii broke free of the cloud shadow and soared high, his fire-green wing tips and spinal horns shining bright as if lit from within by a thousand candles. Silver hints in his juvenile fur reflected bright arrows of light back toward Lukan’s eyes, nearly blinding him. The dragon dipped and soared, circling the ship in a wild spiral, then dove deep and fast, wings tucked tight against his nearly invisible body.

Out in the ocean, where the waves rolled high before the gathering storm, he plunged into the deep water. Seconds later he rose up, a giant sharkeel fish gripped tightly in his long talons. The monster of the deep wriggled and fought. But the dragon was stronger. Already his claws penetrated the thick skin of his prey and drew blood. The fish’s strength waned as the dragon flapped and flew higher before turning toward land.

(I eat well tonight!)
Verdii chortled as he disappeared toward the promontory to the north.

“I hope I do.”

“Did you see that?” a sailor asked, climbing the mast toward Lukan. “A dragon. A real dragon. I’ve heard tales, but I’ve never seen one before.” The young man paused, gape-jawed in awe.

“Aye, I saw it. Legend says that dragons bring good weather.”

“Let’s hope. Not good to have to huddle belowdecks in a gale. Especially on your first voyage.” He grinned widely again. “I’m Joe, come to relieve you. The new cook has quite a spread laid out for the passengers. Crew’s fare is not quite so grand. But better than the usual dried journey food.”

Lukan’s mouth watered and his stomach growled. He’d tasted a few of the delicacies Skeller could create out of grass, water, and song. This looked to be a grand beginning of a magnificent journey. Later tonight he’d summon Val and share some of the wonders of sea travel with her. And have her pass on the information that Rejiia was aboard.

Three S’murghin days I have lain in this pitiful excuse for a bed. Flea-ridden, stinking straw covered in a tick so coarse it would chafe me raw had I not brought my own linens, blankets, and down pillows. By the great Simeon, what I wouldn’t give for enough power to calm the rocking decks and raise a steady tailwind.

The long rolling waves grow as the sea deepens beneath them and there is no shore for them to break upon. The ship barely plows through them. My minions tell me that we weathered a mild storm.

I don’t care. My stomach heaves with every lurch of the deck.

And we wallow, traversing only a few miles each day. I swear I could swim to the Big Continent faster than this scow. If I could swim. The cat in me shudders in extreme distaste at the idea of soaking my fur. But I no longer wear fur. I frequently bathe and enjoy it. Then, too, I am reminded of the sight of a dragon skewering a monster fish the first day at sea.

My stomach rebels at the thought of eating anything. The rancid water in the barrels stinks of stale fish and rotting plants.

“My lady, you would feel better above decks,” mincing little Bette says from right beside me.

“No,” I reply through clenched teeth. If I open my mouth further I will hurl. If I had anything left in my stomach but burning bile. The image of spewing over her carefully brushed gown with its tidy darns and mended seams lightens my mood.

Then Geon, with his scarred face, muscles his way into the tiny cabin, all I could afford for the three of us. Not a problem until I took ill. He scowls at me—but then the burns on his face drag his mouth into a perpetual frown. He has known pain and can draw power from that. And he gives pain so deliciously.

He scoops me up into his deceptively strong arms. He stands tall and skinny, with overly long arms and legs giving the impression he has no more strength or stiffness than a scarecrow.

“My lady, you need fresh air. The closeness of the cabin will poison you if you remain still any longer.” He barely breathes deep as he lifts me and carries me to the steep ladder they call a stairway. Even my Geon cannot carry me up, but he pushes and prods and finally with both hands cupping my bum he shoves me through the hatch.

My head emerges through the square hole just as the ship lurches once more. My stomach follows suit with a lurch of its own.

Laughter surrounds me from the crew. Worst of all, Lukan, the magician’s brat, smirks from his seat on a coil of rope. He makes no derisive sound, but I see it in his eyes and the flutter of his hands as he mends a line with a fat and clumsy splice.

I send a waning tendril of magic his way, unraveling the two rope ends so that he must start over.

He sighs in frustration. That restores me more than the fresh air and heightening breeze. He will know more than frustration before I am through with him. Before I break his will and make him my slave.

“Bette, tonight you will seduce the boy. Take him in the pile of spare canvas in the stern. Make him beg for more and more of your attentions. Drag him into our thrall any way you can
.”

