The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (3 page)

“Thank the Stargods Lily managed to kill the
S’murgin
rogue,” he muttered to himself. The fact that his sister had wielded the knife and not Skeller, as they’d planned or at least expected, was a gaping wound between them. Sweet, gentle, Lily, who couldn’t bear to eat meat because she felt the death of the animal sacrificed to become food, had executed a man when no one else had had the nerve.

Her empathic talent had exploded outward and engulfed Skeller. He’d shared the moment of death with Samlan as deeply as Lily had.

The fact that the rogue magician was expecting a magical attack and Lily had very little, if any, magic, meant that she’d met no resistance. Lukan didn’t think he could have managed the deed, and Skeller had hesitated a moment too long. Lily and only Lily had stopped Samlan before he wreaked any more damage on Coronnan.

Both she and Skeller nursed deep guilt and bruised minds.

“Skeller, keep up.” Lukan stopped mid-span to wait for his companion. The tide of people surged around him, mostly silent, shooting him resentful glances but not protesting. They moved more like a stunned herd than people impatient to go about their business. Maybe they’d lost the drive for impatience. They lived. They had the work of survival to do. That was enough.

Except for one. A tall, lanky man hovered at the other end of the bridge. Not hesitant. Waiting. He kept his back to Lukan.

Lukan tamped down his suspicions. No one knew he was coming this way. The man couldn’t be waiting for him.

“Sorry. This is all so fascinating, so different from my last visit,” Skeller said, still craning his neck to take in everything. As usual, his fingers drummed against his thigh as his mind composed a new song. This one was livelier than the dirge about the funeral. This one was about cherishing life and building something new, fresh, and special, out of the ruins of the old.

Lukan had learned to read Skeller during the moons of their travels together. He could almost hear the melody and lyrics as they formed in the bard’s mind.

“Well, I’m going ahead to the palace. I’ll meet you at whatever inn you find down on the docks.” Lukan started to turn away to join the surge of people flowing inward.

“Wait! How will you know which inn?” Skeller claimed Lukan’s arm to delay him.

“I’ll know by the number of sailors crowding around to hear you sing. I’ll know by the bawdy chorus they take up in celebration of whatever songs you dredge out of that copious memory of yours.”

With that Lukan joined the throng and pressed forward. Inward toward the largest and highest of the islands, where the tallest of tall buildings had stood strong against the flood. His nose wanted him to divert toward a deep concentration of magic—the old University of Magicians. Master Marcus would be there, ready to officially give Lukan his right to claim a staff and begin his journey.

Lukan wasn’t ready to face the man who had reluctantly taken Jaylor’s place as Chancellor of the Universities, Senior Magician of the Circle, and counselor to the king. “I’ll deliver this
S’murghin
letter to Glenndon, then be free of family obligations, free to live my own life away from the shadow of older, more powerful, better respected magicians that I can’t live up to.”

Three more bridges and his steps grew heavy, reluctant. He trudged forward to the pedestrian gate in the palace wall. The floodwaters had darkened the finely fitted stones to eight feet above the ground. Lukan looked at the river flowing around Palace Isle, a good six feet below where he stood. It ran a bit low in high summer. Still, the clear evidence of just how much water had shifted from the Bay up the river channels made him pause and gulp.

Glenndon, his brother, had thrown the spell that encased the acres and acres of palace buildings in a protective bubble, keeping out all of that water; protecting the thousand or more people who had taken refuge inside the buildings.

Lukan knew he couldn’t have done that. Even with a staff to channel and focus his magic. At the University, on the adjacent isle, six masters had joined their powers and thrown a similar spell to protect those buildings and their refugees.

Still awed and a bit bewildered, he faced the uniformed guard and identified himself. Apparently Glenndon had passed word along to expect him. Of course the royal family had returned before anyone else. They all rode steeds. Lesser people, like journeymen magicians and wandering bards, had to walk.

A boy of about thirteen, in palace livery of green trews and a gold-and-green tunic, appeared at Lukan’s elbow. “Sir, His Highness requested I escort you,” the boy said, his burgeoning baritone cracking back to alto at odd moments. He flushed at the way his voice betrayed him, but he did not bow his head in shame.

Lukan nodded and followed, not certain what else to do. At least a servant treated him with respect. At the grand double doors presiding over the twelve steps up to the main floor of the palace, the young servant passed Lukan on to a man wearing normal clothing, a shade richer than Lukan’s own, in black and maroon that complemented his hair, dark with just a hint of red in the tip of his queue.

