The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1 (13 page)

CHAPTER 17

G
LENNDON STARED IN DISMAY at the huge bed with four posts, a canopy, and heavy draperies tied in clumps to each of those posts. The bed frame rose off the plank floor until the top of the mattress, thick and soft enough to swallow him whole, came nearly to his chest. A portable set of two stairs rested conveniently on the side to make getting into the monster easier. He decided then and there he’d sleep on the floor by the hearth—an inefficient and decorative thing set
into
the wall and sending most of its heat up a flue while allowing cold drafts to roar downward and permanently embed themselves in the thick stone walls.

Now if the hearth and chimney extended into the room they would radiate enough heat to truly warm the place. He wondered if he had the authority to rebuild.

No. He wasn’t going to be here long enough.

He shivered, longing for the cozy warmth of his mother’s cabin. If he stayed here long enough to sleep, he’d probably be warmer with the thick coverlet from the bed in a small corner on the roof, if he could find a place out of the wind that blew constantly off the Great Bay.

Promise me, you’ll give them a chance to love you as we do,
his mother had demanded before she sent him here to meet his
father.
The king. Become his heir.

S’murghit,
he didn’t belong here.

He didn’t belong at home anymore either. Maybe he should stay a while until he figured out where he did belong.

Glenndon had no idea what a king actually did. Was it like the meetings that occupied Da’s time? Running the University to train the next generation of magicians was a lot of work. That Glenndon understood. As Senior Magician, Da needed to keep track of all of Coronnan’s magicians and work to integrate them back into everyday life. That Glenndon understood.

Perhaps the king performed similar duties with the mind-blind.

Thankfully the queen, the lovely and gracious queen, had left him alone for a time after feeding him generous portions of roasted beasts, fresh bread, and greens dressed in vinegar and bacon fat. When he’d satisfied his appetite and replenished his energy stores, she’d shown him his room and then taken her two younger daughters back to her suite. He might, after a time, get used to thinking of Manda and Josie as his
half
-sisters. They weren’t so different from Valeria and Lillian, except they had no magic (not even the tiny trace he’d seen in the king’s aura and the older princess, Linda) and talked endlessly of dresses and hairstyles and their ponies.

His
sisters hadn’t time for such frivolity. They worked, in Mama’s garden and at their lessons. They had no one to impress with fancy garments. An apprentice’s robe was impressive enough, a journeyman’s or master’s even more so.

Why am I here?

No answer. He was indeed alone. No dragons to hear his mental call. No magicians to stand beside him and work with him. No Lukan to make fun of him and twist his spells inside out and upside down for the joy of it.

Hot tears of loneliness burned in the back of his eyes. He wanted to throw himself onto the bed and cry, like a small child.

He couldn’t even reach the bed top to throw himself upon it without carefully negotiating the rickety steps.

A sharp knock on the door startled Glenndon out of his reverie. He dashed the tears away from his eyes and turned to face the intruder.

“You did say ‘come in,’ didn’t you? Thought so. Wouldn’t presume to enter the chamber of a royal without permission, now would I. Clothed enough of you lot to know my place. And you’d be the new heir presumptive . . .” A stout woman in a dark dress with a black apron and a mop of gray-streaked dark hair bustled in. She wore a long piece of knotted cloth around her neck, pins stuck into her apron bib, and some sort of metal tool with a circle at the end of each handle protruded from her pocket.

“
Stargods,
I didn’t quite believe it when they told me, but can’t be any doubt now. Look just like him, you do. Golden locks the color of snow-streaked sunshine, same broad shoulders, and hips so slim you can barely get a belt to stay up. He’s got a few inches on you but you got time to grow a bit. But your eyes be different. Oh, yes, you got magician blue eyes, just like your Mama.”

Glenndon backed up against the mattress as far as he could and gave this woman possession of the room. She seemed to use up all the air in her gushing conversation. She carried on both ends better than anything he could add. Glenndon felt no need to comment with mind speech or words.

“Now let’s get your measure and I’ll have new tunics and trews for you by the time you break your fast. Boots might take an hour or two longer.” She stared at his muddy footwear with disdain.

Glenndon didn’t like the boots either, but at the moment they felt like some protection from this woman.

