The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1 (31 page)

CHAPTER 47

“B
REVELAN, I AM SO SORRY I didn’t tell you this earlier,” Jaylor said quietly into his scrying bowl. He scrubbed his face with weariness, anxious to find a bed, too worried about his daughters to sleep, concerned about Glenndon’s solitary quest tonight.

“What’s done is done. Bring her home. Now,” Brevelan replied. “I need . . .”

“I know, dear heart. But I can’t. Not tonight. If I tried a transport spell now, we’d lose both of us in the void. Forever.”

“Glenndon can do it . . .”

“Glenndon is on his journeyman quest tonight. He’ll need a staff come morning. I will be needed to lead the defense of our king and the city. Of our country.” He sighed, hating to put his responsibilities before his family.

“Lillian?”

Jaylor nearly choked. “Um . . .”

“Don’t ‘Um’ me, Jaylor.” Brevelan looked near to tears.

“We have a slight problem with Lillian . . .”

“What aren’t you telling me? How did you manage to damage both girls? I’m never letting you or any of my children outside the clearing . . .”

“Lillian is fine. She’s only upset about Valeria’s injuries. But . . . um . . .” No way to make this sound pretty. “Brevelan, please listen without panicking.”

She glared at him through the glass, water, and candle flame. He reached a finger to trace the curve of her cheek in the flickering image.

“Dear heart, Lillian has very little magical talent.”

“But . . .”

“But Valeria has been bouncing spells off of Lillian so they look like Lillian threw them.”

“So that’s why Val is always so tired.” Brevelan let a single tear slide down her cheek before dashing it away.

Jaylor ached with her.

“Did we push them too hard? Expecting them to be better and stronger than we are?” he asked her, as well as himself.

“Perhaps. When can you bring them home? I need to be with my girls.”

“In a few days. We have a crisis brewing here. I’ll need all the help I can get. I’ve already sent for Robb and three journeymen who already have their staffs.”

“I’m coming with them.”

“No, Brevelan. You have to stay there. Help Marcus. He’s a strong leader, but he may need more if the malcontents see my absence as an opportunity to take over the University. Lukan is too young to do more than tangle things up. The little ones need you, dear heart,” he pleaded with her anxiously.

“Keep my girls safe,” Brevelan said on a whisper. Another tear escaped. “They are so young, and frail.”

“I know. I know.” He sent her a kiss and closed the summoning.

“And if we survive this I’ll have to separate the girls and send them on their journey. It’s time. But I hate forcing them apart,” he told himself as he pushed his chair away from the table that held his bowl and candle.

Then he took a chair to sit beside the twins’ cot in an alcove off of the younger princesses’ bedchamber. If he couldn’t sleep, he could rest and watch. Keep vigil over ailing Valeria and grieving Lillian.

Glenndon put his back into the oars. “Get your staff, son. You’ll need your staff when we face the Krakatrice,” Da had said. “The Krakatrice that holds Lucjemm enthralled.”

He wanted to stay in the palace and prowl the towers up and down to make sure nothing went wrong. Make sure that Lucjemm stayed with his army and kept his pet snakes away from the royal family.

The current ran swift in the River Coronnan tonight. Low tide and a trickle of spring snowmelt made for an increased current running toward the Bay. He needed to go upriver to Sacred Isle. He had the muscle and the will to propel his little boat in the relentless but sluggish water.

The river felt thick, as if it carried too much silt.

The islands and temporary aits grew smaller, more isolated, as he progressed slowly toward his goal: a middle-sized island with multiple groves of tall trees and circular clearings. Legend claimed the Stargods had first come to Coronnan upon this island. The opening at the center marked the resting place of their cloud of fire.

It remained sacred many centuries later, isolated from the city without bridges of any kind, reserved for priests, those in need of private prayer and meditation, and magicians on quest.

Anything about the Stargods intrigued Glenndon now that he’d read that strange letter from Kimmer, Scribe of the South.

The river caught the nose of his boat and swung it off course. He cursed as he dragged his right-hand oar until his boat pointed in the right direction. No one ever said this most special ritual of any apprentice magician was supposed to be easy. He knew all that wood chopping at home and sword bashing in the training arena had to have some purpose.

