The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I Read online

  Perhaps just a basin of hot water and some oil to condition his boots and trews. From Baamin’s private bathing chamber? The old man wouldn’t be there now in the middle of the afternoon. So why not?

  As soon as the thoughts formed, a basin of steaming water, perfumed with sweet stellar petals, appeared before him along with a small flask of oil from the pantry. He set them in the nest of tangled roots that had been his bed.

  The wash worked wonders on his mind and body. He’d forgotten how light and free one felt when newly clean. The restorative power of a wash was worth the drain on his magic.

  Invigorated, he sent the basin and the flask back—to the kitchens. In his mind he watched them settle onto the washing counter. Returning his used vessels to the kitchen was his signature. By tonight the entire University would know that Jaylor was alive and well. They’d think he was back in the capital instead of nearing the southern border.

  Baamin had taught him to hide his tracks, if nothing else.

  He chuckled and set his staff on the road. As soon as he stepped away from the protective branches of the oak, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. They almost hummed with tension. Was someone from the village following him?

  He extended his senses around him.

  Nothing. Whatever followed him was gone, or just the product of his imagination. He shouldered his pack and set the staff back on the path of his quest.

  “Is that where it hurts?” Brevelan gently probed the huge paw of the golden wolf. He whimpered slightly and tried to withdraw the limb she held. She had no fear of the long teeth he kept muzzled.

  “It’s never quite healed, has it, Puppy?” He whined again and rested his head on her knee. His golden eyes looked up in adoration. A low moan, the canine equivalent of a purr, erupted from the back of his throat.

  Ever so gently, Brevelan continued to probe the paw while she hummed a little tune of her own making. Her song rooted out the sore spot and soothed it. The golden eyes drooped in contentment.

  “You old faker!” she exclaimed, but continued to rub the paw. “You limped in here just so I would give you some attention. With her free hand she ruffled his ears. The energetic caress roused the wolf from his near slumber. His tongue caressed her healing hand in response. Then he grasped it gently with his mouth.

  “Well, off with you, Puppy. Go find your dinner.” The thought of lives ending to feed his vigorous appetite made her shudder in revulsion. Yet she knew he needed meat, just as Shayla did.

  In the early days of her association with the wolf and the dragon, his injured paw and leg had prevented his hunting. Shayla had magnanimously dropped rabbits or a haunch of something larger for the wolf every day or two. Now, after most of the winter had passed, he was nearly healed and able to fend for himself.

  Somewhere in the wild forest that spread around the mountains, he must have a mate about to whelp. He was an adult wolf in his prime. Yet he showed no inclination to assume his family duties, something inborn in wolves. They mated for life and were devoted parents. If he had come to her as a pup she could have understand his attachment to a human.

  A squirrel chittered to the wolf from the doorway of the hut. He ignored the scolding and continued to beg caresses from Brevelan. She ran her hands through his winter-thick fur, drawing as much comfort from the touch as he did.

  “That’s enough for now. I have work to do. Didn’t you just hear Mistress Squirrel? There are roots to be dug, and seeds to be started. The floor needs to be swept and Mistress Goat needs a milking.” If she kept busy enough, she wouldn’t think about her dreams of portent.

  She stood to separate the wolf from her hand. The stool wobbled when relieved of her slight weight.

  “Someone remind me to ask the carpenter to fix this chair when his wife needs help with her birthing,” she called out to the various mice and birds that scurried around her bare feet. The only other response to her command was a petulant meow from Mica, the cat curled up beside the fire. She didn’t like her nap being disturbed, even by such a simple request. For a brief moment Brevelan thought Mica’s eyes appeared round and hazel, like a human’s. Another blink and the illusion was gone. The cat’s eyes were yellow, slashed vertically by a very feline pupil.

  Brevelan stepped out of her one-room cottage into the bright clearing. Her eyes wandered to the pathway. No tall man carrying a pack and walking staff. She breathed a sigh of relief.

