The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (19 page)

I have learned not to ask of Geon how he manages what he manages. He waited until the chatelaine of the castle—a pitiful deformed dwarf of a woman I would not allow in my home—left the castle. Then my servant presented my credentials to an underling. She had not the real authority to accept me as a guest in the castle, but neither did she have the authority to decline a visit from the great-granddaughter of a king of Coronnan.

My royal blood is well documented: My father’s father was younger brother to old King Darcine—Darville’s father. Of my father’s legitimate children I am the eldest. My sisters, if they still live, dwell in exile in Hanassa, or maybe Rossemeyer, somewhere disgusting, with our mother.

By the time the dwarf—I am told she would be queen but for her deformity—returns, I have settled in sumptuous quarters conveniently near the king’s private suite, the rooms where he actually sleeps and dresses rather than the more formal receiving room in his privy chamber and robing room.

“If we’d known you were coming,” the chatelaine says on a sniff, as if I am unwelcome and she would oust me if she could, “we would have made certain that King Lokeen was in residence to receive you. As it is, you must wait upon his convenience.”

“And when will that be?” I ask on an equally disdainful sniff.

She shrugs and turns on her heel to make her slow way out of my rooms. “His Majesty comes and goes as His Majesty pleases. We dine one hour after sunset. Be prompt. No one will bring you food if you are not. Your servants may eat with the other servants in their hall belowstairs.”

I swear that I will kick that woman into the murky water of the harbor myself as soon as I am entrenched. I must remember that, royal blood or no, I am a guest. I must behave.

That does not mean I can’t begin to ensnare the populace with my enticement spells and seductions. Bette and Geon can begin with the servants and administrators. They already scout out the hidden passages and forgotten rooms in the castle. I have my sights set on the captain of the guard. He holds the most powerful position in a castle hierarchy. By the time I win a proposal of marriage from Lokeen, I need to control all those loyal to him.

“M
ASTER ROBB, YOU will work magic for me here,” King Lokeen announced as they dismounted in the forecourt of the manor at the midpoint in the return journey to Amazonia.

Robb groaned as he slung a leg over the saddle and slid to the ground beside his pony. “Thank the Stargods for small blessings,” he whispered to the mount, whose strong back was not nearly so broad or far off the ground as the regular riding steeds they’d use to return the rest of the way.

“What spell do you need me to throw?” he asked, pasting an expression on his face he hoped would pass for a smile but felt like a grimace.

“You will locate your predecessor and the ancient artifact I lent him. I must have the artifact back.” Lokeen slapped his open palm with his riding crop for emphasis as he marched into the manor house. Clearly he expected Robb to follow obediently.

Robb allowed his reluctance to serve Lokeen to show in his dragging steps. After what he’d witnessed in the charnel house at the farm, he had no desire to do anything to help a king as mad as this one. Insanity was the only explanation for how the man enjoyed the blood thirst of his pet snakes. Or else the Krakatrice had possessed his mind and his morals. Perhaps he was the pet and the snakes made all his decisions for him?

Thank the Stargods he has no matriarch Krakatrice. At least not one I saw. He’s getting all his eggs in the wild, dormant for many decades, perhaps centuries, and therefore not as strong or as fresh. There is still a chance that a team of dragons and magicians can take down the tangle, search out and destroy any more eggs, and end the tyranny.

“Sir, I must have either the name of the man you seek or some personal possession,” Robb said wearily. “I have told you this before.”

“Names are the key to a man’s magical power. Your predecessor would not appreciate my giving you his name. He would not want you to have power over him.”

Robb ground his teeth. “Then I cannot find him and you will not get your artifact back.” Which suited him fine. Anything to thwart this madman.

“Oh, but I have a personal possession,” Lokeen said, flopping down upon his lounge in the shade of the interior courtyard. Servants scurried to bring refreshment. “You may sit.” Lokeen waved casually toward an adjacent lounge.