He used his left-hand oar to steady his craft against a protruding snag, just barely visible in the growing twilight.

Silent and secret, Da says.
Glenndon wanted to shout curses at the river, his oars, and the blisters growing on his palms. He’d have trouble wielding a sword for a week or more.

But if he earned a staff tonight, he might not need a sword.

Another half hour of hard rowing, and he finally beached the boat just as the last of the lingering light faded below the horizon. Glenndon paused and waited for his eyes to adjust. Brilliant stars against a black velvet sky and a low crescent moon gave him just enough light to pull the boat higher onto the thin grass above the tide line.

Now what?
he asked the air.

A night bird chirruped at him from the top of a tree, one of many tall, taller, tallest trees that brushed the sky with waving tops. Which tree? He couldn’t make out anything different, color, shape, or texture, among feathery branches.

I’m supposed to interpret signs sent by the Stargods. I guess that bird is calling to me. But where is he?

He could of course engage his FarSight to find the bird. Was he supposed to use magic on this quest?

He couldn’t remember. Only to come alone, in secret, stay all night and wait for the dawn, when, if he was worthy, the Stargods should bless him with a staff.

How did his distant ancestors determine if he was worthy? He reminded himself that he was here to earn his staff so he could better help in the coming battle. He’d have to have both magic and a steel blade at his fingertips.

So, should he blatantly use his magic at every turn to get this over with and go back to the palace? Or should he save his talent and energy by using magic sparingly, judiciously, and only when he really needed it?

He’d come without provisions. No fire kit, no food, no blanket. Just himself. As dictated by tradition.

His stomach rumbled, protesting the long trip to the island and all the hard work of rowing the boat.

“No magic for a while.” He knew better than to push his talents when his body was depleted. Da had made him do it once, two years ago, just to show him what it felt like. His knees had wobbled and he’d been sick with hunger. The first two bites of yampion pie had come back up again. Then he’d had to wait, lying with his head below his shoulders for quite a while until his stomach settled again, before he could keep a bit of broth down.

Call to me again, little bird. Help me find you, please,
he said through a whistle that almost sounded like the bird.

The bird obliged with another, louder call.

The sound spread out and echoed, coming from everywhere and nowhere.

Inland,
Glenndon thought. He pulled the oars from the locks and neatly stowed them in the bottom of the boat. Sand and dirt crunched beneath his feet. Maybe he’d better haul his only transportation a bit higher. Then he’d seek the elusive bird.

It called again, seeming to agree with him.

Chore finished, he walked slowly toward the line of small scrub trees. Thick as bramble bushes, he needed a staff or a stout machete to get through them. So he walked along them, deasil, brushing their leaves with his right hand. They seemed brittle. Too brittle for the wet spring months. He knew his home in the mountains got more rain than the valleys, but this was much too early in the year for the trees to feel like the last days of high summer.

More evidence of a disruption in weather patterns.

He stumbled along, cursing whenever he tripped over a protruding root or rock. At least it was dry enough to keep the moss clinging to those rocks from being slimy.

At last he felt a break in the shrub line. He patted leaves right and left to discover a distance about his body’s width between them. On the other side of the head-height saplings the distances between things opened up. A little moonlight shone through the branches above his head. He’d found a clearing ringed on three sides by tall trees.

Not the middle of Sacred Grove. That opening at the center of the isle was supposed to be a perfect circle with a pond filling in the depression where the Stargods’ cloud of fire had landed.

He kept to the outside perimeter of the open space until he judged he’d come halfway around. This should put him on a path leading inward.

The bird cheeped encouragement.

Using the same method of seeking space with hands and feet, he moved forward, nearly blind. He found another clearing shortly, then two more in rapid succession. Then just more trees for a long, long time. He felt as if he’d been walking all night. The bird had fallen silent, giving him no clues for direction.

Did he dare use a little talent to penetrate the murky darkness of the shadows beneath the dense tree canopy?

A faint glimmer akin to moonlight, but not, shone through the ground cover. He stopped and breathed.

The glimmer stayed where it was, not shifting as would moonlight.