R
OBB BREATHED THROUGH his mouth, trying not to gag as the stench coming from the cell three doors down grew.
Rotten magic.
That was the only way to describe it. As if a dozen skunks had loosed their stream uncontrollably while sleeping off a drunk from overripe apples fermenting in the sun.

After three days he’d almost gotten used to the stink. Three days of pacing four steps around his cell, of stretching out on a pallet of straw that hadn’t been freshened in moons. It stank too, of sweat and urine and other things. And his beard itched with bugs and a rash as well as new growth.

Idly he scratched at the bugbites on his face, chest, and legs. Maigret would slap his hand away from the irritation. He could almost hear her say, “Scratching only makes it worse.” But then she’d apply a soothing lotion, letting her hands linger, caress, soothe, and delight.

He sighed and scratched again. Maigret was a long, long way away, and so were her love and her potions.

His throat closed as his stomach rebelled at a new wave of the odor sneaking under and around the warped door. Not warped enough for him to manipulate into opening without a key, though.

A scream of terror and pain.

The derisive laughter of Lokeen enjoying himself.

Another scream that faded into whimpers.

Stumbling footsteps outside his door. One man. Then two. And the distinctive sound of retching.

Robb’s imagination filled in the details.

Stargods! The king had fed someone to the Krakatrice. Deliberately. And he watched in glee as a perceived enemy died horribly.

Was he next?

Maria clenched her fists and drove them into her mouth. She bit down hard to keep from screaming in outrage.

“This has to stop, my lady,” Frederico whispered as he wormed his way upward from his knees in the dark corner of this side corridor where he’d lost his breakfast.

“What can
I
do? I am but a deformed dwarf, not fit to lead, let alone rule.”

The guard and his companion stared at her strangely. As if they expected her—the forgotten younger sister of the late queen—to assume the crown and order the soldiers to seize Lokeen and feed him to his own torturers.

“The high priestess and all of her council decreed at my birth that I may never take the throne,” she murmured. “It would be a grave insult to the Great Mother.” As if she needed to explain that again. And again.

“There is no one else, lady.”

“I have cousins who are hale and hearty—fertile.” She wasn’t certain she could even mate with a man without a great deal of pain and suffering.

The men said nothing, letting her search her mind for a solution. A relative. Anyone other than Lokeen.

“He is an abomination in the eyes of the Great Mother,” a meek voice from the back of the circle of soldiers muttered. “How can She look on you with disfavor when
he
commits heresy every day he breathes?”

“I do not know. I do not
know
.” But the idea of taking responsibility for the entire kingdom frightened her to immobility. Her knees turned to jelly.

“There are dozens, hundreds of men in the city who would willingly become your champion if you would only grant one of them the Spearhead of Destiny.”

Maria blanched. She had no right.

The world tilted a bit around her and she feared she’d fall. A strong arm crept around her waist and kept her upright. She cherished the warmth and comfort of the man’s touch for a moment. No one ever thought to touch her, hug her, throw an arm around her in friendship. She missed being touched more than anything since her sister, Lokeen’s wife, the queen, had died.

Her mind drifted back to the last time Yolanda had hugged her. The day of her wedding.

“Oh, Maria, the dress is perfect!” Yolanda had squealed in delight, more like a twelve year old with a new pony than a woman about to take the crown of an ancient and powerful city-state. She stooped to wrap Maria in a tight hug. Maria returned the embrace.

“The deep green Tambrin lace from SeLennica offsets the white silk nicely, and is symbolic of the fertility of both you and the lands you rule,” Maria had said, tweaking one of the soft drapes of fabric that fell from hip to floor like a static waterfall.

“But the white is so stark, with so little contrast with my hair and skin.” Yolanda pouted as she surveyed her image in the polished silver mirror.

“White too is an important symbol. You are not yet married, available to name a consort to help uphold your rule.”

Yolanda blushed.

And Maria knew that she was no longer virgin, might even be pregnant. That was also suitable. But it also meant that she was still enamored of Lokeen and likely to name him her consort and husband as well as champion.

After that day, all of Yolanda’s hugs had been reserved for her husband and sons. None left over for her sister, who had been dismissed to the servants’ quarters by Lokeen within hours of their marriage.

