The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (14 page)

“W
HY ARE YOU alive?” Stanil asked accusingly as Lily emerged from Sella’s hut.

She blinked away sun dazzle as she stood, slowly and carefully, after stooping low to come through the doorway. She had to pause and let her heartbeat return to normal, or as close to normal as it ever was these days. “Because I came from elsewhere, strong and healthy. My body had not gradually weakened as the miasma became more potent, rising from the ground,” she replied as calmly as she could.

Stanil, she noted looked frailer, more gaunt, almost skeletal, as his arms and legs appeared too long without a comfortable layer of flesh. If he hadn’t succumbed to the disease by now, he probably wouldn’t. Lily had seen no new cases in a day and a half. But if the village headman didn’t take care of himself, he’d still be vulnerable to a host of other lethal ailments.

“You should have let Death take you. She touched you and still you live. That’s not natural.” He turned and stumped away. His own guilt at surviving when his wife and child had died washed over her.

She absorbed his emotions, understood them, and pushed them aside. Startled at how easily she removed herself from deep empathy, she turned to look up at the hilltop. Death’s strange white mist still lurked there. “Did you do this to me?” she whispered.

(Death and life are entwined. You cannot have one without the other
.
)

“I know that.” She paused, chewing on her lip. “I
know
that. Now. Not before.”

(Death is like the void. A transition between here and there. You are not ready to enter the void, let alone cross it
.)

“Did Mama and Da cross the void together?”

The mist drifted away.
(I have marked you. For now it is a blessing. I cannot take you until
you
call me. Later the blessing will seem a yoke.)

Lily rubbed the cold spot at the center of her forehead. She hadn’t dared look in a basin of water to see if the place where Death had touched her was visible. She detected no difference in skin texture, only temperature. Cold. The deep, bone-chilling breath of Death, in a perfect circle the size of a fingertip.

“Mama blesses you, my lady,” a little girl just stretching toward womanhood said shyly. She handed a small pot, scrubbed clean, to Maria at the back door of the kitchen.

“Did she eat the chicken and make broth from the bones?” Maria asked, taking the old dented pot and handing it to a scullery boy.

“Yes, my lady. As you instructed, with the healing herbs. And she and the new babe are thriving now.” The girl bobbed a curtsy and backed up one step, preparing to flee.

“Jilla was a valuable soldier. She served our late queen well and does not deserve to die of the milk fever when I can help her,” Maria said. “Come to me if she sickens again.”

“Yes, my lady.” This time the girl did not hesitate to flee up the stairs to the kitchen garden.

Maria turned back to her task and carefully filled a lamp, making sure not a single drop spilled on the worktable of the scullery. The oil wasn’t expensive, being the residue of a common tree berry. Still, she hated the thought of wasting any of a useful resource. As Lokeen had wasted the useful resource of the women warriors. Soon enough he would waste more and more essential supplies upon his “pets,” the hideous snakes that poisoned everything they touched, especially the minds of those they could manipulate.

Satisfied that the lamp would burn as long as she needed, and then some, she dismissed the guards, Jacko and Jimbo, twin brothers as alike in face and form as two dressed stones in the wall who had taken to following her everywhere. “I shall be safe enough in the treasury,” she insisted, when they protested.

The two men looked at each other for confirmation—she could almost see a single thought pass between them—then nodded their compliance. She knew well and good that they would slink behind her and station themselves within steps of the locked and windowless room, deep within the castle and two stories up. In a thousand years, no one had managed to steal from the sacred treasures kept there along with tax moneys and family jewels. Twice in their history the crown had been lost to war, one civil, one an invasion. Those new monarchs had assumed the treasury only after defeating the royal family.

She sensed a third war fermenting among the populace. Before the people rose up in revolution against Lokeen, Maria needed to see that no one had disturbed the items in her charge, including Robb’s staff. Lokeen had the glass tucked away in his saddlebag, well insulated in silk.

A hook awaited the lamp to the left of the single doorway into the treasury. A tall man could walk through the portal without stooping, but the lintel would brush his hair. A broad man would have to think twice about entering, and turn sideways or get stuck. Painfully she rose up on tiptoe to secure the lamp. She had to bite her lip and push herself beyond her usual limitations. For one hundred heartbeats she wished she’d kept the guards close so they could perform this chore for her. Then the handle caught on the hook, swayed alarmingly for a moment, and settled to shed a soft glow in a half circle. Far enough for her to see what she needed to see.

Maria ignored the orderly collections of jewelry, crowns, fine brocade coronation robes, and glittering gem-encrusted cups and plates and such. These were reserved for special occasions like a royal wedding, coronation, birth of a royal daughter, or funeral. Dust covered them all, as well as the neat shelves where they rested in organized groups. No patterns of disruption in the dust, so no one had touched or moved anything.