Robb eased his butt into contact with the slight padding beneath the upholstery. Not enough to cradle his aching joints. He’d need a few moments to adjust to this new posture before raising his feet as the king did so easily.

Gratefully he sipped the proffered wine and honey-dipped dates and nuts. But he said nothing. The quest was Lokeen’s; Robb was only the reluctant servant. Prisoner. Slave.

“Aren’t you curious as to what personal possession I hold hostage against the magician’s return and good behavior?” Lokeen asked, licking honey drips from his fingers.

Robb lifted his eyebrows but still kept his mouth shut.

Lokeen giggled. Another sign of madness?

“No curiosity?”

Robb remained silently passive.

“Oh, very well. I did so want to surprise you. Now I shall just have to show you.” He clapped his hands imperiously.

A black-clad old man with a permanently bowed back emerged from the shadows carrying a wooden box with rich inlays of different colored woods and gemstones. The old man held the ends of the box between his opened palms, as if unwilling to touch it any more than he had to. It fell the last inch to the inlaid table between Robb and the king. He’d dropped it, close enough that Lokeen knew his reluctance but could not chide him for damaging the box.

As long as my hand from wrist to fingertip. As wide as my palm
. Suddenly Robb didn’t want to know what was in there.

“Go ahead. Open it. Open it. Open it!”

Robb gulped. Then, holding his breath, he reached forward and flipped the top off with one finger. Steeling himself against the worst, he blinked rapidly, daring his eyes to focus and really not wanting to.

Nestled in a soft bed of lamb’s wool rested a man’s left little finger, neatly severed from the hand at the palm joint. A smudge of dried blood encircled the cut end where a bit of bone protruded.

He gagged.

“My magician left here in a boat with his three masters, two journeymen, and two apprentices just before the solstice,” Lokeen said. “He gave this to me willingly and placed a stasis spell on it so that it would not rot.”

“Such a spell should have died if your magician died. Therefore I must presume he lives.”

“One would think so.” Lokeen shrugged on a half smile—as if he were hiding something.

“But you altered the spell.”

“Yes! You are smarter than he was. You figured it out.”

“You coerced one of the master magicians to extend the stasis, make the deterioration dependent upon time, not the life of the owner of the finger.”

“Three moons he’s been gone. The stasis will only last another moon. You must find him for me now.”

Robb gulped back his distaste. He could do this. He’d done worse than touch a dead finger. He’d killed Krakatrice, at close range.

A servant appeared at his side with a silver bowl filled with clean water, a candle, and his glass on a tray.

“A ceramic bowl would be better, closer to the Kardia . . .”

“Silver is mined from the Kardia.”

Robb nodded.

“No more stalling. Find my magician and
my
artifact.”

Robb drew in a deep breath. He could make it the first stage of entering a trance, or merely the gathering of energy to find a way to postpone this search.

“I said, stop stalling or you will become the next meal for my pets.”

Robb breathed again and felt his peripheral vision close in on him. A third breath and his vision burst into a full circle of awareness, individual objects blended together and at the same time stood out starkly delineated. With a thought he brought a flame to his fingertip and touched it to the candlewick.

The easy part. The familiar and routine part of any spell. He could do this in his sleep.

Now for the innovative part. He must engage his intellect, his talent, and all of the energies he’d gathered since leaving the city yesterday morning. He must think, while maintaining the detachment of the trance. But he also had to make the process look like a spectacular and supreme effort in case he failed. Lokeen would have no excuse to say he hadn’t tried hard enough.

He placed his open hand above the finger and raised it. The finger followed his gesture. He guided it over to the bowl and slowly lowered the grisly bit into the water. It touched the surface, floated a moment and dropped silently to the bottom of the bowl with barely a ripple on the surface.

Next Robb positioned the candle so that the flame reflected on the water, showing endless repetitions of itself between the water and the polished metal bowl, both partial and complete. In this case, perhaps the elegant silver bowl proved better than the simplicity of a container made from the body of the Kardia herself.