“Oh, excuse me, forgot we hadn’t met. Been around the palace so long everyone knows old Maisy, seamstress to the court. And I thought the young princesses were a bit of a chore to keep up with, what with them growing faster than Devils vine—they can be just as thorny in their demands if you ask me—and the way the Princess Royale changes fashion with every other thought so’s she can keep the other ladies jumping to mimic her, but she’s always ahead of them by at least two steps. You, young man, need a lot of work. I see your Mama kept you in good sturdy cloth, but that
will not
do at court. Now get them old clothes off so’s I can measure you proper.”

Glenndon fled. He closed his eyes and thought of nowhere except away from here. No when except not now.

Half a heartbeat later he opened his eyes in a vast nothingness. No up or down, right or left, forward or back. Just a sea of all-color, no-color tangles twining about his body, which he couldn’t see or feel.

“I look forward to meeting your son, Your Grace,” Lord Andrall said, formal as ever.

Darville allowed himself a small grin. Andrall had married his father’s sister. He was family. Still, the man never, ever, presumed upon the relationship, other than to offer his complete, unshakable loyalty. His only son should be able to claim a place in the lineup of heirs to the crown. However, Mardall had been born to Andrall and Aunt Lynnetta late in life. His moon face always appeared happy, and life never disappointed him. At the age of thirty-five, he had yet to learn to read, or hold a sword, or show any interest in politics. He did have an uncanny touch with taming and gentling wild steeds and wilder children.

But then fourteen years ago a totally mad Lady Ariiell, daughter of Lord Laislac, seduced Mardall, hoping to displace Darville and rule Coronnan through her child. That child, Mikkette, appeared to be growing up normal.

No one mentioned Mikkette when discussing heirs to the crown out of fear that his parents’ heritage of sorcery and madness, or a simple mind, would overtake him at any time.

“Glenndon is more, and less, than I expected, my lord,” Darville replied. “You’ll meet him tomorrow after we break our fast privately. He’s nervous and shy as a wild colt.”

“Perhaps my grandson could help ease the transition . . .”

“Not yet, uncle. Let us see how he deals with his half-sisters and the queen. They may gentle him enough to endure court.”

“But will the court endure him?” Andrall asked.

“They must. For a time anyway.”

A frantic movement at the small private door to the round chamber caught his attention. That entry was reserved for the king. All lords and courtiers had to use the double doors that chimed with bells above and to the side every time they opened more than a hand’s breadth. The private door on the other hand made no noise, and the light in the room did not change with its use.

Darville turned his frown toward the entry, expecting a furious Linda to stomp in, skirts and curls flying in the wind of her passage. Instead, the stout household seamstress beckoned to him, panic evident in the flutter of her fingers. She wove her wrist in a complex twist that he’d almost forgotten the meaning of.

“Your Grace,” she said breathlessly. “He’s gone.”

“Who?” though Darville had a good idea who she meant.

“I didn’t mean to frighten him, honest I didn’t. Chatty and welcoming, I was. I swear. I meant to remind him of his Ma, I did. Honest. But he took fright, Your Grace, was downright ready to scurry afore I got there. Never said a word. Didn’t make a single peep. Didn’t look happy at all, neither wanting to be alone, or bothered, if you know what I mean.” She paused for breath, a rare occurrence.

“Who, Maisy? Who are you talking about?”

“The young master, Your Grace. Prince Glenndon. Though he didn’t look much like a prince in them homespun clothes. I know his Ma meant well dressing him in his country best. But, Your Grace, you and I know that country best ain’t nowhere near as good as what servants wear here in the palace. Couldn’t have him prancing about court in those clumsy boots and rough-woven tunic and trews in them muddy colors.”

“Maisy. Where has he gone?” Darville shook the woman who had been at court almost as long as he’d worn the Coraurlia.

“Don’t know, Your Grace. He just winked out in a sparkle of gold dust. Took on the face of a wolf just before I lost sight of him. If that don’t tell me he’s your son, then that silver-tipped golden hair sure did. Looks just like you did when you was that age.”

“Maisy.” Darville shook her again to knock the words out of her and some sense in. “You are never to speak of this. Ever. Now take yourself off to whatever private place you call your own and send word to your master. He is the only one who can deal with this.”

“Yes, Your Grace.” She dipped a hasty curtsy and fled back the way she’d come.

“Sounds like he is your son, indeed,” Andrall chuckled. “You know where he’s run to, don’t you?”

“Of course. He’s gone back to the clearing and his mother. Where we all end up sooner or later. Brevelan heals all.”

