The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (4 page)

T
HIS IS RIDICULOUS. Exhaustion makes strong young men limp and uncaring about power. I have ridden long and far and only found two men and one woman interested in what I can offer them. The rest are concerned only with easing aching muscles and getting a good night’s sleep so that tomorrow they may begin again their never-ending labors of rebuilding and replanting. The only mating that concerns them is among their steeds and cattle and sheep to replace their lost herds. But the flusterhens survived. They always do. And they multiply and go wild and are always underfoot.

I and my followers have offered sex, wine, and magic to every likely person to no avail. Not even a whiff of the Tambootie leaves I carry with me for emergencies entices the people of Coronnan. They turn up their noses in distaste.

Time I quit this land and reap better harvests elsewhere. I have heard rumors and half stories of recent events. I know where I must go. There are no ships leaving the port for days and days. Endless days. I must make certain none of my old contacts recognize me and betray my presence to the king or his minions. The University hunts me actively, reminding all the students and teachers to keep an eye out for me as they help clear and rebuild the city. They will imprison me without bothering with a trial. If I dared, I’d take Crown Prince Glenndon to my bed. He is much among the people and the city, lifting with the strength of dragons, designing new roofs with the arcane knowledge of the ancients, consoling the grieving with a firm touch, a sorrowful hymn, and a prayer. I should entice him away for a little privacy and rest in the comforting arms of a willing woman. He could grant me much magic. Humiliating him would bring me a tiny bit of justice against both his fathers: the king and the dead Master Magician Jaylor.

This one time I shall forsake pleasure for expedience. I shall hide in plain sight.

But while I must hide, my minion can walk the city, listening and learning like any good spy. His scarred face and rope-thin body do not alarm the people. Many of them are underfed and scarred as well. He knows this city better than most. He serves me well.

Lukan held out the folded and sealed parchment he’d carried almost the full length of the country. “Da sent this,” he stated firmly, keeping all his emotions pushed into a tight knot behind his heart. “With his dying breath he commanded me to deliver this to you. For
me
he had only criticism.”

Not quite the truth, but close enough. Da had used his last breath to tell Mama he loved her.

Glenndon, taller than Lukan by half a hand, broader in the shoulder and slimmer of hip as well, bit his lip and blinked back tears. His golden hair glinted in the sunlight streaming through a high window. He didn’t need a crown as symbol of his title and position. His life energy surrounded him with a shining aura that even mundane minds could see.

“W . . . were you there?” Glenndon stammered. His throat worked as he swallowed heavily against a choke.

Lukan wondered briefly if his brother had taken time to grieve for the loss of their parents, or if his emotions had been suppressed by the massive amount of work involved in rebuilding the city. This little room on the ground floor, designed for greeting visitors and nothing more, showed no evidence of the planning necessary to even begin the task.

Lukan nodded, suddenly finding himself needing to banish tears. He hated revisiting those awful moments when Da’s heart gave out after trying to control the massive spell that broke Samlan’s control over the storm and unleashed its fury. Then as Da told Mama he loved her with his last breath (Lukan had left the room, but heard and saw much through the open doorway from the front yard) Mama had screamed and clutched her pregnant belly. Within minutes she had miscarried and bled to death. Linda said she’d smiled and held out her hand as if reaching for her husband.

Lukan dropped the letter onto a decorative little table and turned his back on his brother. He almost wished he’d taken the time to summon Souska to collect the latest gossip at the University. Then he’d have something to talk about. He couldn’t talk about Mama, not even after the passage of nearly two moons.

“I wanted to be there,” Glenndon said defensively. “I was halfway into the transport spell when Father—the king stopped me. He reminded me of my duty here. I had to save as many people as I could and that meant cutting off exits, communication, everything from outside the palace walls. I had no choice.”

“There are always choices,” Lukan reminded him, getting a firm grip on his emotions. “You made the one that seemed right for you at that time.”

“Right for the kingdom! Not right for me.”

“I’m leaving. I have my journey. I’ll spend tonight on Sacred Isle and leave soon afterward.” Lukan aimed his steps toward the door, unable to see clearly through the film of tears covering his eyes.

“Good Journey, little brother,” Glenndon said. “The island remains mostly intact. I checked. A few trees fell, mud and silt filled in the pit I was trapped in, the central pond is bigger than it was. But the magic ingrained in the island repulsed a lot of the magic in the storm surge.”

“I’m glad to hear it. When I saw that so much had been destroyed, so many of the little islands washed away, I wondered if the sanctity of the place could continue to inspire us.”

Lukan allowed a few moments of silence, almost comfortable with Glenndon in their shared concern for Sacred Isle.

Then Glenndon lifted his chin, shook back a few stray hairs that had escaped his queue and fixed a neutral gaze on Lukan. “Greet the trees with respect, meditate deeply, and leave the island a stronger man.” That sounded almost like a ritual leave-taking. “I wish you could stay, share a cup of ale, tell me all that has happened since I left home.”

“This is your home now. Our family is scattered; there is nothing left at the University for either of us anymore.”

“Mama and Da . . .”