Finally he eased his glass to float on the water. The finger shone through it, magnified until he could see individual pores and hairs, every detail of the severed muscle, bone, and blood vessels. Another three breaths to hold the finger in his mind. Gradually he built up layer upon layer of imagery of the man who used to be attached to that finger. He didn’t need to know that renegade master magician Samlan had offered it up as hostage. The finger knew, and it showed him the man in full, majestic anger aboard a storm-tossed boat, holding his staff aloft with a bandaged hand while cradling a piece of ancient bone with the other. On either side of him, his magician helpers also held the long bone, so old it had fossilized to stone. A bone so old it had given up its hold on life eons ago.

A bone so long and twisted it could only have come from a Krakatrice. Perhaps the first Krakatrice, a mutant derived from the same stock as dragons, but so deviant it was exiled.

A mutant that should not have lived and reproduced but did.

As he watched the storm rise and rage in front of Samlan he felt the boat shift violently beneath his feet. Rain drenched his face. Wind tore at his hair and threatened to rip the staff and the bone from his hands.

Magic thrummed through him as he chanted words of rage over and over. His words formed an endless circle that whirled around and around him. As did the winds and the rain, drawing air and water from all corners of the Kardia, piling them up, one on top of the other. The winds circled, tighter and tighter, pulling the water of Bay and ocean up into its vortex.

Robb fell into the storm as surely as if he were part of the mix of wind and water. He fought the external and internal forces that bound him to the magic thrown by Samlan. He watched the traitorous magician from below and to the left.

And then, as the chanting spell reached its climax, Samlan and Robb and the others dropped the bone at the same moment, unleashing the storm to wreak havoc upon Coronnan. A tidal wave one hundred feet tall rushed forward to the apex of the Bay, to the heart of Coronnan City.

“No!” Robb screamed.

He felt himself drowning as he became part of the destruction of his homeland.

“D
O NOT LEAVE the spell yet,” Lokeen commanded.

Robb fought his urge to find oblivion in blackness.

“You have shown me nothing new. I need more,” Lokeen insisted.

The firmness of the king’s voice gave Robb something to latch onto. A bit of reality to cling to while he sought answers in the spell.

“What happened after they loosed the storm? I had no summons to invade, or to help, and in so doing plant my troops in Coronnan City ready to displace the king. What happened?”

What happened indeed? Something was off in Robb’s vision. He saw . . . he
saw
Samlan. If he relived those events through the eyes of the owner of the finger he should have seen . . . Samlan’s robes. He should have felt the strain of holding the staff aloft in the horrendous wind. But he saw the weariness in Samlan’s face. He had no staff to cling to. He had only the bone.

“You bastard,” he yelled at Samlan. “You took the finger of your apprentice Tem.
My
apprentice Tem. You offered him his life if he helped you. Hideous death if he didn’t. And still he died.”

“How? How did the boy die?” Lokeen coaxed. “Show me what happened aboard that boat.”

Robb focused his inner sight on the finger and endured the sharp ache of the fresh wound on the hand. He was grateful when Samlan finally ordered they drop the heavy bone, made doubly heavy and awkward by its eons-long transformation into stone.

The bone dropped heavily toward the water. The waves rose higher to enfold it, welcome it.

But . . .

But at the last second a bolt of lightning crackled out of the sky, speeding toward the bone as a lodestone toward the pole. Faster, sharper, the blazing light formed an arrow and struck the bone dead center a heartbeat before it touched the water. Fragments exploded upward with a great boom of sound that knocked Tem flat on his back.

A huge wave followed, swamping the boat. Tem rolled to his knees, scrabbling to hang onto something, anything as the deck tilted, pushing him to slide closer and closer to the roiling ocean.

“Master!” he yelled, praying desperately for help.

“See to yourself,” Samlan snarled as he climbed into the tiny rescue boat lashed to the other side of the deck.

Another wave slammed into Tem, slapping him face first into the deck. Blackness engulfed him.

The vision ended.