  “I’m not going to tell you again, Puppy, go get your dinner.” She swatted his behind lightly. He trotted off, tail high, nose low, to begin his hunt. “And don’t bring any of it back. I don’t want your bones cluttering up my house.” She shuddered again at the loss of a tiny life to feed her friend. He’d dragged a carcass back only once. Every crunch of a bone felt like her own limbs breaking. His sensual pleasure at the noise stabbed her through the heart. Since then she reminded him to eat his hunt in the woods. He’d never disobeyed again.

  “And if you get muddy again, you sleep outside tonight,” she called after his retreating tail. “Shayla may have given you a princely name, Darville, but you get too dirty and disheveled to be a royal pet.”

  A flusterhen dashed out from the cover of saber ferns at the edge of the clearing. Her sisters followed. They pecked at Brevelan’s feet, and she shooed them away. “I’ll feed you later. When the sun sets,” she promised them.

  As she went about the mundane chores of digging and milking, feeding and soothing, Brevelan sang. Music flowed and swirled around her, reflecting the beauty and serenity she found in her isolated clearing. Trees and plants, ground and hut seemed to hum in harmony with her song. She lifted her voice a note higher into a descant to the natural sounds. As she reached the apex of her voice she sensed the clearing sealing itself against intruders.

  Less than a year ago her life had been devoid of music, just as the solitude she craved had been denied her.

  Households were large in her home village. Many generations lived in each house. Excessive noise, like singing, was banned, lest it disturb the elders or the babies, or the fathers concentrating on their work. Girls were married off early to make room for the brides of the younger men. Babies abounded everywhere.

  She missed the babies. Memories of Shayla’s dragon-dream returned. A compelling delusion. Once more she felt milk-heavy breasts ache for a baby’s suck. She shook it off. If she hadn’t run away last summer, she’d have a child of her own by now. A soft, small creature with her own ruddy hair and pale skin. Her imagination would never allow her to supply that unborn child with the coarse black hair and angry disposition of her husband.

  Sometimes in the night, when she was alone and her body ached for contact with another human being, she wondered what her life would be like now if she had stayed.

  That was the trouble with dragon-dreams. They seemed so real it was difficult to return to the light of day. A day when she must be alert to word from the village. Maevra was close to her time and might deliver early.

  Brevelan just wished the villagers would accept her help without the frequent use of garlic and gestures meant to ward off evil. She had never told them how much she liked garlic.

  Jaylor followed the road as it curved and dipped into a hollow. He jumped a narrow creek where it crossed his path. Green meadows spread out around the road in all directions. A little farther along the stream, away from the road, would be a good place to camp.

  As if he’d conjured an encampment, Jaylor found several tents nestled beside the water. Traders usually welcomed strangers. This far south, the traders could come only from Rossemeyer. Those stalwart desert dwellers were even more suspicious and insular than Coronnites.

  He paused behind another protective oak tree. From its shadows he surveyed the scene ahead of him. In the creeping twilight he should be invisible until he decided to be seen.

  Sturdy pack steeds grazed behind a picket line. Wary dogs zigzagged around cook fires and brightly colored tents. Purple, red, black, and blue shelters f
or unseen campers.

  Who but Rovers would live in such garish tents? Certainly not traders from Rossemeyer who sought to blend into their environment. Rovers were homeless wanderers who worked no honest trade, were beholden to no lord, and obeyed few man-made laws. And they fascinated Jaylor.

  The Council of Provinces had outlawed Rovers when the Commune of Magicians established the magic border three hundred years ago. Jaylor had read every enticing word about their forbidden lifestyle.

  No band of Rovers should be within the boundaries of Coronnan for any reason. Where had they learned the spells to open a hole in the magic wall? Or which magician had they bribed?

  Jaylor knew from his secret reading that Rovers weren’t above robbing travelers of their purses, packs, and clothes. Mercifully, they slit the throats of their victims so they wouldn’t freeze to death or be attacked by wild animals.

  He checked his appearance. Worn and dusty journey clothes, provincially uncombed hair and beard, small pack and walking staff. He could be any benighted traveler. Except that few people journeyed through the kingdom these days. The Twelve lords were supposed to provide homes for their dependents. Traditions and superstitious fears established during the Great Wars of Disruption kept almost everyone in those homes.