“Journeyman Lukan,” the man bowed respectfully. At least he got the title right, even if Lukan didn’t wear the medium-blue leather journey clothes that were once considered the uniform of a journeyman on journey. “I am Keerkin, assistant to His Highness.”

“Do I know you?” Something familiar in the name and the set of his freshly shaven jaw triggered a faint memory.

“No reason why you should. I only studied at the Forest University for about a year before it became obvious to everyone that I have very little talent. But your father arranged for me to continue my mundane education so that I could become a scribe here at court.”

“A spy?”

“You know your father well. My condolences on his passing. He was a great man.”

Lukan dipped his head, not certain he shared the country’s grief. And yet a niggle of sadness worked out of his heart to remind him that Jaylor had raised him, taught him, and cared for him, even if he did love Glenndon best. And Glenndon wasn’t truly Jaylor’s son.

“I’d like to see my brother now,” he said curtly, not knowing what else to do. Not knowing how else to respond.

“Of course. This way, Journeyman.” Keerkin gestured to the left, clearly expecting Lukan to precede him. At last someone showed him respect for who he was. Keerkin, a failed apprentice, owed a journeyman deference, and not just because he was Prince Glenndon’s younger half brother.

Lukan tried to memorize the curves and twists of the route, but he kept getting distracted by the fine tapestries depicting the lives and adventures of the Stargods, the trials and triumphs of Nimbulan, the last Battlemage, who made a covenant with the dragons in order to control magic and magicians and thus end the endless civil wars. Such intricate details and brilliant colors! Mama would have loved to add such fine wool embroidery to the clothing she made for her family.

All this grandeur of high ceilings, spacious rooms, sturdy stone walls, and lovely wall hangings could have been Mama’s if she’d married the king. Glenndon and Lukan and their sisters could have been raised here, educated here . . . If Mama had become Darville’s queen Lukan might not have been born, he might never have developed his magical talent as much as he was able.

He had to remind himself that Mama had loved Jaylor. They’d been happy together for many years. She would have hated the fuss of court life and the press of strangers against her mental shields.

None of the family would have known the dragons. A bit of a wiggle in the back of his mind reminded him that at least one green-tip flew nearby.

Lukan here,
he flashed to the unknown dragon in proper dragon protocol.

Verdii here
, a juvenile voice replied.

Verdii, please inform the Circle of Magicians that cleanup and recovery of the capital city continue. I don’t know what they need most at this moment, but I’m sure they need most everything, including food and untainted water.

A sense of acknowledgment was his only reply, and then a vacancy at the top of his spine as the dragon closed communication.

He twisted a bit to see if the image of an iridescent, nearly invisible dragon presiding over the scene of Nimbulan’s marriage to Myrilandel was accurate. As he drew close enough to reach up and examine the tiny stitches, just to find out how the weaver had made the dragon look so real, his knees and thighs brushed the damp hem and fringe of the tapestry. Mud and dirty water stained the valuable hanging a good three feet off the floor.

Nearly six weeks after the flood, during high summer, the fabric was still damp. How long had water filled this corridor to so thoroughly saturate it?

Curious, he looked away from the images to the mud and water stains.

The letter tucked inside his tunic crackled, reminding of his errand.

If Mama had married the king, Lukan would still be the second son, destined to walk in his older brother’s magnificent shadow.

Not anymore. As soon as he delivered the letter, he’d leave, on his own, carving out his own destiny with his own talents and wits.

M
ARIA D’AMAZONIA WALKED slowly, steadily along the straight passageways of King Lokeen’s castle, careful to make certain she stepped evenly on her twisted right leg. Each time she paused to change direction, her hand touched the precious pendant hanging above her breasts.
Goddess give me strength
.
Her keys clanked with every step, signaling her authority as chatelaine. As they should. She paused at each right corner and rebalanced herself to make the turn smoothly, but also to make certain the foreign wizard followed as well as he could. Moons of imprisonment had weakened him, but not dampened his spirit.

Good. She had plans.

But so did her cursed brother-in-law the king.

“If you know what’s good for you, do not speak until spoken to. Offer nothing, give only what you must,” she whispered to the wizard as he passed before her into the king’s private receiving room. She regretted her ill-formed tongue that made each ess sound like the hissing of the
S’murghin
Krakatrice. Another sin Lokeen had inflicted upon her people—bringing the monsters back to the desert and nurturing their eggs to export to his enemies.

The stranger looked at her briefly and gave only the barest hint of acknowledgment by blinking his eyes. She slipped in behind the man in blue, clinging to the shadows made by the heavy, dark wooden furniture favored by the king. He wouldn’t notice her, because he’d never look for her.