“Perhaps. This may be the one thing she can’t cure.”

“If she can’t?”

“Is it time to bring my grandson Mikkette to court?”

“You know there is a taint in his ancestry. The people will fear him as badly as they do my son. For different reasons.”

“I know. But once they get to know him . . .”

“I had hoped the same thing for Glenndon. Neither boy is a good candidate . . .”

“But it will give us time. Time for the Princess Royale to grow up a bit. And if the Council of Provinces and the people will still not accept
her
as reigning queen, then at least she will be old enough to choose a suitable husband. Are she and Mikkette too close in blood to wed? He is but a year older than her. Time is what we need.”

“Yes. Time.” Darville paused a moment, pacing round and round the magnificent black glass table, hands behind his back, head thrust forward. His “wolf” posture. If he looked closely at the colors hidden within the black glass, he could almost see his other persona, the one magic brought out of him: the great golden wolf that dragons and Brevelan had protected so ardently all those years ago.

Now he had to protect himself and his daughter. Had to secure the throne for her to succeed to. Queen Miranda ruled SeLennica without a king. He’d heard that the city-states on the Big Continent traced their leaders through the female line, a man could only be king if he married a queen. Why couldn’t his lords accept that a woman could rule Coronnan?

“We will stall, uncle. Order your grandson brought to court. But not your son. And I will order my son back here. I’ll have Jaylor put a geas on him if necessary so he can’t flee again.”

“And what of my grandson’s mother? Her father, Lord Laislac, has been agitating for proof that she still lives, proof that she is still insane—as was her mother. If she has recovered any sanity at all, he wants her back. Stargods only know why.”

“I haven’t thought of Lady Ariiell in years. Does she still live?”

Lord Andrall heaved a weary sigh and sat down in the chair reserved for him, his crest worked into the tapestry headrest. “Yes.”

“And?”

“Jaylor had to send a healing magician from the University as her primary attendant. She can soothe the worst of her tantrums, but not eliminate them. Her magic is as wild and uncontrolled as her mind.”

“Then I hope she remains locked up in a remote tower with an abundance of glass in her quarters to reflect her magic back into her.”

“There isn’t enough glass in all of Kardia Hodos for that. And recently, a black cat and a tin-colored weasel have been spotted in the vicinity of her hospice.”

Darville had to sit heavily into his demi-throne. “Rejiia and Krej? Seeking release from the ensorcellment that put them into the bodies of their personality totems?”

“I fear so.”

“Stargods help us if they are ever restored to their human bodies.”

CHAPTER 18

“L
ILLIAN, VALERIA, what are you doing here?” Jaylor whispered to the half-hidden girls beneath an everblue sapling. “It’s nearly sunset.”

Valeria tugged on her sister’s sleeve to pull her out into the open and face their father. Only about a half mile of winding trail separated the University courtyard in front of them from their home.

Valeria and her sister had grown up running back and forth. Jaylor encouraged them to observe other apprentice lessons, even practice gathering dragon magic, though they physically couldn’t do that, long before they were old enough to begin their own formal classes. Was this so different?

“How are we supposed to learn if we don’t watch the masters at work?” Lillian replied, squirming back into the nest of needle litter. “Twilight, betwixt and between day and night, light and dark, here and there. It’s the best time to throw tricky spells that need both energies . . .”

“I don’t know . . .” Valeria said, wavering between curiosity and obedience.

Jaylor swallowed his smile. The girls were right where he expected them to be, and where he needed them. He marked the scope of the ritual courtyard. They could see and hear everything that occurred there.

“Valeria, you need to learn finer control of your magic to keep from exhausting yourself. Watching twelve master magicians work a scry/summoning spell can only help. Lillian, you need to learn more about observation of little details.”

“This is supposed to be a big secret. We’ll have to be masters before you actually teach us this spell,” Lillian said cautiously.

“We’ll never be able to use dragon magic, so we can’t learn this
particular
spell. Only men can gather dragon magic. But we can learn the basic skeleton of the spell to try using our own magic,” Valeria corrected her twin. She smiled at Jaylor, sharing in the conspiracy. She crouched down and wiggled beneath the lowest fluffy branch, chin on her hands, eyes watching the courtyard for anything unusual before the spell to come.

“Rest now, both of you. This is going to be a long night. I must prepare. Lukan is across the way. In the morning I’ll need a report from all three of you. Aura colors, shifts in power, anything and everything you can remember about the spell.”

