The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (6 page)

Like it or not, she had to know. She had to stay and help in any way she could.

Tomorrow. Soon the sun would set and she’d not have enough light to trek cross-country without a trail or magelight to guide her steps. She could be of no help if she arrived wounded from a fall, or victim of a predator. Spotted saber cats still roamed these prairies. Tonight she’d make a rough camp with a fire and arrive at the tumbledown village early in the morning.

A deep, throbbing hum irritated Souska’s inner ear.
Lukan!
Her journeyman called her.

Quickly she looked around the stillroom filled with aromatic herbs and brews and potions. All of the other healer apprentices were busy with their own tasks, trying to finish before the sun fully set lest darkness and unknown qualities invaded their medicines. She crept up the long, narrow staircase against the interior wall toward the journeymen’s living quarters. Then past the bedrooms and up another stair to the apprentice dormitories. Finally the ladder to the loft attic appeared, deep in the shadows of the back corner.

At the top, in her own private space, she poured water into a palm-sized ceramic bowl, lit the candle with a snap of her fingers, and dropped her tiny shard of glass into the bowl.

Lukan’s face appeared almost immediately.

Souska reached a finger to trace the curve of his cheek but he turned his face away, looking over his shoulder anxiously.

“I have no time. Tell Mistress Maigret that Rejiia is in the city and I think she’s recruiting a new coven.”

“What?”

“I’m beached at Sacred Isle and I can’t work magic once I set foot out of my boat,” he hissed at her. “Memorize what I said. The Masters need to know this.” His face vanished. Her glass became inert and sank to the bottom.

The room dimmed and darkness seemed to press tightly against her head. Without knowing what she did, how long she stared at the candle willing Lukan to come back, she knew he could not. Would not.

Rowing to Sacred Isle at twilight and spending a night there by himself, without the comfort of a fire or food or any spells at all, he had to wait, meditating and praying until dawn. Then if the Stargods found him worthy of becoming a true journeyman, one of the trees would sacrifice a branch and drop it where he’d find it and know it for his staff.

A spluttering sound alerted her that the candle guttered. She’d sat too long, lost in the flickers that seemed more important than anything else. Slowly she roused herself. She knew from experience that moving too quickly after one of her spells would trigger a headache that would fell her for days, making the smallest crack of light, or whispers in the rooms beneath her, send pain stabbing through her eyes. She could eat nothing during one of those headaches and vomited every potion Maigret plied her with. All she could do was wait out the pain and endure.

As she’d endured the beating by the men of her home village who tried to force her slight magic to desert her. Ignorant people more afraid of magic than they were of the law that might hang them for murder. The journeyman magician who rescued her—not
her
journeyman, another anonymous one—had called down the law on her village. Because she lived, her persecutors kept their lives, but many lost the hands that had wielded the blows.

Only Maigret knew how much damage the men had done to her. Only she knew that these lapsing spells and the headaches were a result of blows to her head. Everyone in the University knew about her nightmares. She screamed loud enough to wake the dead some nights. Less so since her journeyman had begun helping and tutoring her. Little by little, she regained control of her life and her mind.

Not fast enough.

She didn’t know which was worse, the headaches or the nightmares. During one, on the first night she’d spent here in the protection of the University, she’d blackened the eye of her bedmate while she thrashed, trying to protect herself from the dream memories. The next night she slept alone up here away from everyone, where her dreams would not wake or harm any of the other girls.

Solitude suited her. Solitude made it possible for her to scry with Lukan.

Lukan. Scry.

She had to deliver a message. What was it now . . . ?

L
UKAN SAT WITH his back against a sturdy tree. He didn’t know what kind of tree. He didn’t even know if he’d found the central clearing around a pond where the Stargods had first landed on their silver cloud of fire. He smelled water. He sensed open space. The tree’s roots offered an almost comfortable seat and the trunk cradled his back nicely.

Neither stars nor moon offered light through the thick cloud cover. So far, the rain held off. He expected it to release a heavy downpour near dawn.

“I should expect better than a cold and uncomfortable return to the port?” he asked himself. “I bet Glenndon had an easier time on this island than I will.”

An almost chuckle whispered through the tree canopy. “Lily could understand you,” he called up to the rustling leaves. “I haven’t her affinity with dirt and growing things.”

Another whisper, equally amused.

“Did Glenndon have a . . . an adventure while he was here?” he asked, to hear the sound of his own voice rather than endure any more silent meditation. Sitting still on the ground had never been easy for him.

Another whisper stirred in his mind. Along with a shiver of unease.

Had the tree said “Up”?

That was easy. He’d always gone up when troubled or needing to think. Up a tree, up on the roof, climb up a cliff to a plateau, just so long as he put distance between himself and the ground and got closer to the air where dragons flew. Glenndon sought the hot spring pool at the bottom of the small cascade where he’d bathe and play with Indigo, a juvenile dragon. Lukan just went up, wherever was convenient.

This tree seemed to offer him sanctuary.

