The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 (23 page)

“That’s a lot of water,” Keerkin breathed.

“We have to get back to the city. We have to warn everyone to evacuate, or climb higher.” Glenndon rocked forward, shifting to crawl out of their refuge. He ignored his aching head and the new trickle of warm blood from the wound.

“Can’t do that, sir.” Frank held him back with one hand. “Nothing can cross the river now. Not without magic. And with that knot on your head, I doubt you can even give us a bit of flame to light this hole.”

“How high are we?” Keerkin asked into the darkness.

“This tree is older than the stories. If it stood through the last storm, it’ll stand now. It’s got big roots that spread far and tangle deep. Land might wash out from around it, but foxes know the best trees to nest under. We’ll be safe.”

“It’s a Tambootie tree,” Glenndon said. Maybe even the same tree that had sacrificed a branch to become his staff. He held his instrument up, anchoring the tip in the soft ground and willing the dragon bone to glow with enough light to show him the truth of his statement. An eerie green light shone upward, almost high enough for him to stand upright at the center, sloping to a short ceiling on the sides. The cave had ample room for them to fold their legs under them and sit comfortably, shoulders touching.

“We’ll be safe.” He knew it in his soul. But would anyone in the city survive?

And who would dare conjure such a storm?

He’d worry about that later. First he had to warn the city. No tools for a summoning spell, or a scry. He had more than enough water and could probably find a puddle just by sticking his head out the opening. But flame? It probably wouldn’t stay lit outside and he wouldn’t insult this wonderful tree with another fire.

He drew in a deep breath on a count of three, released it on the same count. Again. And a third time. His headache lessened. His companions and the confines of the shelter faded from his awareness. He accepted the welcoming embrace of the spirit of the tree; let his mind mingle with its memories. He knew everything the tree had endured, from the drying up of the ley lines that fed its magic, to the welcome of the dragons nibbling on upper leaves, to the long cold of winter and triumphant burst of spring. And the fire. The pain that continued even after the flames had moved on, consuming underbrush and wildlife and leaf litter in a hungry dash, moving before the wind that drove it.

He lifted his mind through the tree and beyond. He let the magic essence contained within its sap fuel his quest for a receptive mind. “Queen Rossemikka? Stepmother?” he whispered across the miles, knowing her mind could receive him.

His words drifted away, dispersed within the clouds. More magic adding fuel to the storm’s rage against confinement by a mage. It needed to move, surge in one direction or another, but the mage kept it in place, forcing it to gain more energy. Destructive energy the storm didn’t want.

A very powerful mage with a determined circle behind him controlled the storm. No solitary magician could have that kind of power unless standing within the Well of Life. The liquid energy of the source of all ley lines would fry a magician, burn him to ashes in a moment.

Glenndon knew only one master magician with the audacity to try conjuring such a storm.

Samlan. In exile with a few other masters and journeymen. Not enough for a full circle.

Or was it?

With the right spell, the same spell, and a way of tapping both ley lines and dragon magic, he might be able to do it.

“Da!” he called. “Da, you have to do something. You must gather every master you can to fight this thing,” he called into the air, hoping that somehow, someone would be able to pick his thoughts out of that pall of clouds laden with as much magic as rain.

T
HE STORM HAS
wrenched control from me and my circle. It has become a living entity whole unto itself. A greedy being, never satisfied. The eye has become a great maw, opening bigger and bigger with each passing moment. It pulls in air and water across a much broader expanse than I had planned. Even with a full circle and the artifact gifted to me by my sponsor in Amazonia I cannot control this monster.

The ancient bone drapes across our arms, connecting us far more efficiently than staffs and hands upon shoulders. The tool allows us to open into a half circle mimicking the back edge of the swirling mass of air.

I fear that the magic the storm has sucked up will damage my other weapons, the ones entrusted to my ally deep in Coronnan.

I must leave it all in the hands of the Stargods. Perhaps even they cannot control this thing.

Perhaps the Amazonians have it right. The Stargods are new to the pantheon of Kardia Hodos. My protector and his people believe in the Great Mother who created this world. She and her magical creatures were here long before people. Long before the dragons. Long before the Stargods.

I will offer this magnificent tool of magic to her in sacrifice. We will release our spell and cast the tool over the side of our ship. It will float and circle within a whirlpool, gathering energy from the churning waves. Then it will sink reluctantly, taking the maelstrom with it. The Great Mother must grant my petitions and tame the fury of the storm. It is no longer mine. Even the magic I gathered is no longer mine. It is all in the artifact. Savage, untamable, waiting for another mage to find it at the bottom of the ocean. And use it. For the bone’s purpose. Never at the whim of a mere human.