“Yes, Da,” they said together, then they leaned their heads so their foreheads touched.

He had no idea what kind of communication they shared. Girl children were a mystery. Teenagers more so. Twins? He shuddered inwardly, wondering if he’d ever understand them.

Half an hour later, Jaylor led the twelve blue-robed men in a stately march around their ritual circle. Long ago, their ritual space had been outlined in the cropped grass by paving stones. Each one had a different rune etched in the flat surface that echoed the pattern of magic weaving through the masters’ staffs.

Jaylor’s staff had twisted and tangled into an impenetrable knot—like his queue after a long and tiring day. The pattern on his stone was a braid entwined back on itself into a complex knot. His magic took on red and blue twined with bright sparkles when he threw a spell, colors the stones could not deploy.

When each man stood on his own stone and had anchored his staff into the Kardia on his right, Jaylor nodded to them and placed his left hand on the shoulder of Robb, who stood beside him.

The solemn joining of each man in turn around the circle continued faultlessly until Marcus (Robb’s youthful companion in getting into trouble), to Jaylor’s right, completed the unbroken line.

No light shone forth from inside to alert an observer of any change.

Jaylor felt a shift in the air pressure against his face and caught a whiff of an exotic spice—the Tambootie, an addictive, and therefore forbidden, drug that was supposed to boost one’s magical talent. With his senses heightened by the drug he heard how the scent enticed Valeria to move closer to the circle, to inhale more deeply, partake of . . .

“Get down!” Lillian hissed. Her voice barely penetrated the fog in Jaylor’s mind created by the alluring aroma. Then Lillian pinched her hard. Her fingernails penetrated deeply, almost drawing blood.

Can you smell it?
Valeria asked her twin.

“Of course. It’s what makes this ritual and spell so secret. Da doesn’t want anyone to know that master magicians still use the forbidden drug.”

Satisfied that the girls balanced each other, he turned his attention to Lukan. He cast his senses to the roof of the front building of the complex, seeking his son. His true son of his blood. Only the Tambootie in his system allowed him to discern a blank bubble beside the chimney. A casual search for anything out of the ordinary would slide right over the boy.

Nice work,
he sent, then closed his mind to everything but the spell he led.

Jaylor noticed a hesitation in the line of men processing around the circle of paving stones, as if they paused to listen. Jaylor lifted his head, breaking his meditation.
S’murghit,
the girls needed to shut up. What was it about teenage girls that made them need to shout every thought that entered their heads to the world?

Then his empathic bond of blood and love shared the sensations with Valeria of ducking her head beneath her arms. Together they thought about worms crawling through the dirt, undulating slowly, stretching forward, squishing up. Stretching long and thin again, pulling back into a fat lump again.

“Da is shaking his head and continuing. You can come out now,” Lillian whispered.

Why wasn’t she using her mind speech?

Valeria breathed deeply. Her thoughts stretched outward and latched onto a lazy strand of magic that struggled to catch up with the others in the circle. It tasted of a fresh sea breeze heavy with salt and green. Evard, the youngest and newest master magician. Jaylor boosted this tentative strand until it latched onto his own red and blue braid of power. Together, they wove and melded their thoughts into the magic blooming into a dome around the men as they continued their slow march around and around the circle, still physically connected to each other, building the power, combining with it, pushing it to greater and greater limits until a shining, pulsing, bubble of shimmering all color/no color encased them. If Valeria had not made herself a part of that bubble before it closed, following the magical currents around and around in a wide swirl, she’d not penetrate it with sight, hearing, scent, or any magically augmented sense.

Are you seeing this?
Valeria asked her sister. Jaylor sensed more than saw Lillian’s nod and the increased pressure of her hand on Valeria’s shoulder.

Twisting and wiggling around the dome, keeping her life energy closely entwined with Evard’s, Valeria relaxed a little and allowed the spell to absorb her.

Jaylor intoned long words that almost rhymed in an ancient and nearly forgotten language. He followed a codified sequence of questions and questing. His long braid of blue and red magic shot from the top of his staff to coil at the top of the dome. An eyeblink later, all of the other staffs shot forth unique colors and configurations that mimicked the way their staff’s wood grain twisted.

Valeria’s lavender magic sneaked in on Evard’s lazy curl of seafoam green.

Breathe,
Jaylor reminded her.
Slow and steady, in and out. Breathe.

