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Authors: Irene Radford

The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) (20 page)

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Besides he didn’t have a purple-tipped dragon at his fingertips to give him power.

If he’d been able to gather dragon magic from the air, he’d have been accepted by the University and Commune as a child. But if he’d been accepted and nurtured, he’d not have learned the strength and resilience his adventures had taught him. He’d not have met Katrina, or found the lair of the dragons to bring them home.

Katrina wouldn’t be planning their wedding for tomorrow if . . .

Breathing deeply in the early stages of a trance, he set a candle upon the desk and sat in the king’s chair. He couldn’t settle comfortably in the furniture custom-made for the tall and lanky man who paced the room like a caged wolf. Jack moved to the smaller visitor’s chair. It wasn’t exactly comfortable either, made that way to discourage visitors from lingering unnecessarily. But the size was better suited to Jack’s shorter, stockier figure.

Only then did he retrieve a special shard of glass hidden deep within his scrip. Possession of the precious and rare piece marked him as a magician. As a master magician, he was entitled to a much larger, gold-framed piece. Even journeymen used a larger piece than this. But they were harder to hide. And other than an occasional summons to Jaylor, or a bubble of armor to ensure privacy, he wasn’t supposed to work any magic while in the capital.

A middling trance settled on his mind. His eyes crossed slightly, and the flame doubled and wavered in his sight. He looked through the glass into the flame.

“Flame to flame, glass to glass, like seeking like, follow my thoughts to the one I seek,” he murmured in a singsong. His talent flew along the path of his chant through the glass into the flame. In his mind he watched a tiny flamelet jump from the candle, fly along the desk, drop to the floor and travel along the carpet without igniting the fibers.

King Darville watched the candle, oblivious to the movement of the ghostly flame. It traveled to Mikka’s gown, across her lap, and out the closed window in the space of three heartbeats. The queen shifted position restlessly three times during that brief moment. Her own magical talent might make her aware of the spell, but she couldn’t participate.

Jack breathed easily again when the flame passed onto the roof of the wing below the study tower. In his mind he followed the tiny spark on its journey far to the South. It gained speed as it traversed the land, uphill, jumping rivers and creeks, through forests, over pastures and plowed fields. At last, it found a nameless little village perched on a cliff above a treacherous cove. It paused a moment as if catching a breath near the triple festival pylon, still decorated with flowers, new foliage, and grasses from the Spring celebrations. Then off again, steeply uphill along a narrow but well-trodden path. At the boulder split by a tree, the path seemed to pass to the left. Jack’s mind and the flamelet pressed to the right. He saw the iridescent shimmer of the magical barrier that protected Brevelan’s clearing. No human could pass through this barrier without Brevelan’s or Jaylor’s express wish. But the flame did not live, and Jack’s body remained in Coronnan City.

A sudden thrumming in Jack’s mind told him the flame had found a piece of glass and sent a signal to the owner that a summons awaited. The vibration of the signal set Jack’s teeth on edge. It had set his fingers twitching before a second flame appeared in his glass. Then Jaylor’s familiar face emerged, as close and clear as if he sat on the opposite side of the desk.

“What?” Jaylor asked abruptly. His gaze wandered to his left and stayed there. Worry shadowed his eyes and drew his mouth into a deep frown. His beard looked untrimmed, and his hair had pulled loose from his queue restraint.

“Jaylor, I have a solution and need help. Shayla has agreed to meet us with the twin purple-tips on Sacred Isle tonight,” Jack replied. Jaylor’s distraction worried him. The Senior Magician of the Commune did not allow his students anything but full concentration on any spell and taught by example.

“Not tonight. No time.” Jaylor raised his hand in the time-honored signal that he closed the communication.

“But it has to be tonight!” Otherwise Katrina might find another excuse to delay their wedding.

Otherwise Ariiell and Laislac might find a way to grab the position of heir to the throne.

“Not tonight. Brevelan is in labor. It’s not going well. I can’t leave her, and I won’t delegate this chore.”

“What’s wrong?” Darville asked. “Tell him we can go to the clearing instead of to Sacred Isle. Tell him about the eavesdroppers. Tell him that Mikka . . .”

“Do you want to do this?” Jack looked at his king, slightly exasperated.

“You know I can’t. Tell him . . .”

“Jaylor, we can come to the clearing. I can transport Their Graces and Katrina and myself.”

“Not tonight!” Jaylor nearly screamed. Then he took a deep breath, composing himself. “Give us three days to recover from the birth. Then we will meet you in Shayla’s lair. All of us.” He ended the summons abruptly.

“I’d better tell Katrina she has a three-day reprieve,” Jack murmured sadly. Three days for her to think up new excuses for delay.

Suddenly, he knew she did not need the three days to find an excuse. She’d make one of her own today.

Without bothering to extinguish the candle or take leave of his king, Jack pelted out of the room, down the stairs, across three corridors, and out into the sunny courtyard where she usually worked. He gasped for breath, seeking a trace of her presence.

Gone. Lace pillow, patterns, and herself. She might never have been here an hour ago when he left her. The ragged wall still showed marks from Amaranth’s talons. Jack hadn’t dreamed Katrina’s agreement to marry. She had promised.