So he stood from his cross-legged seat and stretched tall with both hands. Not too far above his head, he found a study branch—oak, he thought, from the texture of the bark and size of the leaves—and pulled himself up by the strength of his arms.

When he got a leg over the branch he paused to rotate his shoulders and figure out what to do next. There were more stout branches within easy reach. His instincts told him to keep going up. He scooched around until he had his balance and stretched one arm up. Grasp, center himself, swing a leg over. Three times he moved higher by almost his height each time.

Just as his fingers brushed the bark on a fourth branch, the wind blew the wood beyond him.

Rest here
, the wind, or the tree, or whatever else, suggested.

Legend claimed that sometimes the Stargods or the dragons spoke to the journeyman candidate here on Sacred Isle.

“Rest?” But not sleep. This was a vigil, a time to keep watch through the night, to think, and contemplate. If he slept he’d probably fall out of the tree.

A chuckle of agreement the next time the breeze rustled in the leaves overhead.

“I’ve done this before,” he told his tree as he locked his ankles around each other beneath the branch. “Three years ago when a fox raided Mama’s flusterhen coop every night for a week. None of us could catch the predator. So Glenndon and I took turns staying awake and watching. Glenndon fell asleep. I climbed an everblue and stayed awake. I caught the fox and took it far away from the Clearing. Da told me to kill it. But I knew Mama would feel the death and be sad for days. So I gave the fox a good mental shake with magic and told him next time Da would kill him and take his carcass to the University for the cooks to make a meal of him. He never came back.”

Lukan settled his back against the wide tree trunk and clasped some narrow side branches. Ah, much more comfortable than on the ground. Mostly because he was up.

Up was all that mattered right now.

He watched tiny pinpoints of light peek through the shifting cloud layer. A north breeze sent them scurrying toward the nearest magnetic pole, way far to the south.

Memories of Mama and her empathic touch with animals and people made him smile. The sadness of losing her faded a little. He had so many good memories of her, including endless arguments about eating meat. So he and Da and Glenndon, and sometimes Valeria, took many meals at the University, where meat was plentiful. The cooks understood that throwing magic, even with the aid of a ley line or gathering of dragon magic, cost a body more energy than it could hold. Magicians ate a
lot
to fuel their bodies. He didn’t think he’d ever seen a fat magician. They always burned more than they could possibly consume.

His mind flicked to Skeller, his companion during their wandering away from home, away from Skeller’s love for Lily, and away from Lukan’s anger toward Da. An anger that here in this tree Lukan was having a hard time remembering where it came from and why he’d nurtured it so long.

“Lily taught Skeller not to eat meat. He still respects her wishes. I wonder . . .” He drifted off into another line of thought that touched on Souska.

He liked the girl well enough, what little he knew of her. They’d only met a couple of times. She seemed so lost and vulnerable he’d felt compelled to give her a smile and a little encouragement. During his long nights on the road when he needed to reach out and talk to someone, anyone, from home, her pinched and pale face, and only her face, came to mind. But instead of growing stronger and more independent with each lesson, he found her clinging to him more and more, forcing him to make decisions for her.

Maybe he should talk to her less frequently.

Mama and Da were gone. Lily had taken to wandering on her own, taking seeds and cuttings where needed, nurturing the land and the people affected by the flood, and healing her soul after executing Samlan with Skeller’s dagger. Glenndon lived in the city now, a prince and a strong leader. Valeria and her charges, Ariiell and Lady Graciella, had taken up residence in the Clearing with Sharl and Jule, the youngest of Mama’s brood, mothering them and healing their own wounds.

He supposed he could return to the Clearing and call it home. Not yet. Not so soon. Mama’s ashes, and Da’s too, had hardly had time to settle on the wild slopes below the dragon cave, mingled together and inseparable for all time . . .

A sound, a whistle of rising wind, a crack of something close jerked him out of a light doze. He tilted and had to close his hands on the closest branch to keep from falling.

When his bottom felt firmly anchored and his ankles locked once more, he opened his eyes fully, aware that the sun had just begun to brighten the air around him. A glow lined the eastern horizon. A sleepy bird chirped the universal questions, “Is it time yet? Do I have to wake up now?”

“Stargods, I’m sorry. I fell asleep when I knew I shouldn’t.” A tear tried to creep out of the corner of his eye.

The wind and the tree laughed at him.

He looked where his hands had clenched a branch right in front of him so he’d know how to balance and shimmy down the trunk.

Across his thighs lay a branch stripped of leaves and side twigs, no longer attached to the tree.

Had the crack he’d heard been the tree breaking the branch free and gifting it to him?

He took a deep breath. Then another as he checked the length of wood. His fingers memorized the knots and straightness of grain—without a single variation—where his magic might twist it. It measured about two heads longer than he was tall and fit his hand as if measured for him.

You’ll grow into it
, the tree told him.
Take my gift and use it well, with honor, and for the good of many rather than the comfort of a few
.