Chests filled with gold and silver coins did not entice her. She needed those to pay loyal retainers and servants their annual dues.

At the back of the room stood an altar carved of rare woods and special stone. A single idol of a pregnant woman with pendulous breasts stood at the center. A single square of silk draped around her nudity. Diamonds glinted from her eye sockets, twinkling with joy in the lamplight. A heart-shaped ruby formed her mouth in a perpetual benevolent kiss. Emeralds dangled from her earlobes. Other lovely ornaments strung in chains formed her long hair, flowing to her heels.

Maria wore a miniature replica on a golden chain around her neck. She brought it out from the inner folds of her blouse, kissed it and let it dangle in full view of the statue.

Then she bowed reverently to this symbol of the royal house (whichever family claimed the title). Automatically words in an ancient language caressed her lips,
Maya ’Panish
. Only women knew this tongue with its liquid sounds and lilting cadence. Only women were allowed to gaze upon this nameless goddess who had become known as the Great Mother.

Reverence complete, Maria sought the most precious artifacts from the earliest times. She touched a fingertip to her tongue to moisten it, then ran it around the rim of a fine marble cauldron rimmed in gold until the stone sang. The note caught in the back of her throat, and she let it come forth to match the cauldron of life. The stone walls picked up the tone and reverberated in perfect harmony.

“I am not worthy,” she said, backing away when the most sacred object in the entire land quieted of its own accord. “My body is twisted, strung together wrong. I can never bear children. But I worship you with awe. I revere life and abhor the loss of any—including traitors and criminals. I regret only that I cannot remove the usurper who poisons our land, our culture, our lives. He perverts the laws laid down by you eons ago.”

In the echoes of the Goddess’ song still ringing in her ears, she almost heard words.

(You know what you must do.)

“I cannot. I am too weak. I am deformed. There is no other woman of my line who can rule!”

(You know what you must do.)

And then her ears heard only silence. The walls lost their resonance. The cauldron became just an inert bowl.

But the other artifact on the left side of the goddess, the side of last resort, seemed to absorb and reflect every bit of light in the room, gathering it into a single ray and projecting the beam directly into Maria’s eyes.

The Spearhead of Destiny.

Only the obsidian head remained, as the original shaft of wood had rotted and been replaced many times over the centuries. No one in recent generations had seen a need to replace it. Amazonia had not seen war in almost two hundred years. The Krakatrice had remained elusive, almost extinct and of no danger until . . . until Lokeen had spawned his despicable plans. Or Sir had fed him the idea to further his own plans.

“The time is coming soon, when I must either wield the spear myself or entrust it to a man.” For no man could safely touch the thing unless it was given willingly to him by a woman warrior.

Maria knew of no man she could trust this with. Not a single one of the guards. Probably not even Robb.

A tear leaked from her right eye. How could she, a twisted and deformed dwarf, ever hope to use the Spearhead in any way that could be useful to the people of Amazonia?

(You know what you must do
.
)

She removed the letter Frederico had grudgingly given back to her from her bodice and secreted it behind the statue.

(A beginning.)

L
UKAN WATCHED REJIIA and her two servants enter the temple. He let one of the wide columns hide him. Another shadowed Skeller.

“We must find you proper attire to present you to the king,” Rejiia’s female companion whispered. “He must perceive you as royal, more royal than the Lady Ariiell.”

“My sources tell me that the lady has sent a final rejection of the king’s proposal. He is anxious for a royal bride, any royal female to secure his throne,” said the scarred man (Lukan thought he was named Geon).

“You have hinted before that Lokeen’s shaky throne depends upon a royal wife to give him authority,” Rejiia mused, pausing before the double doors. “Is it possible that this royal wife could indeed rule without a man at her side?” A big grin split her face and hardened her eyes.

All traces of Lukan’s lust for her beauty vanished in the face of her ugly plotting.

“That does not happen often,” the man replied. “Women are revered for the daughters they can bear. I have heard that if taking an active part in ruling or heading an army interferes with pregnancy, she is encouraged to stay home and spit out baby after baby.”

They moved inside, bowing reverently to the two women stationed just inside the door.

“Geon got it wrong. Yes, we revere our women for the new life they bring forth, but they also fight alongside men, can rule with or without a male consort, and be their own champions. But by the Great Mother, she’d make a worse queen than Ariiell, when Ariiell was still insane,” Skeller said, blanching as pale as his bleached leather harp case. “We have to follow her. Keep her away from the king.” He stepped out of the shadows far enough for the door guardians to raise eyebrows at him questioningly.

“Not today.” A lad in black leather, about fifteen and just coming into his full height, barely needing to shave, grabbed one of Skeller’s elbows with his right hand, Lukan’s with his left, and turned them both back toward the city.

