The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 (6 page)

Perhaps that was why she came to court so rarely. She cried too much to be seen in public.

He ran his fingers along the edges of the bookshelves, both freestanding and along the walls, reading the runes carved into the stone through his fingertips. Mostly records of Council Meetings and official ceremonies on this level. They no longer interested him. Though the account of his grandparents’ wedding and the grand celebration that followed had shown him how much they loved each other. She’d been a princess, sister to King Dracine, Darville’s father. Grand’Pere had been the son of a minor lord with little wealth and less power.

No, today Mikk wanted something different, more adventurous. He headed toward the trapdoor and ladder to a sublevel with tales about magic, compiled over centuries. These were publicly acknowledged books, more about the history and personalities of the magicians who had helped shape Coronnan, but there was another archive hidden and accessible only to magicians. Those were the books he needed, books about the working of magic, not just the results. But in order to find that archive, he needed more information from this one.

Secure in his solitude—he’d notice if Geon followed him down the rickety ladder—he yanked on a pull ring embedded in the floor. The stone paving groaned but did not give way.

Strange, he’d opened it easily three days ago.

(Up.)

“Who’s there?” he demanded loudly.

(Look up. You must go up.)

“Who are you?” His words echoed in the high-ceilinged room as he gazed up and spied another trapdoor overhead.

(Join us above.)

Chills ran up and down his spine as dust tickled his nose.

(
There is no dust in the up.)

That sounded good. But he’d been warned about enemies of the crown who would not hesitate to kill or kidnap a member of the royal family.

“I’m only second heir and a distant cousin from the female line. I’m not valuable to anyone other than my grandparents,” he muttered.

(We value you. We know who and what you are.)

That was too good to be true.

Still . . .

Fingering the ceremonial sword at his hip, he dragged a wooden bench across the floor and placed it beneath the other trapdoor. Where was Geon when Mikk needed a boost? A gentle tug on the short rope dangling from the wooden square opened the access. A ladder unfolded until the bottom rested snugly on the floor, nestling into grooves placed perfectly to steady the light contraption.

Mikk tested his weight against a rung just to make sure it was still steady, still stable enough to hold him.

Curiosity overrode any lingering fear or caution, and he near sprinted up until just his head cleared the opening. He could still retreat if he had to. He’d been here once before, and seen nothing but more rows and rows of bookshelves.

Today he found a thick layer of darkness that swallowed light and sound and, above that, long chains of bright and pulsing colored light.

(Welcome to the realm of dragons!)

M
IKK MISSED HIS
step one rung below the top of the ladder and slid down three. He grabbed tight to the lip of the opening and flailed his feet for purchase. His fingers ached all the way to the bone before growing numb. How could he avoid falling all the way down a good twelve feet to the floor below?

Gasping for breath and heart in his throat, he found a rung and braced his feet.

The blackness faded along with the pulsing coils of light.

(
You are not ready
.) The voice in his head sounded disappointed.

“What must I do to be ready?” he whispered as much to himself as the voice. “I’ve talked to Glenndon a lot these last three months. We have become close. Friends. He doesn’t hide much from me. He hinted at passage through the void. And being stuck there. I recognize this as . . .”

(You are not ready.)

“Point me toward a book that will guide me to you. Please.” He added the last as an afterthought. He might be second in line to the throne, but even Glenndon and the king had to be polite to dragons. At least he hoped he was talking to dragons. Who else would speak directly into his head?

Surely an enemy magician would seek someone more important to manipulate mind-to-mind.

The voice had to come from a dragon. Had to. He wondered which one. Shayla, the matriarch, had the reputation of communicating more freely than the others. No. The voice was definitely masculine. Maybe Baamin, Shayla’s favored mate. He was rumored to hold the spirit of Jaylor’s predecessor as Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University. And to be a stern taskmaster, pulling the best out of recalcitrant students.

“Please help me to prepare for your lessons,” he begged, pulling himself up until the lip met his waist. Three more steps up, and he’d be all the way into the upper room. For it was a room once more. He could barely see where the coils of colored light had been. Sunlight filtered through a dozen arrow-slit windows above the stacks of books.