“Thank you, mother tree.” He couldn’t think of anything else to say as he hugged his protectoress, knowing instinctively that feminine nurturing ran with her sap. “I’ll do my best to honor you.”

Remember me during your troublesome journey. You will be sorely tried. Think of me and remember your honor
.

The tree fell silent as he scrambled down. Just before he set foot on a game trail headed back toward his rowboat, he turned and bowed to the solid old oak. Then he blew her a kiss and fairly skipped away toward the rest of his life.

There are few tall trees across the Bay. You will have to find yourself when you are down rather than up
.

Now what did that mean?

Robb ate half the meat and bread provided him, thought longingly of chewing the moist and sweet third apple. He’d gone so long without hearty food his stomach protested when he ate too much. He had to have a clear head and comfortable body to dredge up enough strength to dispatch that letter. And dispatch it he must. Any hope of rescue depended upon that letter getting into the right hands.

Carefully he wrapped the remains of his meal including the tempting apple in his spare shirt and tucked them beneath his mattress. Oh yes, he now had clean shirts and underlinens and a real bed with sheets and blankets along with enough food to keep him happy and healthy. The cost of these luxuries?

Magic.

He had to work exhausting magic at the king’s whim. That was why he’d been allowed to sleep the night through before dispatching the letter. He needed good rest so he could begin increasing his strength again, like rebuilding slack muscles after a long fever.

A tap on his door signaled the arrival of his escort to where he’d send the letter, now that it had been written and signed. He didn’t expect it would be Maria making the trek up the stairs again. Not if she could delegate the chore to a healthy male guard loaded with dozens of mundane weapons.

The king himself stepped through the doorway, once the heavy wooden portal had swung inward on its sturdy iron hinges. He carried a swath of black and red cloth over his arm.

“My previous magician required freshly laundered robes to aid his power when he dispatched letters for me,” Lokeen said without preamble. He held out the garment for Robb’s inspection. “You are taller than he. Lady Maria has seen to the alterations.” He frowned at the red border on the hem and cuffs and a stripe of the same fabric at the shoulder seams. The rest of the formal robe, cut to the same design as the blue robe Robb had worn for the transport spell, fell in light swaths of midnight black.

“The robe is welcome, but I’d be more efficient with the spell if I had my staff,” Robb said, wrapping the robe around himself and belting it with another length of the red fabric. Richly woven wool, whisper thin. They must have a variety of sheep here with extra-long hair to achieve the fineness in the threads. The merchants of Coronnan would pay dearly for wool of this caliber.

“Your staff is held as hostage for your good behavior,” Lokeen replied with a malicious smile. “I allowed your predecessor his staff and he deserted me.”

“Tomorrow, when I have recovered from the dispatch spell, I could try scrying for the man. I might not have the power to converse with him, but I’d know if he lives,” Robb offered, not at all sure he could scry anything without his staff and master’s glass.

“Perhaps. I have the letter, signed and directed. I understand that I cannot seal it until you are ready to send it.”

“Correct. The spell must be part of the seal and the direction.”

“Then let us begin.”

Robb breathed deeply, partly to center his magic and organize his mind. Partly to wonder why he hadn’t been summoned to the receiving room downstairs. “’Twill be easier to send it up here,” he mused. “Higher, with more air.”

“Your predecessor said that hot air rises. He needed the lift to connect to the dragons.”

Robb held back a snort of derision. That bit was all bluff and had nothing to do with logic or magic, since dragons did not fly here.

That last statement also told him a lot about his captor. King Lokeen wanted to control magic and magicians, but knew little about either.

The only way to fully control magic and magicians was for a group of them to join together and gather dragon magic. Their combined powers then increased by orders of magnitude to overcome the transgression of any solitary rogue magician. The Circle could impose ethics and honor on all practitioners.

Something to ponder during the long sleepless nights up here in his remote tower.

“You will begin,” Lokeen ordered.

“If you will not allow me my staff, may I at least have my glass?” Robb asked, only partially respectfully.

“Glass? No one ever said anything about a glass!” Lokeen looked toward the brace of guards at the door accusingly.

They remained stoically grim with unchanging expressions.

“A palm-sized piece of glass forged by dragon fire and rimmed in gold,” Robb explained, circling his right palm with a finger to describe the size and shape of this most essential tool. “I can do much without a staff. There is very little I can do without a glass. If you want the letter dispatched by magic, I must have it. Surely my predecessor—since you have not named him, I can only guess at his identity—used such a tool.”

“Sam . . . Sir, your predecessor, always performed this spell in private. I cannot give you that luxury.”

Ah ha!
Lokeen had not fully named him, but Robb knew for certain that Samlan had worked for him. Logical, after Samlan left the Circle so unceremoniously, taking with him three masters, two apprentices, and a journeyman. If he’d subverted Robb’s journeyman and two apprentices, then he’d have nearly a full Circle to work his nefarious magic against Jaylor and the real Circle of Masters.