Robb slumped sideways against the lounge, too exhausted to remain conscious. Too heartsore to do aught but weep.

“So, the master magician escaped. But he lost my bone. You must find him. You know who he is. You can find him again. You can summon him and get answers.”

“Not now. Now I can do nothing. I barely have strength to breathe.”

What is that smell? Sort of sweet with an acid undertone and an overlay of stale urine and sweat. It is close to the elixir of life I have found only during the high rituals of sex and torture of an initiation into the coven.

Without waiting for the nicety of taking Bette with me—she is in the laundry seeing to my personal linen—I follow my nose through the meandering rooms and staircases, descending deeper and deeper. I pass the food storage and wine cellars with little interest, though I do note they are comfortably filled if a little lean on fresh vegetables. Geon explored this area earlier and told me the correct corridors to follow. But he went no farther because it was not the way to the library. He carves his own path through this world, guided by his reading and not by me.

That will change soon.

For I find only blank walls when my sense of smell and wave after wave of magical power tells me I should be atop my goal. Power rises through the stones at my feet, making my toes tingle and my thighs itch with the need to move. Like calling to like, bouncing off each other and amplifying at every rebound. This magic is born of pain and blood, as is mine. I feed on it to satiation and still there is more. I must find the source. Now!

Nothing in this castle follows a straight line. A good strategy for defense—confuse the enemy at every turn and withdraw toward a more defensible core by way of hidden passages, secret tunnels, and doors that don’t look like doors.

Hmmmmmm. I stare at the dressed stones and crisp mortar. Nothing out of alignment. Nothing unusual. Perhaps I stare at the wrong wall. So I follow the backward logic of the place and search the blank wall on the opposite side of the cellar. The damp one that faces the ocean and the harbor. Not a stable location for a stairway. But then perhaps the damp and black mold on the mortar are merely illusions worthy of the master magicians of Coronnan.

Nothing there either. These cellars are vast. Many, many rooms that lead one into another. The subterranean levels must also cover as many acres in support of the massive stone keep and outbuildings above. What lies below the wine storage? Only a dungeon would go that deep into the foundations. A dungeon with limited access and means of escape.

So I follow the flow of air back the way I have come rather than seek the power and the scent that draws me. And so, at last I find a narrow wooden door bound in iron with freshly oiled hinges. A stout door that will not succumb easily to a battering ram. The lock is intricate and formidable. But I have magic within me. Strong magic generated by fear and pain and spilled blood.

Holding one finger at the edge of the lock I shoot a spell of unbinding directly into the mechanism. Three clicks and the sound of metal scraping metal and the lock releases. The door swings outward at a touch.

I sense openness in the blackness before me. No sunlight has ever penetrated this passage. But I have power and to spare. Power that builds by the moment.

A scream echoes off walls. The terror within the noise fills me so full of magical ecstasy that fire erupts from a torch stuffed awkwardly into a sconce. I can see the steps winding downward. But I don’t need the light. My entire body is alight with the fire of magic.

Like to like. Unreal in its strength. Surreal in my affinity with it.

Slowly I make my way down, drinking in the power, the tension building within me as I go. The stairs end and a stone passageway slopes upward. I follow it, finding doors to prison cells on either side. A cross corridor leads inland away from the harbor. What little moisture manages to seep through the foundations evaporates. A little light filters through high windows. My sense of direction tells me that I am now near the central courtyard.

Then I see him. A tall, well-formed man wearing the uniform of the King’s Guard with a gold sash crossing his chest from right shoulder to left hip, where a long sword is sheathed. A plain blade, utilitarian rather than ceremonial. I have found the one I need and quietly come to stand beside him.

He knows I am there. I can sense it in the flare of his nostril and an edging of his right hand closer to the grip of his blade.

A weak and whimpering moan of despair leaks through the closed door of a large cell with a wide wooden door. No bars. No window with a cover, no way to peek inside. Either the door is open and the contents of the cell fully visible, or it is closed and whatever lurked there could be forgotten.