  The Rover camp was suspiciously quiet. No voices called out. Dogs didn’t bark. No person stirred the savory smelling stew cooking over the fire.

  Jaylor pressed his back into the tree as he scanned the landscape. Whoever had been here was not long gone. He hoped no one stood ready to plunge a knife into his back.

  Chapter 4

  Brevelan interrupted her root digging. Her inner sight tingled a warning. Someone was on the back path that sometimes led to her clearing. She faded into the shadow of a tree. Mastering the urge to run from a pursuer, she forced absolute stillness into her body and her mind. Every wild creature of the forest knew that predators saw only movement and disruptions in the patterns of light and shadow.

  “Brevelan?” Maevra, the carpenter’s wife, called. She was in the last weeks of her pregnancy and frequently sought Brevelan’s counsel as a midwife.

  “Coming.” Brevelan breathed deeply once more.

  With a wish and a firm image in her mind, she opened the path to the clearing.

  “Oh, there you are,” Maevra sighed wearily. “I forget how steep the back path is.” She rubbed her protruding belly.

  “You shouldn’t walk so far on a steep track so close to your time, Maevra.” Brelevan urged the woman onto a convenient stump. She sat heavily and awkwardly.

  “I needed to walk.”

  Brevelan masked her concern. This woman, so near her own age, had lost three babes before they were fully formed. Under Brevelan’s careful guidance, this pregnancy looked as if it might run to term.

  “Why?” Brelevan asked. She rested one hand on the swell of the child, the other upon the woman’s shoulder.

  “Because the house was stuffy, the sun is shining, and Garvin is away for the day.”

  Good. It was just boredom and loneliness, not the compulsion that forecast an early labor.

  Energy flowed through Brevelan’s fingers, seeking the child. A personality shifted beneath the heavy folds of the woman’s clothing and the taut skin of the mother’s belly. A strong and steady heartbeat tingled up Brevelan’s fingers. The dark comfort of the womb enveloped her. A soothing world of water and nourishment rippled against her skin.

  She curled her back and ducked her head. Just before her knees bent and drew her into the same posture as the unborn, the same awareness as the babe, she clutched at her own identity and withdrew.

  “Bold and restless, strong, too. I think it’s a boy.” She shook her hand to free it of the lingering link with the child. Her back wanted to continue to curl, so she arched it in defiance. The utter loneliness of being only one person, where a moment ago she had been two, left her dizzy.

  “He’s strong, but not yet ready to come out and face daylight.”

  “How do you know from just a touch?” Maevra looked utterly amazed.

  Brevelan shrugged. “I’m a witchwoman.”

  “Don’t let the others hear you say that.” Maevra looked over her shoulder anxiously. “They may not call you that to your face, but they still make a gesture of warding.” She held her right hand tightly in her left preventing herself from initiating the cross of the Stargods.

  Brevelan covered Maevra’s hands with her own and smiled at her patient. “Give them time. They must learn to trust.” Brevelan released her hold on her patient’s hands.

  Maevra opened and flexed her fingers. “Soon, I hope. I need you with me when little Garvin is born.”

  “I will be there. I promise.” Brelevan hugged Maevra reassuringly. “Come, rest in my clearing. I’ve baked fresh oat cakes, and I think there’s still a little cider left.” She guided her guest a few paces. The path opened and revealed the entrance to the clearing.

  “I’ll never understand why this place is always hidden, unless you show the way,” Maevra laughed nervously. Her hand twitched again.

  “I don’t know myself,” Brevelan admitted. “The clearing was waiting for me when I came here last summer. It protects me and provides for me.”

  “That’s good. Then the magician won’t be able to surprise you.”

  “What magician?” Fear lumped in her throat. Had her family sent a magician to find her and take her back for judgment?

  “A wandering one. He was in the pub earlier asking questions. He was disguised, but Old Thorm saw through it. I swear he sees more with that one eye than the rest of us do with two.”