Relief washed over him. He knew this world. The realm of dragons frightened and thrilled him at the same time. He could barely wield sword and shield; how could he think about embarking on any kind of adventure other than through books and lessons?

A distant chuckle rattled in the back of his head.

(You will need no sword for this experience, boy. Look to your books for now.)

“Which books?” Mikk replied eagerly.

(Figure it out.)

“When will I hear from you again?”

(When you are ready. When you have grown from boy to man and back to boy again
.)

“
S’murghit
! What does that mean?”

No answer. Nothing but a vacant feeling at the back of his head. Vacant enough to upset his balance again. A sensation of falling washed over him while he could still feel the press of the ladder rung against the soles of his boots.

Using his forearms as a brace he crawled out of the ladder well onto the wide wooden planks of the floor. He sneezed out centuries of dust and collapsed onto his chest. The dust smeared his tunic heavily. Another curse almost escaped his lips at the mess the fabric absorbed. He needed to get himself upright. But his feet still dangled in the opening. He crawled forward again until his toes scraped wood. Only then did he attempt to rise to his knees, grabbing hold of the nearest stone bookcase and pulling himself upward. His head cleared. Dust motes sparkled in the streams of sunlight.

Maybe he’d imagined those coils of light and had seen only clouds of dust.

And maybe cats flew.

He stumbled forward, right hand on the nearest shelf. His fingers bumped into a protruding book.

(Figure it out.)

Had he truly heard that? Or remembered it? Or imagined it?

He pulled the book free of its mates—all snugged back into line. A thin book with a plain, undyed binding, frayed around the edges. If there had ever been a title and author impressed or painted on the spine or front cover it had vanished long ago.

Almost afraid to breathe and cause the pages to crumble, he opened the fly to the title page. He saw letters but did not have enough light to decipher them. He tilted the book until one of the weak shafts of light landed on the fine lettering. Written in a clear and careful hand, common to all University students, he picked out the dark brown ink atop a light brown parchment:

C
HRONICLES OF A
P
IRATE

O
R

H
OW
I
BECAMES THE
M
AGICIAN OF
C
ORONNAN

B
Y

K
IMMER
S
SCRIBE OF THE
S
OUTH

The chuckle filled the vacancy between his ears.

“Do I have permission to take this back to my room and read in better light so that I might understand the lesson?” he called into the air.

Silence.

Skeller slung his harp case around from his back, thinking the caravan was lagging and in need of a tune. The second he loosened the flap from its buckles he knew something was different. In his view of life, different could mean very wrong and out of place or new and exciting and therefore wonderful. Like watching the girl with the red-gold braid as she gently maneuvered and manipulated the lady in her charge. Her eyes danced as she smiled. Surely this young woman enjoyed life and found merriment in all that she graced with her gentle touch.

A new tune bounced from his mind to his fingertips. It began with her smile as she peeked from between the caravan’s draperies and laughed at the antics of a baby goat trying to keep up with its mother and snatch a quick drink from her udder.

He reached into the carrysack for Telynnia with eager fingers. Instead of satiny wood and crisp strings he brushed a crackling fold of parchment. Good parchment, heavy enough to scrape clean and use to write music on later.

Where did it come from? He’d brought no such obvious signs of wealth with him.

Carefully he pulled it free of the harp, holding it by his fingernails. The sea-green wax seal made him pause.

“Got yersel’ a dispatch,” Garg, the head drover said gleefully. “Them’s rare and expensive. Only magicians can send those things so they always find who they’re addressed to and only them.” He came up beside Skeller, peering avidly at the document.

Sure enough, Skeller’s long, pompous, legal name appeared across the front in his father’s florid hand. Had he truly used royal purple ink?
Showoff
, he thought contemptuously.

“Kin you read it?” Garg asked him skeptically.

“Yes,” Skeller replied. The man’s awed expression told him not to add, “Can’t you?”