“What is your name, Mage?” Lokeen demanded without looking up from the letters strewn across the portable table in front of his throne. Nothing else in the castle was as moveable as that table. The king liked everything fixed in place, never moving a fraction of an inch, even for Maria’s maids to clean beneath and around.

Afraid someone might steal his precious possessions as they’d like to steal—should steal—the kingship he’d stolen.

“I am called Master Robb,” the wizard said evenly, drawing deep breaths between the few words, not bowing or nodding or giving any indication the king was anything but an equal. The name fit him: tall and spare, nothing fancy about him. Self-assured.

I am called
. Not
my name is
. A wily one. He answered the question without answering the question. The old magician, the one who’d been missing since midsummer, had refused to give any name at all. “There is power in knowing another’s true name,” he’d said. Courtiers and staff alike knew him only as “Sir.”

“I’m told mages from Coronnan can all read and write, in many languages.”

Master Robb nodded.

Lokeen shoved a worn piece of parchment across the table. It looked like it had been used and reused, each scraping off of old ink making it more fragile. The newest ink looked thin and spidery. From the length of the room away, Maria couldn’t make out the words, damn her weak eyes, as weak as her leg.

“What is this?” Lokeen demanded.

Master Robb took one step forward and peered down at the missive. “It appears to be a letter.” Robb straightened and stepped back again.

“And what does it say? Who is it from?” Lokeen shouted. His color rose high on his cheeks as he spluttered, nearly frothing at the mouth in his anger. “I do not recognize the language.”

Master Robb reached for the piece of parchment, his hand pausing a scant finger’s width away. “May I?” he asked.

“Of course you may touch it. How else will you read it?”

“It appears to be greetings from Lord Laislac of Aporia. It is written in the language of Coronnan, not so different from your own dialect. But the letters are archaic, with extra flourishes and decorations.”

Was that an insult, thinly disguised? The wizard appeared to accuse his captor of being illiterate!

“I know that. I know what it says. I need explanations, not lectures.”

Something flickered across the mage’s face. Maria couldn’t tell what, but she enjoyed how he irritated Lokeen.

“Lord Laislac apologizes that his daughter Ariiell refuses the betrothal you so kindly offered her.”

“How can she? Women in your country have no rights, no status. Her father makes all decisions for her.”

So that was why he looked for a bride from across the sea, now that he’d mourned the required five years for his wife
. By all rights he should marry one of his wife’s relatives, a woman who had a right to claim the title of queen with or without Lokeen as husband. But no, Lokeen wanted an obedient wife who would not challenge him, who had no right to reclaim the crown in her own name.

“Mistress Ariiell has informed her father that, fifteen years ago, when she was heavily pregnant with her son—who is now second heir to the throne of Coronnan—she submitted to a handfasting with the father of her child.”

“Handfasting? What in the name of the Great Mother is that?”

“A form of marriage. Binding to both parties. It legitimatizes the child, binds the couple to the raising of the child for life, but does not require the couple to live together as married. Mistress Ariiell reminds her father that this handfasting precludes her from marrying anyone else while the father of her child lives.”

Lokeen sat in stunned silence for a long moment as all color drained out of his face. He looked skeletal, nearing death.

Maria watched and waited, did nothing to help him, not calling his body servant or ringing a bell for wine.

“Why didn’t Laislac tell me of this before we entered into the marriage treaty?” the king said through gritted teeth.

Master Robb shrugged, saying nothing.

“Did you know of this?” Lokeen returned to screaming, color returning to his face.
Kraks
, he hadn’t taken ill or died.

“No.”

“Should you have?”

Another shrug. Smart man. He guarded his tongue well.

“By your laws, does Darville have the right to annul this handfasting?”

“I do not know. I’ve never heard of it being done before. The handfasting is rare enough.”

“Then you are useless to me!”

“Only if you do not allow me to write a reply and address it to my king in words he will understand, saying it is necessary that he arrange for permission to annul the handfasting.”

But since the child is now second heir to the crown, he’s unlikely to do that,
Maria thought.

Maria shared a moment of triumph with the wizard. Robb had manipulated Lokeen into letting him tell Darville where he was held hostage. And perhaps giving him coded words to launch a rescue. Perhaps this other king would invade with enough troops to depose Lokeen and put a rightful heir on the throne.

She touched the goddess pendant at her chest, wishing for strength. “Useless sack of sperm, you spawned only sons. Now you will reap the rewards of your failure to produce a daughter,” she said under her breath, almost wishing he’d hear her.

“Message coming in, Mistress,” Apprentice Magician Souska called to Master Magician Maigret.