  Old Thorm, the wandering, one-eyed drunk who was always nearby when there was trouble.

  “What did Old Thorm do to the magician?” Brevelan listened to the clearing. No one came. She was safe for now.

  “Oh, you know Old Thorm, filled him with dragon lore. Then he sent the young man on a wild lumbird chase. Told him to come by way of the road. He’ll never find you.”

  “I hope you’re right, Maevra. But magicians have a talent for dropping in when you least expect them.” The dream image of a man approaching at sunset haunted her.

  Suddenly she saw the clearing from a second set of eyes. Eyes that approached from the west, the image they saw overshadowing her own. Chill dizziness swamped her senses. Her gram used to say that kind of feeling was a hand from the grave reaching out to remind you that all in this life is temporary.

  “Baamin always said I was more stubborn than smart,” Jaylor mumbled to himself. “I want answers, and I intend to get them. Besides, I may never again have the chance to visit with a real Rover.” The magic he’d gathered and stored as he walked quivered anxiously. He should avoid this place, these people.

  He listened to the power growing inside him for a moment. The warning was stronger than ever. Jaylor moved forward anyway.

  The lone figure of a tall middle-aged man, nearly as big as himself, appeared before him. Silver wings of hair at his temples made the black mane seem darker, oilier.

  Jaylor caught a whiff of the man almost as soon as he saw him. Musky sweat, days old, with just the faintest hint of Tambootie underneath. His instinct was to recoil from the faint scent of evil. His armor snapped into place.

  He sniffed again to make sure he had caught it correctly. Definitely Tambootie, but not unpleasant. Mixed with the other pungent smells of bruised grass, fragrant stew, evening dew-fall, the essence took on a haunting hint of exotic adventures rather than danger.

  “Welcome, stranger.” The Rover’s voice boomed out over the camp. He held his arms open in greeting.

  “Have you hospitality for a lonely traveler?” Jaylor asked. In ancient times when passage across the border was easy and the people of Coronnan chose to travel, there were traditions of hospitality. Jaylor presumed that Rovers still held to those old rules.

  He leaned heavily on his staff, as if he needed the stout wood to bear much of his weight. Thus anchored to the
ground, the staff channeled his extended magic as he continued to scan the area with the extra senses available to him. The staff vibrated and tried to twist away every time Jaylor looked directly at the Rover.

  “The camp of Zolltarn is always open to fellow travelers.” The Rover’s loud voice filled the stream’s hollow with camaraderie. “Come share our evening meal and rest your weary bones on soft furs. In the morning we leave. Perhaps we follow the same roads?”

  “Perhaps.” Still wary, Jaylor slung his pack to the ground in front of him, keeping one hand on the strap. The other clutched his staff.

  A woman emerged from the tent. Tall and handsome, with blue-black hair, she carried a basin. She wore the tent colors, red and purple with black trim. Her skirt and petticoats swirled about her ankles. The colors drew Jaylor’s eyes upward to nearly bare shoulders and the sharp shadow of cleavage. She, too, carried the musky odor of Tambootie.

  Jaylor felt himself drawn forward to see more of her, smell more of the enticing mixture. His gaze rested on the just noticeable swell of her belly. She carried a precious life there.

  He took a step back lest his magic influence the unborn. One of the many superstitions he’d encountered on his journey claimed a magician could capture and command the soul of an infant. Jaylor knew he, personally, wouldn’t do such an evil thing. Who knew what the rogues of old had done? Rural memories, he discovered, were long, much longer than in the fashion-conscious capital city.

  His glance shifted to Zolltarn. Somewhat old to be the father. Yet the woman was none too young either.

  “My wife.” Zolltarn rested his arm about her shoulders possessively. He smiled into her upturned eyes with warmth and pride.

  Other members of the tribe emerged from the security of the garish tents. Each woman carried a bowl of food for the evening meal. All were dressed in wild color combinations similar to Zolltarn’s wife’s. Many showed the same degree of pregnancy. Jaylor reeled in the tendrils of magic that fed his senses. No point in chancing that his personality might influence the unborn.