“Bless you,” she breathed to Frederico when the world stopped spinning and the breeze ceased to buffet her.

Breeze? Indoors? Half a level above the deepest dungeon?

And then she saw it. A pale square on the floor at her feet.

The guard who had held her upright bent to retrieve it. “A letter, lady,” he said quietly. “Addressed to the Queen of Amazonia.”

“I am not the queen,” she insisted.

The men did not have to say that a letter dispatched by magic would find the intended recipient no matter what.

Quickly she grabbed the precisely folded parchment and inspected the seal. Green encircled by gold. A dragon impressed into the wax. This could only have come from Darville, king by the grace of the dragons, of Coronnan.

“This is a reply to His Majesty’s missive of a few days ago,” she said simply, sorting her thoughts as she prepared to deliver it by hand. This should divert Lokeen from his grisly pastime.

Maria couldn’t save the man who had preached loudly and publicly in the Temple Square against the king. But perhaps she could gain some time for the wizard.

“All five of you, come with me. You must swear to remove me safely from the king’s presence if this news displeases him.”

They all slapped clenched right fists over their hearts and nodded grimly. Faint reassurance for Maria. And yet, their determined loyalty gave her hope that she could find a way to end Lokeen’s tyranny.

Lily stumbled over her own feet. The world tilted and the sun near blinded her. She pressed against her temples with both hands, trying to contain the headache that pounded deeply into her brain and down her neck. “I’m worn out. Three days without sleep while I nursed the sick has left me so tired I’m dizzy,” she lied to herself.

The cold sweat on her brow told her the truth.

She leaned against the rough daub-and-wattle wall of the nearest hut, turning her back on the central fire pit where two women listlessly cut parsnips into the communal stew—more like soup than stew. Hopefully none of the villagers saw her moment of weakness. She needn’t have worried, they were all weak, weary, and frightened.

A wisp of white along the top of the hill drew her gaze like a lodestone to the pole. Too late in the day for morning mist. Too solid to be fog, and yet too wispy to be more than just air and water. No person could wear white that dazzling while working the land. No animal would sport fur that bright and attention grabbing.

“Are you waiting for me, Death?” she whispered. Her feet trod in that direction without her thinking about it. She couldn’t stay put if she wanted.

Each step toward that drifting form eased her headache and cooled her fevered brow.

(I wait for those who need me
.)
The husky voice spoke into her mind like a dragon. But this was no dragon filled with life and joy and wisdom.

“Haven’t you taken enough souls this year? Why are you so hungry?” Lily demanded as she crested the hill.

Death eased toward the copse and the spreading graveyard. In three days, three new cairns marked the graves of elders and young alike.

(I do not decree who dies. I am. That is all I know
.
)

“You are too greedy! Leave these people alone. They’ve lost too much already.”

(Who are you, to advocate for strangers?)

“I am . . . I am . . .” And suddenly she forgot who she was, how she had made a new home in this village, why she cared.

The white mist reached out a ghostly hand to touch Lily’s brow, then jerked it away as if burned.
(You are not for me. Not yet. Though I will come to you eventually. For now, know that you alone in this village are safe from me
.
)

Lily fell into darkness, a sharp wind ripped around her. Falling, falling, deeper and deeper into the well of . . . another time and place . . . into . . .

She woke with a jerk, inside the tiny hut assigned to her, the home of an elder who had lived alone and died surrounded by friends. Her fire had dropped to embers and ashes. Sweat cooled on her body.

In the distance a dragon crooned in relief.

But her heart raced as if she had run uphill all the way to the dragon lair.

“Welcome back to life,” Mistress Sella croaked. The crone threw a handful of kindling on the fire and placed a small pot of water over the coals. “You’ll be needing a bit more of the fairy bells and willow bark a’fore you tend the sick again. I’ll be next.” The hunchbacked old woman backed out of the hut that was too small for even her to stand upright in.

Lily’s heart continued to trip and slide in an odd and too-fast drumbeat. Arrhythmic, not the music of life. She touched her moist forehead and found a cold spot in the center. Death had touched her but left her living. Why?

Only her pounding heart and ragged breathing answered her. Answered her and told her what she needed to do.

She had to find the strength to awaken her minimal magical talent.

Dragons, help me!

Silence rang inside her head.