The destruction and havoc this storm wreaks is the will of the Great Mother. Not mine, not the dragons’, and definitely not the Stargods’
.

The litter draperies billowed inward on the side facing away from the caravan circle. Lillian grabbed hold of them to keep her balance as the entire conveyance tilted again, threatening to tip into the circle of sledges.

Lady Graciella screamed and clutched her belly.

“The babe?” Lily called anxiously, over the roar of the wind. She dropped her death grip on the fine tapestry to lay her palm flat over her companion’s stomach.

The rapid, steady throb of a heartbeat tingled against her hand. Graciella’s neck pulse, however, fluttered arrhythmically against her skin. Too fast. Too light. The woman’s panic radiated from her in thick waves that nearly infected Lillian.

She closed her eyes and willed her own heartbeat to a strong and steady rate. Just as she had so often with Valeria. Giving strength and soothing the panic of one too weak and spent to breathe normally was her only magical talent. She’d practiced it a lot over the years.

Soon she could no longer hear the thud within her, only the roar of the wind above, below and around them. When she looked toward her companion, Graciella had visibly calmed as well.

“We need to get the curtains open,” she said matter-of-factly. “They act as sails. We may find ourselves flying away like dandelion fluff.”

“Did . . . did you grow up around boats?” Lillian asked grabbing a big handful of brocade and dragging the inside drapery to one corner, securing it quickly with a thick strap meant for that purpose.

“Yes.” Graciella tugged fruitlessly at the outside curtain. The assault from the wind came strongest from that side. At the moment. Lillian rocked to her knees for better leverage and reached to help her. Their hands touched.

A jolt of magic burned through Lillian’s fingers and up her blood to her shoulder and down the other arm.

A frightful image of Lucjemm,with the hideous black snake draped around his neck filled her mind on the heels of that energy transfer. Gaciella’s fear became Lillian’s. Something about that snake . . . A Krakatrice, she knew now. Her father and brother had killed the female—obvious from the six wings sprouting from her spine, too tiny to help her fly at the time. But they would have matured along with her. The distant cousin and strongest enemy of the dragons.

“We killed the matriarch.” She sank back on her heels, nearly overwhelmed by her companion’s emotions.

“Did you?” Graciella asked, blandly.

Lillian knew in that moment that the lady had spent so much time hiding her memories and her fears that she couldn’t react to her own emotions.

“Yes. I watched Da and Glenndon blast the beast with more magic than I thought existed in all of Kardia Hodos. She burned to ashes. There weren’t even any bones left.”

“Was she the only matriarch?”

“I . . . I don’t know. King Darville banned the importation of any more of their eggs.”

“Easy enough to smuggle in a cargo. One box of eggs could start a whole new tangle.”

Lillian gulped, smelling again the taint of foul magic gone awry, the burning flesh and blood, and . . . and she didn’t know what else, only that it made her nose crinkle in disgust and a need to run far, far away from it. “Can’t worry about that right now. We’ve got to secure that drapery and get into the middle of the circle, or under the litter. We aren’t safe here.”

With renewed purpose she helped Graciella with the brocade. The second it opened even a small slit, the wind found its way to them, billowing the remaining fabric inward. Folds and folds of the heavy stuff covered and wrapped around Lillian’s head. It squeezed her neck, much like the chokehold of a snake. Or a Krakatrice.

She couldn’t breathe. The brocade carried the hideous scent of the black snakes.

Gasping and choking she clawed at the material.

Graciella screamed.

Lillian fought for calm as well as a reprieve from the smothering brocade. A ragged fingernail caught on a loose thread, ripping both. Not caring about the burning pain around her bleeding quick, she pulled and pulled again until the tear in the fabric gave her room to breathe, enough air to think.

Quickly she found the edge and unwrapped the clinging folds before they took on a life of their own.

“There’s magic in that storm,” she said.

The growling wind seemed to agree.

She ripped faster until she could wrestle free. The rotten odor of Krakatrice filled the air and her head: too sweet, like fermenting apples, with an overlay of intoxicated skunk, sulfur and sorrow.

She reached to grab Graciella and exit as fast as they could.

The lady was nowhere inside the litter.

Mikk pelted down the stairs from the rear courtyard to the narrow postern door of the palace. No time for formality. No time to think. No time to worry. He had no idea if Geon had followed him or not. If the tall servant had pocketed the book from the library or returned it.

That didn’t matter. Getting the palace organized and safe did.