Slowly he crouched down and felt the ground with his fingers and a tiny trickle of talent. He brushed something hard and smooth, like polished wood. Could it be? Had the Stargods given him a staff early so that he could return to the palace and help prepare for tomorrow?

Cautiously he stretched his fingers to grasp the cold, glowing stick. It warmed to his touch. Heart in his throat, he lifted it to eye level. Only about as long as his arm and too slender to use as a staff, he almost cast it aside.

Something in the back of his mind reminded him to never throw away a tool, no matter how unlikely.

He thrust the stick forward and used it to hold aside the brush and branches.

The stick worked admirably to ease his path. Several more sticks glowed through the underbrush. He made mental note of their location. But until he had enough light to examine them more completely, he would wait to seek them out.

Six more steps brought him into yet another clearing. He smelled water, not the ever-present saltiness of the Bay, or even the muddy river. This water was still, rank with decaying plant life as it shrank within its banks from the lack of rain.

At last,
he shouted in his mind, feeling a bit awestruck that he’d actually found the central clearing before dawn. The moon rose above the treetops and glimmered down on him, robbing his stick of light. A bird flew across the crescent of light in benevolent symbol.

The end of his path was rough and rocky. Not a comfortable place to wait out the rest of the night. He edged to his left, keeping with the deasil design of his trek, using the stick to feel ahead of him.

Three steps. Then five more. The ground felt soft, like a freshly plowed field.

He stopped with one foot in the air. Freshly dug? No one was supposed to alter the land on this island in any way. Even the staff, if he got one, had to fall from a tree. He could not cut one.

He almost threw his stick back toward its original resting place, then kept it. It had lain directly in his path, inviting him to use it.

As he opened his ears and his mind, the ground beneath him crumbled. He slipped down, down, down, landing in a pool of rank water up to his chin.

CHAPTER 48

“T
OOK YOU LONG ENOUGH TO GET HERE!” Lucjemm protested. The splash of his quarry hitting the bottom of the trap was most satisfactory. He listened to Glenndon thrash about, cursing as fluently as any soldier. How long before he tired and drowned?

“Ah, yes, my lovely, you think the pit we dug, with the help of your mates, and filled with water from the pond is deep enough. I am not so sure. My enemy who should have been my friend is tall, taller than I.”

“Lucjemm? Is that you? You aren’t supposed to be here. But I’m glad you are. Help me get out.”

“Oh, no, my friend. That isn’t allowed. You see, I have studied magicians and their rituals for a long time. I know about this supposedly sacred trial. You must do it alone.”

“Alone on an
undisturbed
island. But it has been disturbed. Therefore the rules don’t apply. Help me out and we’ll find out who has profaned . . .”

“Profaned!” Lucjemm protested. “Don’t you know how the Stargods profaned life on Kardia Hodos? That isn’t even the proper name of this world. But it works. Path of the Heart. But whose heart?” Lucjemm’s voice rose in volume until it echoed against the ring of aromatic trees.

“Yes, my lovely. Your heart. You are the heart of this world.” He petted the weapon coiled about his neck.

The snake lifted her head and hissed, demanding the blood of their enemy.
Before he drowns,
she insisted. She needed living blood to grow and thrive so that she could join with her adoring mates.

“Soon, my lovely, soon you will truly be the matriarch of this world, mother of two dozen or more of your kind. Soon, soon, I will smooth the way for them to remove the excess water from the land,” he crooned to her, momentarily forgetting the prey in the ditch while he exulted in his plans.

“Only when Coronnan is a desert will the dragons die and leave us free of their despoiling magic.”

“You idiot!” Glenndon bellowed. “You say you hate magic, but that damned snake is a creature of magic, cousin to the dragons.”

“Lies! Lies born of the dragons. Lies perverted by dragon magic,” Lucjemm yelled back. “Water is the bane of my lovely and her kind. She cannot grow to her full potential with all of this water. Water captured by the dragons. While there is water, the dragons thrive. The time has come for the one to give way to the other. In removing the water, we will also remove the magicians and the magic, force them to flee to another part of the world, or die.” He shouted his litany to the skies.