Except for the smell of blood and death, pain and fear.

Execution.

“What was his crime?” I ask. The tension that leads to ecstatic release leaves me. I am exhilarated but exhausted at the same time. Being present at an execution is almost better than the act of sex itself.

“He failed to notify me that Lady Maria left the castle. He then failed in not reporting the presence of Prince Toskellar in the city.” His shoulders relax as he too senses the end of the thrill.

“Then you are indeed the man I seek. I need one who knows everything that happens and is therefore the most powerful.”

He nods. “And you are?”

“Do I need an introduction?”

“Confirmation of your purpose, Princess Rejiia.”

“My purpose here in this dungeon or my purpose in seeking an audience with your king?”

“Both.”

“Does the execution of a criminal bother you, Captain? I had heard that the death penalty was not a part of your culture.”

“It is now.”

“And do you agree with your king bringing it to Amazonia?”

“It is . . . necessary.”

“But you? Are you in favor of it?”

“Not at first.”

“But now you glory in it. As do I.”

He nods again.

“Then you and I have a common purpose. A common goal. You already sense the power thrumming through the walls. I can show you how to use that power.”

He looks interested, urging me to proceed.

I wave a hand and every torch flares to life as if the sun itself broke through the solid walls, revealing the blood leaking out from under one prison door.

“Parlor tricks. I want real power.”

“Then come with me. Is there a locked door you have always wanted to look behind? Is there a person you would like struck senseless? Is there a mind you would like to listen to as if to your own thoughts?”

He offers me his arm to escort me out of the charnel house of a dungeon. I have found a new member of my coven
.

“I don’t like this move,” Lukan muttered as he shifted the weight of his pack to a less awkward position.

For once, he caught no glimpse of Geon dogging his heels.

“I don’t either,” Gerta whispered from slightly behind his left shoulder. “But the lady says it is necessary.”

“What can we do from the castle that we can’t do from outside?” Lukan asked.

“A lot,” Skeller replied. He strode slightly ahead of them with Lady Maria leaning heavily on his arm. Chess walked on the other side of her, also providing support to the tiny woman.

She limped so badly Lukan’s hips ached in sympathy. He couldn’t imagine going through life with such a debilitating deformity, let alone expending tremendous energy to hide it. When she’d first arrived at the blacksmith shop she’d moved slowly, cautiously. Now she couldn’t hide her disability.

At home, the healers would have worked on her until they’d either corrected the twisted leg or at least given her a brace and built-up shoe so that she could move more normally.

“I can understand Lady Maria wanting you as her personal bodyguard,” Lukan continued speaking with Gerta. They both kept their gazes moving, noting and assessing potential dangers—like the idle man leaning casually against a well at the next intersection. He watched the five of them long after they passed beyond his seemingly casual observation.

Gerta nodded to him, acknowledging the man’s overly curious gaze.

“Only a little farther, Aunt Maria,” Skeller said soothingly.

“We could carry you,” Chess offered. Always polite. Always thinking of others. Lukan remembered why he hadn’t befriended the boy at the University. He was just too good to be true. He should have been a healer. Lukan didn’t know why he’d become Robb’s apprentice rather than one of the hospitallers.

“I am not an invalid,” Lady Maria insisted. Her next step was bolder. But the effect of asserting her independence was spoiled when her knee buckled. Skeller had to hold her up. They stood rooted in place for many long moments while the lady panted her way through the pain.

Lukan and Gerta moved hastily to stand before and aft. Gerta held a long dagger along her thigh, ready to raise it in defense. Lukan held his staff across his body, preparing a stream of fire to shoot from the tip. He’d always wanted to throw that spectacular spell, even though he knew the fire would be mostly illusion and not dangerous.

He heard the clop of many steeds approaching rapidly from his left. He shifted his staff in that direction.

“Hold,” Gerta ordered. “It’s the king and his guards.”

“How can you tell at this distance?” Lukan squinted into the distance. All he could see was a dozen tall steeds and men riding atop them.