“
S’murghit!
How am I supposed to get this potion right with these constant interruptions?” Maigret cursed as she stomped away from the long bench, filled with herbs, crushed minerals, beakers, braziers, mortar and pestle, and only she knew what else, toward the desk she’d inherited from Master Marcus in the grand Chancellor’s office at the Forest University.

She cursed and stomped a lot more than she had when she was merely the potions mistress and foster mother to all the females at the University.

She also cried a lot more. But Souska thought she was the only one who heard Maigret weep into her pillow deep in the night, when she was alone and ever so lonely for her husband Master Robb.

Maigret picked up her circle of glass, bigger around than her sturdy work-worn hand and encased in a golden frame, and dropped it into the ever-present bowl of clear water. Souska hurried to light the candle beside the bowl. She didn’t have an affinity with fire as she did with plants and dirt, but she’d learned this one trick through frequent practice over the last two moons. And some thoughtful guidance from
her
journeyman.

“What do you want
now
, Marcus?” Maigret snapped, keeping one eye on the distinctive colors swirling in the glass and the other on a small pot bubbling on the brazier. Impatiently, she waved for Souska to stir the mixture.

Souska jumped to obey, grateful for the chance to eavesdrop on this conversation. Since she’d lit the candle, her magic was a part of the summoning spell and therefore she could hear both sides. Her journeyman had taught her that. Mistress Maigret may not have known that little spying trick. Except that Mistress Maigret always knew more than she let other people know she knew.

“I thought you’d like to know that Journeyman Lukan was spotted in the city earlier today.” The voice of Marcus came through the glass, loud and clear to Souska’s ears.

“He’s your journeyman, not mine. Why should I care?” Maigret stretched her chin to peer over Souska’s shoulder to make sure she stirred the potion correctly, moving her wooden spoon deasil, along the path of the sun, never widdershins, the opposite.

Souska bristled a bit. She
knew
how to stir, even if she couldn’t do much else right. And this potion smelled ready. She grabbed a hot holder and moved the pot off the brazier onto a slice of granite to protect the wooden counter.

Maigret nodded absently in approval.

“You should care where Lukan is because the bard is with him,” Marcus said.

“And?” Maigret tapped her foot impatiently.

“Lillian is not with them.”

Maigret’s attention swung back fully to the glass. “You know where my journeyman isn’t. But do you know where she is?”

Souska knew that journeymen on journey, male or female, weren’t supposed to contact their masters except in dire emergencies or situations of extreme importance to the entire country. A journey was about learning to cope on one’s own with little or no resources. It was about learning your strengths and weaknesses and how to compensate. She guessed it was also about learning what was important to the magician, both as a person and as a member of the community of magicians.
Her
journeyman had a lot of anger to let go of before he’d learn much of anything. But he was a wonderful, thoughtful teacher who immediately saw ways to spark her imagination and make her think through a problem.

She had news for him when he scried for her next. He might feel alone and unhindered by his master, but Marcus kept track of him all the same.

“I had a report this morning, just before we left for the funeral, that Lily was sighted delivering a sack of seeds and cuttings to a walled village on the Dubh River. Only the wall isn’t there anymore, so they are open to the punishing winds down the river canyon.”

“That’s southwest of the city, on a tributary. Did the flood reach that far?” Maigret seemed truly distressed.

“If they didn’t flood, then the circling wind wicked the water away and the dust storms clogged the secondary waterways with dirt and plants, even trees ripped from miles away. I’ve heard reports of villages having to dig new channels for their rivers so they’d return to their village and fields and not wander off in a new direction because of the clogs.”

“All the spring growth ended up in those dams,” Maigret mused. “Lily’s got the right of it, delivering new seeds and cuttings. She can’t do it all though. Not alone. Who has surplus I can shift to the flooded areas?” She shoved stuff about looking for parchment and pen.

Souska rushed to the front of the desk just in time to catch loose pages skittering toward the floor. Holding everything together with her left hand, she found a clean page and shoved it toward Maigret. Then she uncovered a flusterhen quill, sharpened the copper nib with a thought, and made sure the inkwell was full.

“Where’s Linda?” Maigret finally looked up and found the room empty except for herself and her newest apprentice. “This is her job!”

“You sent her to a class on diplomacy,” Souska whispered. She didn’t want Marcus to hear her and figure out that she eavesdropped on his conversations.

“Never mind. Time you learned to help me regardless of what I need. The potion needs a pinch more mint. Make sure you don’t crush it too hard before adding it. I want the essential oils on the outside of the leaf, not lining the mortar.” Maigret sat abruptly and started making lists.

Souska read over her shoulder, smiling that she now had permission to spy for
her
journeyman.