“Chess?” Lukan gasped in surprise, anger, and . . . hope. “Last I saw you, you transported out of the Clearing with Master Robb. How did you get here? Where
is
he?” A dozen more questions needed to spill forth.

“Not here. Not now.” Chess looked all around the lovely little garden and then sprinted to the left, to a narrow passageway leading into a warren of alleys.

Lukan matched the boy stride for stride, remembering their youth together when Lukan had always been the taller, and still was, but not by much. No longer did he have the broader and stronger shoulders either. Chess had bulked up, and he kept a firm grip on both of them without trouble.

Skeller stumbled again and again, trying to pull free and keep watch on the temple. “We have to stop her.”

“There are other ways, Bard.”

“My brother will help. He’s . . .”

“Not in the castle and no longer has the ear of the king, though the people love and respect him for the generous gift of healing he gives without question,” Chess said with a firm yank on Skeller’s arm. “
You
can regain the ear of the king and prevent the witch from marrying him. Not your brother. He is lost to the royal family. Your father cannot see the good in the nursing order the temple of Helvess has taken on. He sees only the perversion of the partner choices.”

They turned right and left again. Lukan had a sense that they aimed back toward the castle in the center of the city, but he couldn’t be sure their circuitous route would end up there.

“Where are we going?” he finally asked.

“Someplace safe. Can’t talk out here.”

The silence of the marketplace came to Lukan’s mind. He didn’t have to ask if the king had spies waiting for one stray word against their ruler. The fear that permeated the city said it all.

A somewhat larger street loomed ahead of them. Chess stopped abruptly. Skeller almost fell face forward into the road at the abrupt change of momentum.

The clop of many shod steed feet dominated the intersection. A dozen riding animals trotted smartly toward them. Two men in front wearing black and red livery cleared the way with thrusting lances. Close behind them rode a short, paunchy man in a richer black robe trimmed in red. A gold circlet sat firmly on his brow with jet and ruby pendants dangling from it all the way around.

“The king,” Skeller whispered in disgust.

“Hush,” Chess warned him.

Keeping a firm distance behind the king rode another man. Tall and gaunt, wearing faded blue journey leathers. New gray at his temples formed back-sweeping wings.

“Master Robb!” Lukan gasped.

The magician turned to look sharply in his direction. Recognition sprang into his eyes; hope, and then worry swept through, just as quickly.

“We have to free him,” Lukan insisted, trying desperately to pull free of Chess’ grip.

“Not now. He’s safe for now. We’ll have the advantage when they return. I can show you where they keep him. But without a plan, without help, I have no chance of freeing him. You two might. One without, one within. Tomorrow or the next day. No later.”

“Pray the Stargods help us,” Lukan breathed.

“Pray the dragons help us,” Chess retorted. “They’ll be more useful in tearing the castle apart stone by stone. That’s the only way to get in, unless you’re the king’s long-lost son come home to beg forgiveness.” He stared long and hard directly at Skeller.

Robb bit back his gasp at the sight of his apprentice Chess and Lukan. The two together. Lukan with a staff. Surely they’d been sent to rescue him. Surely he need endure this horror only a while longer.

But why hadn’t either of them done something,
anything
, to end this nightmare.

The presence of guards riding on either side of him, at the front of the party, and at the rear told him more than he wanted to acknowledge. They’d never get him out alive.

Could they infiltrate the prison to get him out later?

He doubted it.

Hope died in him.

The king urged his steed on, through the city toward the ragged hills and cliffs to the east and north. “We are almost there. We are far enough away from the castle that you can work magic again,” Lokeen called over his shoulder. He dug his heels into the steed’s flank to urge it to go faster.

The grinding rhythm of Robb’s steed already chafed his thighs and pounded his hips and lower back. He wondered if he’d be crippled when they finally dismounted.

“Hurry up! Do I need to have you slung across the saddle and tied hand and foot?” Lokeen giggled again.

Robb loosened the reins to let the animal match its pace to the others’ rapid trot.

Another half mile of tortuous riding brought them around a bend in the road and into sight of a neat little manor house. The sandstone bricks rippled in colors ranging from pale cream to deep rust and back again. The tall box of a building—three stories aboveground—sat within a hedge-fenced farmyard where flusterhens pecked at the sandy dirt, two goats nibbled at the dusty green hedge that wove in and out of the stake-and-string boundary, and a lounging dog of indeterminate breed and color perked his floppy ears, lifted his head, and barked once inquisitively.

The party turned into the gate, riding single file through the narrow gap in the hedge. A middle-aged man and woman, dressed in identical loose robes dyed a pale yellow, appeared in the doorway, bowing deeply with hands held out to the sides, open palms showing that they were unarmed.

Robb swallowed a snort of derision. Those robes—certainly a cool advantage in midday heat—could hide a myriad of weapons. This must be a courtesy ingrained in old tradition.