“I am an idiot. I thought you were my friend,” Glenndon spat at him. “I trusted you. I looked the other way when you courted my
sister.
You have betrayed your king, your country . . .” he lowered his voice to a hiss that stabbed Lucjemm through his mind to his heart. “You have betrayed me, your friend.”

“All magicians must die,” Lucjemm said, repeating the words his pet spoke directly into his mind. Not magic speech, intimate speech. “My lovely says so. You are a magician first and my friend later, so you are the first to die. You betrayed me by having magic and using it. Magic must die too.”

“Without magic or magicians, the dragons will fade away to dust,” Glenndon muttered. He sounded like he was thinking aloud.

“They are the true enemy,” Lucjemm confirmed. He liked Glenndon. Perhaps if he converted his friend to proper thinking he could save him.

The snake hissed a vehement negative. He sighed in disappointment. “My weapons and I shall hasten the demise of magic and magicians. Nearly all is in place now.”

Glenndon thrashed and splashed about some more. Some of the filthy water drops touched his pet on her spread wings. She hissed in pain. Tiny burn holes ate at her skin.

“Now look what you’ve done! For that I should kill you right away. Most horribly. With fire. The opposite of water.” He petted the snake, easing her agitation as well as his own.

“Die quickly, Magician. I shall console your sister in her grief. You see, you weren’t ready for promotion to journeyman after all. And without you, the king has no heir. Only I can make order out of the chaos he leaves the kingdom in. Order. Dry order. That is the purpose of life.”

“You are insane,” Glenndon muttered. “Your pets have clouded your mind with lies. You lie just like them.”

“We speak the truth. You and your kind have not matured enough to know the truth from lies.”

“I could say the same about you!” Glenndon called. His words bore magic, trying to pierce the protective bubble his lovely granted him.

“I have no more need of you, Prince Glenndon.” Lucjemm strolled away, stroking his lovely, whistling a sprightly tune that was certain to win the love of his princess. “She will love me when she has no brother to lead her astray. She will love me as my mother, Lady Lucinda, once loved my father. But he destroyed that. Destroyed her. And she did not love me enough to take me with her when she ran away to the magicians.”

“I am afraid she must die along with the magicians for she did not love me enough.”

Only my princess can truly love me enough.

Lyman is planning something,
Valeria whispered to Lillian in the dark stretches of the night, after Da fell asleep in his chair. She shifted her cat body a little, stretching three of her legs. Her right hip was still sore, a sharp ache that traveled along her spine and made her wings pop in and out with each muscle spasm. She was tired, much in need of sleep. The queen’s herbal tea helped a little, but did not allow her to overcome her spinning mind and grant her healing sleep.

“How do you know?” Lillian asked. She hummed a familiar tune as she stroked Valeria’s back. Warmth and love spilled from her fingers and her song. The aches and pains eased but did not go away. Not yet.

Perhaps Lillian had found her true talent at last. She could be a healer even if she worked no other magic. Mama had been a healer long before she learned how to do other magic.

I learned a lot from Lyman since we transformed. I shared his mind even when he was not talking to me. He knows how to fix the flagpole and the Well of Life.

“We need to tell Da.” Lillian swung her legs off the bed they shared in an alcove at the back of the suite occupied by the younger princesses.

A maid’s room, the royal girls had informed them haughtily. A more luxurious and softer mattress than they shared at home, a lot more private, too. Though the entire palace was colder and draftier than their snug cabin.

Not yet,
Valeria moaned.

“But . . . we have a responsibility.”

We have to wait until morning. Lyman has to persuade Old Maisy of his plan first, whatever it is. He cannot act without a body to move him from here to there, or apply leverage to that flagpole.

“Do you think she really loved him long ago?”

I know he loved her.

“Where are they now?” Lillian asked. “We should talk to them.”

We can’t trust Lyman. He’s so old he’s lost his sense of . . . of morals. Da put Maisy somewhere in the palace with magical wards on the room. I think she needs some time alone with Lyman. Maisy needs time to remind him of what he should do, not just what he wants to do.

“You’re probably right. We’ll tell Da what you know first thing in the morning. Now we should get some sleep.”

I hope I can sleep. Can you sing Mama’s favorite lullaby?

Soothing words on a lilting three count filled the tiny room.

