The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) (45 page)

Read The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) Online

Authors: Irene Radford

“Don’t believe her!” Ariiell had no more magic to push Andrall into drastic action. If only the coven had taught her to tap a ley line. But her fellows did not believe the ley lines worth bothering with. They relied on rituals filled with music, dance, nudity, and sexual perversion to enhance their powers. Ariiell had no power to tap unless she could push these strangely placid people into violent emotions again.
“My lord,” Robb interrupted, “I was with your brother in his last moments. He died peacefully, anxious for his next existence. Will you honor his bequest to Vareena?”
“Of course.”
“No, you can’t! You have to condemn her for murder right here and now!”
“Oh, shut up, Ariiell. Go back to the room and behave like the lady you want to be.” Andrall dismissed her with a bored wave of his hand.
The trio ignored her as they approached the graves in the corner by the wall.
“You can’t do this to me,” she murmured quietly. “I still have the book of poisons. I can still take control.” A nice little demon let loose within these walls ought to liven things up. Rejiia would know how to conjure one.
 
“Stay with me, Zebbiah,” Miranda called anxiously to her friend. His face faded into mist and then reformed in this reality followed by his body. Twice now, he’d drifted off into the strange haze with the rest of his clan. Both times she’d been able to call him back. But this time he seemed to have difficulty getting all of him to step free of the engulfing mist.
Her lace pillow lay forgotten beside her. She dared not lose herself in the lace she loved. The entire purpose of their long journey had been for her to sit and make their fortune with her work. Zebbiah’s anchor to this reality was still too tenuous for her to concentrate on anything but him and her daughter.
She rocked Jaranda gently in front of the little fire Zebbiah had built in one of the large second-story rooms. Possibly this had been a smaller scriptorium, possibly a classroom. It covered nearly half of one wing with an identical room adjoining it.
The pack beast brayed obnoxiously and Zebbiah freed himself from the gloaming. He’d had a time coaxing the pack beast up the circular stairs, but he refused to be separated from it or the packs loaded on its back.
“I never thought I wanted to sever my link to my clan before,” Zebbiah said, dropping his head into his hands. “Their blood calls to my blood. It is a comfort and an asset most of the time.”
“Except when danger to them threatens you as well.” Miranda reached out and touched his hand.
His expression brightened and the last little bit of mist around him seemed to evaporate.
“In times of danger, the mind-to-mind link and access to magic helps the entire clan. Each of us has all the others to draw upon for help, for strength, for courage. This time, they draw upon me as an anchor to life outside this fog. They drain me.”
“This . . . this link, does it allow all of you to participate in the . . . the activities of one of your numbers?” Katrina asked. She’d been pacing the room while she examined the lace and the pillows that Miranda had liberated from the palace. Her fingers constantly tangled the lengths of edgings and she nearly shredded one particularly fine cap while moving about the room. Curiously, she kept to the edges, looking out of the row of windows at every pass.
“Sometimes. Why do you ask?” Zebbiah watched her carefully, as if he saw something more than a normal eye could discern. The strange mist started to gather around him again.
Miranda grabbed his hand, and the mist went away. For a time. Fatigue clutched her heart. How long could she keep him here before he fully joined the others? She wished she could see them as easily as the magicians seemed to. If even a dim outline appeared to her, she’d feel more comfortable with their looming presence. As it was, she constantly looked to see if an unseen eavesdropper hovered nearby.
Her back itched as if a thousand eyes watched her every breath, waiting, ready to attack her.
“Was Neeles Brunix, the owner of a lace factory in Queen’s City, one your clan?” Katrina ceased her pacing for a moment at the cost of the linen lace doily that unraveled beneath her anxious fingers.
“Brunix,
bah
!” Zebbiah spat the name. “His mother was of our clan. Technically that makes him one of ours. But his father’s people raised him to despise us. He took what he wanted of our rituals and customs and perverted them to suit his needs. We never admitted him to our special link.”
“Yet you did business with him.” Katrina held up the remnants of the doily.
“Rovers trade where the trade is best. Brunix provided us with the best lace. Brunix gave us many unique designs. The palace lacemakers had not enough imagination to try new things.” He grinned at Miranda in a sort of apology.
“I designed this piece and several others in your pack. He stole the patterns from me during the three years he owned me. My lace.” Katrina nearly shook with the emotions that racked her.
Miranda sympathized with her. Designing and working a pattern required a great deal of diligence, dedication, and devotion to the art. To have it stolen represented almost a sacrilege to a true lacemaker.
Except that the women who designed lace for the palace workers had been locked into specific forms and techniques, never taking a chance on something new and different.
Miranda wanted nothing more than to let the world pass her by while she made lace now. She wouldn’t even mind the invisible watching eyes as long as she had the bobbins in her hands and the rhythm of the pattern in her body and mind.
“Whatever happened to you, the clan did not participate in, or sanction the actions of Brunix,” Zebbiah comforted Katrina. “Too often have our people been enslaved over the centuries by those who do not understand our ways, who fear anything they do not understand. We deny anyone the right to own another. All should be free to rove as they choose. As we choose.”
“But your people steal. You hide behind half truths and you take children from their rightful parents!” Katrina resumed her pacing. Her words sounded more a recitation of oft told tales than an accusation.
“When people refuse to sell us things we need to survive, we often take those things, but we leave something of value behind in payment—just not always what the original owner thinks has value. Half a truth is better than a lie. Parents often give us unwanted children—those who are deformed or simple or sometimes just one too many mouths to feed. The only children we steal are those who are beaten and treated as less than dirt by their parents.” Zebbiah answered each of her accusations in turn with resignation.
Katrina nodded. “Jack says much the same thing.” She resumed her pacing. This time she alternately touched the walls and ran her fingers through her already disheveled hair.
“I never thought about slavery before,” Miranda mused. She brushed damp hair off Jaranda’s brow. She seemed cooler, sleeping easier than before. Perhaps the fever had broken. “I never thought about my people before. All I cared about was my lace. I was happy to allow Simeon to take the burden of rule from my shoulders. I was happy not to have to think about the hardship of others. I can’t let that happen again. Slavery in SeLenicca must end.”
A hole opened in her heart. If she took over the responsibilities of the crown—responsibilities she had inherited but never been allowed to exercise by her parents or husband—then she’d never have the time to work the lace as she had before. She’d never have the concentration to design new patterns or lovingly recreate old ones.
But then, SeLenicca must never again become dependent upon lace, only one export, to support the entire economy. Her people must be trained to other tasks. The land must be nurtured rather than exploited. Her people must become self-sufficient, as the Rovers were self-sufficient. Only she could change the entire culture of SeLenicca. She had to go back.
Jaranda whimpered in her sleep. She thrashed in her mother’s arms. Her movements mimicked the rhythm of Katrina’s pacing.
“Katrina, what ails you?” Zebbiah asked before Miranda could.
“This place.” Katrina hugged herself. “The cold follows me. My arms are all lumbird bumps. If I were trapped here, as your clan and nobles are, then I do not think I would want to live.”
“Come sit by the fire. Let it warm you,” Miranda urged, trying to ignore the chill that climbed her spine and set the hairs on her neck standing straight up. “ ’Tis your fatigue talking, nothing more.”
The invisible eyes seemed to increase and move closer, sensing her unease, ready to pounce at the first sign of weakness.
“No!” Katrina protested too violently for the nature of the suggestion. Then she breathed deeply, forcing calm. “Fire. The ghost of Ackerly fears fire.” Slowly she walked closer to the cheery blaze, as if she forced one foot in front of the other.
“No, P’pa, no,” Jaranda whispered in her sleep. “Don’t kill me, P’pa. I’m too little to sacrifice.”
“Wake up, Jaranda.” Miranda shook her baby.
Memories of Simeon and the tortures he delighted in crowded around her vision, forcing out the present. “Wake up, baby. It’s only a dream. Wake up.”
“M’ma, don’t let P’pa take me to the fires.”
“We must leave this place,
cherbein
Miranda.” Zebbiah stood up, grabbing the packs in one graceful movement. “The ghost will poison all of us if we do not leave. Now.”
Jaranda’s eyes opened and she stared over her mother’s shoulders. “Go away, P’pa. Go away. You are dead,” she sobbed.
“Don’t leave me alone here!” Katrina protested. Her eyes darted frantically all around. “Do not leave me with Simeon’s ghost. If he haunts this place, then Brunix will, too.”
“I would say let us all leave immediately, but we have nowhere else to go,” Miranda reminded them.
CHAPTER 39
 