Valeria broke a bit of her consciousness away from the spell to tend to her distant body. When she had stabilized, Jaylor directed the combined strength of all the magicians shooting forth from the dome in a long braid that stretched thin in order to retain its connection to the dome and the hearts and staffs of the master magicians.

Valeria’s spirit went with them.

A single word permeated their being.
Glenndon.

Their sole purpose in existence was to find the golden-haired boy.

Then the rope of magic broke through a barrier of time and life with an audible pop.

Atop the roof, Lukan recoiled a bit, revealing himself for half a heartbeat. Only one master, Samlan, seemed to notice. He scowled and glared at the spot that hid Lukan. Then the oldest of the masters present slipped back into the group mind, adding his considerable power to the circle.

Jaylor’s mind burst into the void. He sought to make sense of the endless white as he always did. The magic raveled back into the dome and his companions. He sorted through his connections. No up or down, right or left. No Valeria, no Lillian. Only Lukan anchored him.

(Caught you!)
He heard the distant gleeful shout, but it did not touch him.

Glenndon closed his eyes. Eyes that did not seem to exist. The tangle of colored umbilicals remained in full view. Nothing looked familiar. He had no landmarks to cling to. He could only drift.

(Think)

What?

(Use your mind. That’s why you have one!)
That voice sounded mature, feminine. Almost like his mother when she was mad at him for not following through on a chore or task she’d entrusted to him, or traded chores with Lukan.

Think.
What was he supposed to think about? All he could perceive was this mass of wiggling, twining, living strands of color.

(Think!)

Wiggling, twining, living strands of color.

Living
strands of color. Life energy. Each one represented a life. If that was so, then the ones closest to him should be the people closest to him.

He’d seen these colors in the auras of his family, every day. They were so much a part of his life, he rarely thought about them, barely noticed them. Now he had to think and sort and decide.
Think

A thick golden cord pulsed right beneath his nose, or where his nose should be if he had a body.

Gold. Who did he know that was gold?

(The king. Your father.)

He is not my father!

Silence. Disapproving silence.

He may have sired me, but Jaylor, Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University is my Da.

(Agreed. Both are honorable. Both love you. In different ways.)

Glenndon decided he could live with that. He didn’t like the idea that King Darville loved him. His sire needed him to fill his own agenda. Nothing more. He couldn’t believe that Darville actually expected him to succeed him to the crown and throne.

The golden cord pulsed more rapidly, more vibrant than any of the other colors. Except maybe the green, many different shades of green growing things, of a more slender and fragile tendril of life.
Mama.

But she drifted away, almost as if she’d given up on him when she gave him to the king.

The blue and red braid could only belong to Da. It twisted and coiled around itself, tying itself into knots. That was Da.

Two purple ones that shaded back and forth to lavender—actually one was purple shading lighter, the other lavender shading darker into blue—must belong to Valeria and Lillian. The paler lavender shifted away from the darker, bluer tendril. For the first time in their lives, Glenndon caught a sense that his twin sisters were more than twins, each one had a separate identity that could only separate from the other in the void . . . or while working magic.

And that vibrant gold, rust, brown, gray, with hints of green must be either his half-sister Rosselinda or her mother. Both of them had the same multicolored hair that matched the cord.

If his other half-sisters, Manda and Josie, were there, they were too faint and undeveloped for him to find.

And then there were the crystal umbilicals, looking brittle and delicate but moving smoothly and confidently through the mass, not quite pushing aside the other colors, but ignoring them and gliding past unnoticed, unheeding.

The dragons.

They pulsed slower than the others, as if each heartbeat was a struggle.

(Correct. Choose wisely.)

I’ve got to choose one? Only one?

Silence again.

I need to go home.

(Choose wisely.)

Meaning he had more than one home to choose from. Well, there was the clearing with Mama’s cabin. The University with its massive wooden buildings. Where else?

(Choose wisely.)

The tone of that command told him he hadn’t considered something else. Something important.

Home was home. What other choices could there be?

(Consider the needs of those who love you.)

He didn’t like that. He’d landed here in a desperate attempt to escape . . .

Now he couldn’t remember what exactly had driven him here other than intense loneliness and homesickness. He needed to go home to Mama, and Da, and Lukan, and the twins, and the little ones. To the other students. And to his friend Indigo.

A flash of another mind crossed his own. Someone . . . someone he couldn’t quite identify but knew he should.

(Caught you!)