The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 (10 page)

S
KELLER PLUCKED A
string on Telynnia. It twanged a hint sharper than the middle C he needed. A touch to the string key sweetened the tone to match his voice. The D sounded true.

All the bouncing and changes in temperature during the day’s march hadn’t affected his old friend much. She just needed a bit of tender loving care to remind her he’d not forgotten her.

The young woman with the sun-streak red-gold hair from the bright litter turned her head away from ladling up a bowl of stew—the one without meat—for the pale and vague woman who paced around and around the litter that now rested at knee height on four boxes instead of at chest height when supported by two steeds.

He smiled at the girl. A slender young woman in the way of girls passed into the middle of their teens, but sturdy and well-rounded in the right places.

She returned the smile, giving him only half her attention. Partly she watched her charge. She also kept her head tilted, tuned toward her sister. He guessed the scrawny girl with barely any curves at all who’d come running in search of them the moment the caravan stuttered to a stop was a younger sister. Younger by a year, more likely two. Other than that little bit of maturity in her figure, the two girls were very alike in height, in features, in coloring, and posture.

He played a chord, testing how each string blended with its fellows. The rose-gold blonde picked out the top note and sang it lightly. He took up the challenge, matching his light baritone to the bottom note of the major chord, letting the harp hold her own with the middle.

One bowl of stew delivered to the vague lady, the girl with the sunset hair carried two more as she joined him on a convenient rock beside his own. Still no meat. Oh, well, he’d grab a more substantial bowl with chicken after a song or two.

“Lillian here,” she said shyly. Her speaking voice sounded as lyrical and melodic as her singing.

Odd phrasing though.

“Skeller here,” he replied.

She raised both eyebrows in surprise.

“What?” he asked.

“I thought my family was the only one that spoke to dragons.”

“Huh?”

“Oh, you were just mimicking me.” Her face fell out of the smile.

An ache of disappointment tightened his chest. Not knowing how to bring back that smile he played a complex set of scaling patterns to loosen up his fingers.

Behind him, the steeds stamped restlessly.

“They love you,” Lillian whispered. And the smile came back.

His chest lightened. “It’s a curse. Every time I sing, one of them decides I’m the herd’s newest best friend. They think I’m one of them and not human at all. They’ll follow me anywhere.” He sighed dramatically at the burden of his life.

“Do cats and dogs do the same thing?” She spooned up a bite of the luscious smelling meal. Even devoid of meat it carried the subtle aroma of skillfully blended herbs.

“Stray dogs do, not the ones who have a master to look to. Cats not so much.” He set aside his harp in favor of the stew, deciding he’d sing better on a half-f stomach. He wouldn’t truly be satisfied until he’d had some real meat. “I sing in a different key from cats. Or maybe it’s the catgut strings on Telynnia.” He patted the harp at the same time he grinned hugely to show he was only kidding.

Her look of horror changed to a gentle smile as she realized his joke.

“Cats do view the world as their own private universe and humans as obnoxious aliens,” she replied quietly. “They sing their own songs and work their own magic in ways that have nothing to do with our perceptions.”

“You should work on that. If you could herd cats, the world would worship you.”

They both laughed.

“You know cats then?”

“Mama has a few that keep down the rodent population in the kitchen garden. Sometimes they listen to her.” She lowered her eyes to her bowl and refused to lift them to his face.

They ate in companionable silence for a time. He scanned the assorted personalities in the caravan, seeking a suitable song to fit the end of a long day of walking. The caravan master prowled the long line, mindful of his duties. He scowled deeply at Skeller, reminding him of
his
duties.

“Time to sing for my supper,” he said when he felt his spoon scrape the bottom of the bowl. Too soon. He wasn’t sure if he needed more stew or more conversation with Lillian.

She took the bowl from him and went in search of the vague lady’s for general washing up. The spoon he wiped clean with a handful of grass, wrapped it in a linen serviette, and tucked both away in his pack.

Then he held Telynnia, his song mistress, in his arms and strolled about, strumming this and that, waiting for a reaction. When a group turned toward him with their bits of cleaning and mending, willing to listen, he plucked a joyful chord and sang the opening phrase of a rousing drinking song.

At the back of a sledge someone opened a cask of ale. Skeller heard the pop of the bung and smelled the yeasty froth of liquid. He repeated the chorus urging his companions to join him.

Lillian gave him a sip of ale, keeping the wooden cup nearby so he had both hands free for the harp.

Whimsically he kissed her cheek in thanks and turned the song to the soaring delights of a barmaid.

She laughed and blushed. The crowd joined him on the first chorus.

A rush of wind and screeching roar overhead drowned him out. All and sundry travelers ducked their heads beneath their arms or upflung aprons.

Except Lillian and her sister. They looked up, searching the twilit skies with big smiles on their faces.

“What was that?” he asked when the noise passed on.

“Magic,” Lillian breathed.

“A dragon,” her younger sister said with the same sense of awe.

They looked toward each other in silent communication he could not fathom.

“Sing us a dragon song,” Lillian finally said as the camp returned to normal.

“I don’t think I know any.”

“Where are you from that a bard knows no dragon songs?” the younger sister asked in disgust.

“Play this,” Lillian hummed a tune that sounded like a joyful hymn.

He repeated it, feeling the harp come to life with a vibrant joy he’d never felt before. And then Lillian sang in her bright soprano of the pure joy of soaring among the stars on dragon wings.

The crowd swayed in unison, humming along.

Almost, for a moment, he felt as if he and the music soared with the great beasts of legend; that his harp and the dragon sang to each other.