Where would she go?

Back inside, he traced the route to the honored servants’ quarters where she slept or sometimes worked by rushlight when rain threatened.

Not a cloud in the sky,
he thought to himself.
Why would she retreat indoors on such a fine day? Not too hot, nor too windy. The sun will shine another candle mark at least.

The other servants nodded to him as he passed, a now-familiar presence in the palace, as was Katrina. He paused outside her door. He knocked quietly. The door swung open at his first touch.

He knew before he looked with his eyes that the room was empty. It looked as if she had never been there.

Gone.

Pillows, lace, patterns, her clothes, and the little trinkets he’d given her to make the stark room a home.

Gone.

He searched the wardrobe, the chest at the foot of the bed, beneath the bed. She had taken the magical lace shawl they’d used to patch Shayla’s wing. Katrina had planned to use the airy lace as her wedding veil.

Perhaps she had merely gone to the dressmaker for her wedding gown.

But he knew she had fled.

She’d run away rather than marry him. Run into danger from the Gnuls, and he couldn’t protect her.

CHAPTER 17

V
areena picked her way over the muddy paths that wound through the village. Rain had made the packed dirt slick and left puddles in every indentation. The Summer sun had not climbed high enough to remove the shadows and evaporate the water. The haze that shrouded the monastery seemed to be spreading.

What would happen to her village if the gloaming spread here and deprived them all of light, distorted time, and trapped them forever? She’d never break free, trade caravans would cease coming . . . They’d all become ghosts.

She shuddered and wished she were back in bed where she could pull the blankets over her head and pretend none of this was happening.

But the baker’s son had burned his hand and arm badly, stoking the fire beneath the huge bread oven. Cold water and lard had not eased the boy’s pain, so the family had summoned Vareena out of her warm bed.

She’d have liked to take her time gathering the eggs herself and preparing breakfast for her brothers. Her chickens never pecked her when she reached for their treasures. She sang soothing songs to them, talked to them, treated them as important assets to the farm. They responded in kind.

“What kept you?” snarled the baker’s wife. She thrust her hands behind her back, crossing her wrists and flapping her hands. The old ward could not keep Vareena from entering the cottage. The huge mud-and-brick oven that served the entire village heated the place almost beyond tolerance in this bright Summer weather.

A low moan coming from behind the curtain at the back of the low-ceilinged room grabbed Vareena’s attention. Rather than reply to the surly woman, so typical of the villagers, Vareena thrust her way past her. She tore aside the curtain to the dark lean-to that normally contained firewood and food stores for the family.

The baker had set his son Jeeremy on a rough pallet here before returning to his oven. From the grimace of pain that crossed the boy’s face, Vareena guessed he had been unable to climb the ladder into the sleeping loft above the cottage’s only room.

“What witchcraft you gonna work on my boy?” the baker’s wife demanded as she inserted herself between Vareena and her son.

“No witchcraft,” Vareena replied, holding herself rigid rather than flinging herself out of the cottage without so much as looking at the boy. The ghosts might trap her in this hated place, but they at least appreciated her, thanked her for the small services she gave them.

“I’ll have no witchery, Vareena. Headman’s daughter you might be, but I don’t have to tolerate your evil ways.”

“If you do not want me to heal your son, why did you send for me?”

“Baker made me send for you. He needs the boy up and working, not languishing here screaming his heart out. Had I my way, I’d have treated him myself and let him heal slow. Burns heal better slow.”

Jeeremy did not seem to be screaming, merely moaning. His pain reached out and squeezed Vareena’s heart. She couldn’t abandon him because of his mother’s rude intolerance.

“I have a salve made of barks and berries,” Vareena said quietly through her clamped teeth. “But first I must cleanse the burn of the lard you slathered on. That might have cooled it a little at first, but such a treatment offers no lasting relief.”

“You saying I don’t know what is best for my boy?” The woman’s voice rose to near hysteria.

“I’ll fetch some water.” Vareena ducked out of the dark and dusty lean-to rather than issue the angry retort that nearly choked her.

Outside the cottage she breathed deeply, holding each breath within her lungs before letting it out. The cool morning breeze taunted her with hints of other places it had visited before blowing here. It tasted cool and tangy, like salt, everblue trees, and rich loamy dirt. Bits of the mist and haze scattered to reveal patches of blue sky.

A tear stung her eyes. If only she could follow the breeze wherever it led her. She clutched the silver-and-amethyst amulet beneath her shift. If only she could claim the acres Farrell had bequeathed her. If only she and Robb could leave this place together. If only . . .

But none of that would happen. She had to fetch fresh well water and tend to Jeeremy’s burns under the hostile stare of his mother. Then she had to take fresh food up to her ghosts. Tomorrow and the next day and the next promised her no difference in her routine. Her freedom fled with the breeze.

They think to keep me in darkness. But I do not need light. I need only my magic to keep safe what is mine. The kardiaquake did not stop them. The nightmares did not stop them. I must try something else. As I send out my senses, seeking another diversion, I see others gathering. They come from many directions. Diverse people with different priorities and warring ideals. An idea planted here. A whisper there.

Soon they will fight among themselves rather than bother with me and mine.