“Are dead. Lily is on her own journey taking seeds to where the crops were destroyed. Val is at home taking care of the little ones, along with Lady Ariiell—who is no longer insane—and Lady Graciella, who may very well fall insane before she delivers her child. Especially if her mother takes her in and berates her for . . . well, for being alive.” Lukan left before he could take his brother up on the invitation to linger and reforge their fraternal bonds.

“You need to get your instructions from Master Marcus before you row over to Sacred Isle,” Glenndon called after him.

“I have my instructions.” He’d made them up himself when the rest of the world had abandoned him.

“What is taking so long?” King Lokeen screeched. He paced from window to desk, peered over Robb’s shoulder, and paced back again, hands waving wildly about.

“Letters need careful wording, sir,” Robb replied. The man was making him nervous. Would he notice the tiny bits of magic that disguised words to make them seem ordinary but actually held another meaning? Even this tiny spell cost him dearly in strength—as if he were wading through thick mud.

If any dragons ever flew these skies, they hadn’t come recently enough to leave behind magical energy. If the ley lines reached across the Bay and the ocean, they spread wide and didn’t come near the city. He had only his own diminished physical strength to fuel his attempt to disguise his words. And that energy seemed blocked.

He didn’t know if King Darville would know to have a magician read the thing for him. When Robb had left Coronnan, magic and magicians were still disdained and forbidden access to the government. But the king had brought Glenndon into his household as son and heir. Surely Glenndon would smell magic in the letter and take care of it. Surely . . .

Robb licked the pen nib to restore the ink and add his magic to it. Bad habit. Maigret would have his hide, especially when he kissed her with a black tongue. A tiny smile tugged one side of his mouth upward.

And that brought the next phrase to mind, almost as if Maigret gave him the words.

He bent his head closer to the page and set down words:

Because of Lady Ariiell’s noble status, allowing her to become available to suitors at home and abroad for the purpose of marriage treaties advantageous to the realm and her family is something Your Grace should consider.

Then his mind went blank again.

“That’s good. That’s good. Make him understand that when I marry the lady I will be in position to grant him many favors, trade concessions, military aid, and what not,” Lokeen said, tapping the parchment and nearly sending the magic disguise skittering across the page by disturbing the words before the spell set.

Robb slid the page out from under that tapping finger, using yet more energy to send the real words back under the written ones where they belonged. Then he had to take three long deep breaths to keep his eyes from glazing over and to return his heart to its natural rhythm.

Thankfully the little chatelaine set a fresh goblet of cold, fresh water near his hand. She looked middle-aged, but she seemed never to have grown beyond the stature of a ten year old. He wondered if her lameness had kept her from growing. Oh, yes, he’d noticed her deformity, hard as she tried to hide it. He also recognized the cause of her lisp and wondered if a real healer with magic fueling the examination could do anything for her.

Not his problem, except she’d been kinder to him than Lokeen, and he felt he owed her something. Kindness in this castle always came with a cost. Maria had not yet made known to him what she expected in return.

“Now tell that other king how archaic and useless that handfasting thing is. Appeal to his sense of logic and justice so he’ll do away with the ritual. It’s useless and interferes with . . . with . . .”

“Interferes with the lives and plans of the couple: not married but unable to marry anyone else . . .” Robb finished for him. That might be the truth, but Lokeen was only thinking that Ariiell’s handfasting interfered with
his
plans, no one else’s.

Robb looked at the original letter again while magic still colored his vision. The sharp pen lines, formed with a delicate pressure, had not been written by Lord Laislac. That man, Robb knew, could barely read and write, and when he signed his name, the letters came out fat, with extra globs of half-dried ink distorting the letters. No, Ariiell had written the letter herself and signed her father’s name. Ariiell broke the marriage treaty her father had arranged without asking his permission. She wouldn’t likely enter into another.

In the moons since Robb had left Coronnan and the University, something must have happened for Ariiell to regain her sanity and her freedom. He knew nothing. He’d gathered gossip from his guards about Amazonia and Lokeen’s precarious position on the throne, but he’d heard nothing about his native land. Or his wife and children. He didn’t even know if Jaylor and Glenndon had succeeded in the chore they’d needed his help with.

Anything outside of Amazonia held no meaning for the locals. They barely acknowledged the existence of the other city-states up and down the coast of the Big Continent—Mabastion they called it. “My fortress” in one of the ancient tongues.

Depression sank deep into his gut again, making his bones ache and his head spin. Even the slight hope that this letter might win him his freedom vanished.

Biting his lower lip in pain and exhaustion, he completed the letter, sanded it, and handed it to Lokeen for signature, a seal, and direction.

He finished the water in his cup down to the last drop, wishing for more.

Maria appeared at his side. “You’ll have more in your room,” she said quietly. Hardly an elongated syllable or twisting of any of the words.

He nodded at her subtle reminder that he was still a prisoner and needed to return to his cell. A new cell atop a narrow tower with windows to let in bright sunlight and fresh air. Far above any ley lines that might lurk on the surface of the land. Devoid of any magic anywhere.

How had Samlan worked any magic while here?

Oh, yes, Robb now knew that his kidnapper was the rogue magician who had wormed his way into Lokeen’s confidence, becoming a trusted adviser and then ambassador to Coronnan. He’d been in and out of the castle for ten years before staying full-time for a few moons after his exile from the Circle of Magicians. But then he’d disappeared from Amazonia as cleanly as he had from the University.