“Magic,” he whispered. “The stuff of magic.”

Magic. The one thing he’d come to discredit, along with the magician who so unwisely counseled Lokeen, unrightful king of Amazonia.

Then he looked more closely at the sisters who had spawned this magical moment. Sisters, much alike in face and form. Each sister rode with a great lady in a litter.

Which one was the pawn of Lokeen and his magician counselor?

Glenndon watched his father, King Darville, tap the feathered end of his quill against a small square of parchment laying flat on his massive desk.

The king read the missive again, eyes flicking back and forth rapidly. A frown tugged his mouth into deeper and deeper disapproval.

Glenndon fidgeted, shifting his weight from foot to foot, rotating his shoulders, fingering the pommel of his useless ceremonial sword, missing his staff, trying to stand respectfully before the man with graying gold hair who held his future in his hands.

The king’s bodyguard Fred, father of Frank, hovered in a corner, unobtrusive and constantly wary, as he should. General Marcelle lounged in a chair beside the cold hearth, one of the few allowed such familiarity in the presence of the king. He’d earned the right over the years, loyal, constant, giving cautious counsel when needed—both when asked and when needed but not asked.

Finally King Darville leaned back in his massive wooden chair and glared at Glenndon, as many a teaching master had glared at him over the years of study at the Forest University, trying to force him to speak when he had no need to speak. “Do you know how important our new alliance with Amazonia is?” the king growled, no sign of the affectionate and proud father in his voice or posture.

Both the general and Fred leaned forward with interest.

Glenndon flashed a glance at General Marcelle. The older man frowned at him. His loyalty clearly aligned with the king first and the king’s family second.

Glenndon nodded to his father once, sharply, retreating into the safety of silence. As he had always done.

“Then why did you dismiss the ambassador without even seeing him?”

Glenndon’s eyes narrowed in suspicion as he reached for the parchment that had been sealed with deep, sea-blue wax.

The king placed his hands atop the letter, blocking Glenndon’s view of the damning words.

“Tell me what happened, yesterday noon that prompted the ambassador to send me a scathing reprimand this morning,” King Darville demanded.

Glenndon turned his head away, finding his old defense of silence inadequate and yet . . . yet. . . .

“Talk, son. Talk to me. I know you can speak. My daughter Linda taught you how. There was a time when words poured forth from you as easily as they did her.”

But Linda was gone. A thousand miles away, studying at the Forest University. She was safe there. Safe from prejudice and assassins and treaties that assigned her a husband. She used that precious gift of time to learn control of the gift of magic Glenndon had given her. In return she had given him the gift of words during a healing spell. Once again he lived the moment of marvelous blending of their minds and souls encased in a bubble of magic. The half sister he’d not known existed had truly become his sister in those moments while she removed magically burning acid from his hand, along with the blockage of scar tissue from his throat. While they both resided in the capital she was closer to him than either Valeria or Lillian, whom he’d grown up with.

Now that she was so far away, he wasn’t sure their perpetual mind link was as strong as before.

He swallowed deeply, trying to ease the dryness in his throat.

“The ambassador threatens to pack up the entire diplomatic delegation and return home, ending all of our trade and talk of mutual defense treaties,” the king said, bringing him back to the immediate problem.

“He . . . he never arrived,” Glenndon said, surprised his voice rang true without a trace of cracking or croaking.

Darville raised a single eyebrow in question. “His letter says he was turned away at the palace doors, under your orders.”

“He lies.”

Again that single raised eyebrow. Waves of orange distrust roiled through his gold and green aura. General Marcelle reached for his ever-present sword pommel, ready to defend his king and rid him of those he could not trust implicitly.

Distrust of Glenndon, the king’s son and heir, or distrust of an unknown ambassador from far away?

Glenndon’s natural defenses suspected the distrust was aimed at him. Why should his father be any different from his tutors and masters? They trusted words more than they trusted him.

He reminded himself that an adult would trust another adult before believing Glenndon, not quite eighteen and new to court and politics. Had he earned trust from a father he’d known only a few months?

He thought he’d earned General Marcelle’s trust through countless hours of arms practice and steed training. If he had, he also knew the general would not speak to the king until Glenndon left the room.

“Keerkin, my clerk, brought the apology the ambassador wrote. The hastily scrawled message said the ambassador’s presence was required to supervise the unloading of a rare wine.” Glenndon stood tall and defiant, eyes steady on the king. His father!

Darville stilled a moment. He returned Glenndon’s steady gaze, then broke contact, looking around his private office for something . . . probably a cup of betta arrack, the distilled liquor from Rossemeyer, the queen’s homeland.

But he’d given up the bracing alcohol sometime ago after it dulled his senses enough for a juvenile Krackatrice to attack him and infect him with deadly venom. If the black snake had been more than a year old, the king would not have survived the speed or the strength of the venom.

Even now he gave in to bouts of physical weakness unknown in him before. He’d lost a lot of blood in removing the toxin from his system. The queen had made sure all of the poison flowed out before it paralyzed his heart and lungs.

But he had not resorted to drink to dull the ongoing pain.

“I want to believe you, son. But such an unimportant errand . . . a cask of wine more important than presenting his credentials to the palace? It sounds contrived by a boy inexperienced in the ways of politics.” Darville returned his gaze to Glenndon, holding it, begging to read the truth.

“I swear to you that I tell the truth. I was so angry I tore the letter in half and told Keerkin to scrape the parchment clean and reuse it. Now I have no chance to analyze it for forgery or magical manipulation.” Glenndon leaned forward, hands braced on the desktop, putting him at eye level with his father.