He skirted scullery boys with their dirty pots and kitchen maids with armloads of vegetables. “Gather food for a week and get it to the top level of the palace and the old keep. Water too!” he shouted in passing.

The kitchen grew silent and still. Dozens of gazes landed on him. “Do it! The flood of the millennium is coming.”

Immediately a busy bustle began as people scurried and ordered and organized. They knew about floods. They knew what to do.

“Sh . . . shall I ring the bell?” a boy of about twelve stammered.

“Yes.”

“Not before the king orders!” returned a senior cook.

“Wait and you’ll drown. By my authority as cousin and second heir to the king, I order you to sound the alarm!” He turned and dashed upward toward the formal rooms on the ground floor. Before he’d touched the first step, a solemn, deep-throated gong sounded from the old keep. The lighter and sharper Temple bell from the palace compound picked up the series of long and short peals and spread them to the next tower and the next.

The scullery boy was still rooted in place near the exit.

Good. Someone else in the palace knew about the flood.

That didn’t slow his steps. He continued upward, thankful for the hard exercise General Marcelle had forced upon him to build up his wind.

He didn’t bother pausing on the first landing and darted across the carpeted minor hall between this servant stair and the formal staircase, which rose broad and proud toward the semiprivate offices and suites on the next story.

In his hurry he grabbed the knob on the railing and used it as a lever to swing around the bottom step and up in one smooth motion.

Except . . .

He barreled into Lady Miri as she descended.

He grabbed her about the waist. They teetered a moment, staggering and clinging for balance.

“What is all this fuss?” Lady Miri asked imperiously, as if he were a mere servant. She smoothed her skirts and patted her hair to make sure her tiny cap and veil were in place.

“Not now.” Mikk wanted to scream at her. The urgency of his mission pulled his attention upward, toward the king. “The alarm bells. A massive flood is coming.”

“The river is receding, a bit rapidly, but heading out to the Bay,” she replied, still holding her nose in the air, and not just to look at him on the step above her.

“Receding?” He felt the blood drain from his face, leaving him slightly dizzy. “That makes it all worse. The storm is pulling all that water outward, as fuel for its fury. Then it will push it all back, at once. Master Aggelard said we haven’t seen anything this bad in five hundred years. I wonder if there has ever been a storm and flood like this before.” He grabbed her shoulder as the nearest solid object to hang onto.

“What? What can we do?” She looked pale. A trace of panic crossed her beautiful brown eyes. But she mastered it and held firm.

“Gather the princesses and their ladies and anyone else. Take food and water, medicine, bandages, whatever, and get to the top level of the keep. Get up there and stay up there until the king says it’s safe to come down.” He gathered his energy and pushed himself to separate from her. He had to rely his own balance.

“Can I trust you to do this?” he asked quietly, not yet certain of his ability to climb.

“Yes.” She whirled around decisively, grabbed his hand, and pulled him upward. “This is what I was born and bred to do. Take control in an emergency and see that as many people as possible get to safety.”

She left him outside the king’s office and continued upward to the private suites and the two young princesses. “She’ll make a grand queen someday,” he whispered, then pushed his way into the king’s presence.

“Where is everyone?” he asked empty air.

“Mounting steeds in the forecourt,” Lady Chastet said, coming up behind him, breathless but attempting to remain calm.

Mikk sighed in relief. He should have known the king and queen knew about the storm, and the impending crisis. But . . .

“They don’t have time to get to higher ground on the mainland.” He turned and dashed back the way he’d come.

At the bottom of the grand staircase he skidded across the floor toward the wide double doors, left ajar in someone’s haste.

“Your Grace!” he called, gasping for breath on the edge of the landing. His boot toes tipped over and downward. He willed himself to stop even as he prepared his balance to keep moving forward if he had to.

King Darville glanced his way as he boosted Queen Rossemikka into her saddle. She looked so frail and pale sitting astride the tall chestnut steed that almost matched her bright, multicolored hair, undulled by the pelting rain. He realized in that instant that in the last few months she had regained some of her youthful vibrancy, but not all. Never all of it. Age and illness had taken its toll.

But she still cut an awesome and majestic figure when she needed to.

The king looked almost as magnificent. His loose four-strand queue leaked strands of wet hair and his crown—the heavy Coraurlia that protected him from magic, not the little replica he used for day-to-day appearances—sat a bit awkwardly and atilt upon his head. But his tunic was clean and unwrinkled though wet from the deluge pouring from the sky.

“Your Grace, Master Aggelard sent me,” Mikk gasped, ignoring how wet and uncomfortable he was from his run across the islands and now standing in the open.