 
 
 
“
F
ound it!” Marcus whispered excitedly. He looked around the library for someone to share the good news with. The place was deserted. All the apprentices seemed to prefer taking their books outdoors to study. Had Margit started that tradition? He had had more than enough of the out of doors to last a lifetime.
At least now he knew how to lay the ghost to rest. He even had an idea of how to remove the curse from the gold. But he needed help.
This information should go to Jaylor first. Marcus gathered the texts he had studied repeatedly for days. Too many days. How long before the army reached the monastery?
Moments later he knocked upon the door to Jaylor’s office. The wooden panels echoed emptily within. He rapped again, a little louder and longer.
Jaylor always spent the midafternoon in his office while the children napped and he could guarantee at least a little time without familial interference. Puzzled, Marcus sent an inquisitive probe into the room. It circled aimlessly, encountering only empty air and dust.
“You won’t find our Senior Magician anywhere near the University, Marcus,” Slippy said coming toward him from the direction of the courtyard. “One of the twins is dying. He’s with his family.”
“Where he belongs,” Marcus replied. “But I need to talk to him. Now. It’s important.”
“I doubt he wants anyone near except his wife and his sons.” Slippy shook his head. “I sent a message to our representative in the king’s court to inform His Grace. Jaylor and Brevelan may want to share their grief with their oldest friends, but no one else.”
“I wondered why everyone was so quiet today.” Actually he hadn’t noticed the lack of activity or the conversations in unusually hushed tones until now. His concentration had all been on his research. He looked at his books, weighing them in his hands. Now what? He had to get back to the monastery soon. He’d wasted too much time already.
“May I be of assistance?” Slippy looked pointedly at the books Marcus carried.
“Do you know anything about time travel?” Marcus asked.
“Never! Impossible.” Slippy sniffed with disdain.
“I didn’t think I’d be lucky enough to find the help I need right off.” Marcus excused himself and went in search of Old Lyman. If anyone had ever traveled through time and lived, Layman was the most likely candidate.

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