Valeria finally drifted off to sleep dreaming of flying, for real this time, not the half memory of her dragon-dream.

She woke with a start. All around her, silence enfolded the palace. She listened with her enhanced cat senses for sounds of life. Outside a soldier walked his weary patrol, coughing out dust. His boots scraped the stone parapet. Atop a turret a FarSeer blinked and blinked again, unsure if he truly saw movement along the river or not. Deep in the dungeons Old Maisy and Lyman shared angry thoughts.

Then far away and very weak she heard the plea that had awakened her:
Tell the king not to trust Lucjemm. Tell Linda not to trust him.
A long pause.
Tell Mama and Da that I love them.

Glenndon!
she screeched.

She had to help him. But what could she do, injured and crippled, unable to fly. Unable to walk.

She had to do something.

Maybe now was the time to wake Da.

Darville’s body ached with fatigue from toes to crown. Yet he knew sleep would elude him once more.

He emptied his goblet of a last swallow, dregs mostly, but couldn’t bring himself to spit out the bitter bits. The rough liquor had made him sleepy but had not countered the worry in his brain.

He scrubbed his face with his hands. Unable to banish his weariness, he rested his head in his palms, elbows propped firmly upon his desk—a huge piece of furniture that could be both sanctuary and prison. Tonight it felt like a dank cell deep in the dungeon, like the one where Jaylor had set guards and wards to watch Old Maisy and her unwelcome guest, Magician Lyman.

Fred had roused from his own fitful doze to sit beside his king, dutiful and responsible as ever. Darville had told him to sleep in the hall outside his office, or go back to bed. To be anywhere but here.

For once, the king needed very much to be alone.

Rather than allow his mind to spin through an endless loop of despair, he unrolled a map of the city, firmly anchoring each corner with an object from his desk. He focused on small details, banishing the muzziness in his head. A fanciful rendition of the palace with its towers and turrets surrounding the old keep, dotted with courtyards and gardens, sat in the middle of the map, even though the exact placement among the myriad of delta islands was slightly to the southeast of the middle. Smaller Ambassador Isle actually occupied that central place in reality. Still, the map was as accurate as his cartographers could make it.

Tediously he consulted a report listing each of the bridges his troops had inspected and either found sound or repaired. Most only needed a new dose of Amazon oil on the latches and hinges. A few needed rickety planks replaced. He’d ordered they remain unrepaired. The populace knew about the wear and tear. An invading army might not. He compared the list to the map and made check marks in appropriate places.

His people had been thorough. This city was their home, after all, and they had a vested interest in keeping rebellious lords from carrying their disagreement with the king to fighting in the streets.

Then he checked the faint tracery of gray lines indicating tunnels he and Jaylor knew about. Incomplete knowledge at best. He’d devoted years to exploring them as a teen. Jaylor had continued the job for him as a young man. Still they had not followed every branch or turning. Sometimes he wondered if the foundations of the city had been compromised with all that tunneling. He didn’t dare think too hard about it. Apprehension would drive him to seek refuge elsewhere. Or in the cask of beta arrack.

He had nowhere else safe to take his family, except possibly the new University in the Southern Mountains—if Jaylor remained in charge after he broke the circle in the face of rebellion. By seeking refuge there, he’d effectively abdicate his throne and leave all the lords fighting to the death to fill the vacancy.

But the lords alone would not suffer in such a war. His people would suffer. They
were
suffering because he couldn’t organize relief efforts for the drought that threatened many of the Provinces.

He turned his attention to the hills marked on the map and the places where the FarSeers and his scouts had seen movement. Surrounded. He was surrounded by hostile lords and their armies.

The worst any king could imagine was about to happen.

When had he lost control? Long before he’d broken the Council of Provinces. Long before he’d given up hope of Mikka giving him a son.

“Darville?” Mikka asked sleepily from the inner doorway. “You should be in bed. You need rest,” she added, moving gracefully and silently toward him.

“You are right. But too much troubles my mind.”

“Let me brew you a cup of herbal tea. I can make a mild infusion that will relax you. More than the beta arrack you have become too fond of.” She brushed a lock of hair away from his face where it had escaped his queue.