“Food and wine!” the lead guard bellowed. The couple scuttled inward while the party dismounted.

Robb groaned and winced at every tiny movement in his effort to get off the tall steed. Had the animal grown three hands at the shoulder during the ride? Probably not. He just felt that way from the screaming of his own muscles.

“This is my old farm,” Lokeen explained. He affected a stately walk up the six stone steps set in a half circle before the door. Bright red stones limned the steps, clearly delineating them in the glaring sun that ricocheted light off every flat surface—vertical and horizontal. Robb longed for a broad-brimmed hat to shade his aching eyes.

He made himself circle his mount three times to loosen his legs before attempting those six steps.

“Gets easier the more you do it,” a guard whispered as Robb passed him on the third circuit.

“But when will
he
give me another chance?” Robb muttered back, sotto voce.

“Depends upon how well you please him today. He’s not cruel to those who obey him without question.”

The shady interior washed soothingly cool air around Robb and beckoned him deeper. The rust-colored shutters had all been closed to keep out the heat. He presumed the stewards would open them again at sunset to regulate the temperature.

After blinking rapidly for several moments, Robb noticed a long passageway toward a small courtyard at the center of the building. A fountain splashed beside a tall tree with sharp fish scale bark and feathery branches at the top. Beneath the second-story balcony Lokeen had claimed a lounge made of woven reeds. Wicker. He’d read somewhere that the hardened reeds were called wicker, and sometimes painted. These retained their natural soft golden color. The king’s booted feet plonked against the hard tile flooring. The steward raced to remove those boots and replace them with embroidered slippers.

“You may sit there.” Lokeen waved Robb toward an armchair made of the same wicker.

He sat carefully, his thighs protesting the change. A low table carved in delicate spirals and inlaid with iridescent shells rested between them. Before Robb could sit back and rest, the lady scooted forward from the shadows with another pair of slippers for him. He gratefully accepted her help in removing his tight boots from sweaty feet. A shake of her head warned him not to use the table as a footrest. Apparently only the king was allowed to lounge here.

“Here is King Darville’s reply to your earlier letter. I need you to decipher it.” Lokeen produced a folded parchment from an interior pocket. The forest green wax seal had been broken and torn away, leaving only a stain on the thin and worn parchment. “Maria gave it to me this morning. The seal was broken already. She read it before realizing it needed to come to me. I do not recognize the hand that wrote it.”

“King Darville has many clerks. They write. He signs,” Robb explained. But he recognized the precise letters formed by his old friend and journey companion Marcus.

Robb took the piece of parchment and laid it flat upon the table. A quick scan showed him hints of a hidden message beneath the written words. He doubted Lokeen or Maria had noticed that. “What makes you think there is code in these words?” he asked.

“Because the words do not give me the answer I need!”

“Lady Ariiell has refused your proposal,” Robb said flatly, reading more carefully. He’d need to ground and center himself and go into a half trance to find the magic within the ink. Did he dare?

“Which she can’t do,” Lokeen said. His mouth twitched in anger. “Your own laws state that such a decision must be made by her father or guardian. Her father signed a marriage treaty with me. What does she truly say?”

Any sense of friendliness or affability evaporated from Lokeen, though he maintained his casual recline.

The steward brought a tray with a wine decanter, two cups, and two plates filled with spiced meat, dates, olives, and a mild goat cheese. The lady brought a second tray piled with fresh, warm flatbread. Delicacies Robb had enjoyed for a few days while in the tower room, but not in the dungeon. He forced himself to wait for Lokeen to select a few morsels before grabbing his own portion.

They ate in silence a few moments.

“Eat more, especially the meat. I know you need fuel to work magic,” Lokeen said, his eyes nearly closed as he peered at Robb.

“I do not want to abuse your hospitality.”

“Then eat all your stomach can hold. I need you whole and hale to tell me what that letter truly says. There has to be a code or magic or something!”

Robb wrapped several slices of meat and cheese in the bread and ate his meal in small bites, knowing the big gulps that tempted him would upset his stomach and weaken his magic. Then he drained his cup of wine before leaning against the chair back and breathing deeply. He closed his eyes and sought a connection to the Kardia beneath his feet. Slowly he felt the pulse of the land, the tug of the magnetic pole, and an inner sight that made all the objects around him transparent, yet sharp in detail.

Magical strength trickled into him.

And then . . .

And then . . . a flood of the special energy he had craved to gather for moons.

A dragon. A dragon flew nearby, granting him access to magic. All he could gather and store in that special place behind his heart.

Thank you. Robb here.

(Verdii here. You are welcome. Lukan sends greetings and wishes for patience.)

When had Lukan ever been patient about anything?

Then the elusive presence of the dragon withdrew.