“Must be University trained. Sure, no one but a magician could turn a simple tune into magic that Lazy Bones would follow. Only magicians got business sending and receiving dispatches.” He jerked his head toward the adoring sledge steed that even now tugged his load a little faster so he could drape his head over Skeller’s shoulder.

Skeller kept silent, neither admitting nor denying his education. But the old man had taught him something. A dispatch sent by a magician. His father had a magician as chief counselor and spymaster, a man who’d appeared on and off over the last several years and schemed his way into the king’s good graces with too much ease to be anything but magical manipulation.

“Well, ain’t you goin’ t’read it?”

Skeller glanced around. Only Garg and the big steed seemed to be watching him. The contents he could keep to himself if he needed to. He slid his fingernail beneath the seal, as he’d been taught, to pry the wax loose without damaging the parchment and keep the seal intact at the same time. Never knew when you’d need proof of the sender.

“My dear son,” Father began the missive. Skeller had never been dear to the man, and rarely acknowledged as a son. Father usually ignored him completely rather than admit he’d sired a
male
with no interest in politics or political power.

“Wonder what the old man wants this time.” Skeller scowled at the written words. “Great Mother, he wants me to marry my cousin Bettina!” he nearly shouted.

“That a good thing?” Garg asked.

“Not really.”

“Ugly as sin so she can’t attract anyone but a cousin in an arranged marriage.” Garg chuckled knowingly.

“She’s pretty enough.” His gaze strayed toward the litter with the girl he’d been watching.

“But . . . ?” Garg pressed.

“I’d have to go home and I have no interest in going home,” Skeller finished. He didn’t mention that Bettina had a fascination with watching huntsmen and butchers prepare meat for cooking. He wondered if her fascination would tip over to the need to kill the animal herself or possibly another human. Her father and mother, who ruled the neighboring city-state of Venez, executed criminals. Publicly. Maybe that was where her bloodthirsty interest had come from.

Violence colored Bettina’s attitude daily.

Skeller’s father had many faults, but at least as long as his wife lived, he’d sent people into exile, and never executed one.

But before Skeller fled the continent on his current mission, he’d watched Lokeen order the private execution of a man and his wife who’d publicly questioned a man’s right to rule without a wife to grant him authority.

Violence in the streets and marketplaces became more common each year; people settling their differences with fists and cudgels. Women disputing a husband’s wandering eye with heavy iron pans swung with malicious accuracy. He’d needed to escape this descent into a primitive lack of civilization.

Running away hadn’t cured the situation. If anything, it got worse. In the back of his mind he recognized his duty to return to Amazonia and do
something
.

He wasn’t ready.

“If’n you returned home, you’d get a pretty wife and you wouldn’t have to sleep out in the open under the stars with old Lazy Bones as your only friend,” Garg reminded him.

One glance at the man’s swollen knuckles and stiff gait told him Garg was nearly ready to retire. He didn’t have many more long journeys in him.

“I like sleeping under the stars and listening to the music of the world as I drift off to sleep,” Skeller said. “I’m not ready to settle with one woman, in one place yet.” But if the girl with the red-gold braid showed any interest in him, he might reconsider.

But if he pursued the girl, he failed in his duty as his mother’s son.

“My lady, do you truly want that rosehip candy?” Lillian asked Graciella, somewhat shocked that of all the foods available to her, even sweets, she chose the one that would make her intermittent bleeding worse.

Graciella turned her vague gaze from the decorative box of treats up to her companion. “I . . . I have craved them for weeks now. I always feel better after a cup of rosehip tea, or rosehips shredded on my greens, or rosehip jam on my bread, but especially rosehips dipped in honey.” She popped the confection into her mouth and smiled with eyes closed in near bliss.

“My lady,” Lillian tried again. “Do you know what rosehips do to your body?” She tried narrowing her eyes and focusing her gaze above Graciella’s left ear. Nothing. She caught no trace of the woman’s life energy or colors surrounding her head. If only Val were here to loan her a little talent, a little skill, a little something to help her figure out what was going on in Graciella’s head.