The Wandering Dragon (Children of the Dragon Nimbus) (20 page)

“A dozen steeds with men riding them,” Gerta confirmed as if that were answer enough.

Lukan had to think about that. “In all my wanderings I’ve seen few steeds inside the city and then only dray steeds hauling heavy goods into and out of the market.”

Skeller rolled his eyes as if the observation was too obvious to note.

“That’s Master Robb, third steed back,” Chess gasped, letting go of Lady Maria. He took two running steps before Lukan grabbed his collar and held him fast.

“Are you asking for death?” Lukan hissed into his ear.

“But . . . but we can grab him and hide him in the city!”

“But we can’t get him out of the city. We need to plan!”

“That is why you need to be inside the castle,” Lady Maria said shakily. “He looks ill. You’ll not get far with him today.” With more determination than strength she set off down a narrow side street that led to the back of the castle while the steeds continued past them toward the primary entrance.

“Y
OU’VE DONE ENOUGH for today,” Souska said gently.

Lily sorted bundles of herbs in their little round hut—barely tall enough for either of them to stand up at the center ridgepole. “Never enough . . .”

“For today, you have done all you can. You are stronger but you still need more rest and food to rebuild your health.”

“I’ve said that so often to Val, it sounds strange directed at me.” Lily sat back on her heels, staring into the distance. Was she speaking to her twin?

Her golden red hair had more body and luster than just a few days ago. Her cheeks were still too pale and drawn, with dark shadows encircling her eyes like purple bruises. She looked more like her fragile twin than ever.

“That’s just it, Souska, there isn’t enough food. Our patients need it more than I; they succumbed deeper to the miasma. And there will be no food at all after we burn the fields. And we must burn the fields. The dragons said so.” She turned bleak eyes up to Souska.

“I’ve been thinking about that.” Souska thrust aside the leather curtain that sufficed as a door. It provided only a little privacy and less protection. Come winter, they needed to move in with one of the other families.

Outside, in the village common, two women threw a bit of grain for the flusterhens. They could eat the grain and let the hens starve, or feed the grain to the hens and at least have eggs, and maybe meat.

Two men released the remaining goats from their pen and drove them toward the far fields, hoping the fallow grasses would provide disease-free forage for the animals.

Three days ago, no one had stirred in the village except Lily.

How many other villages throughout Coronnan suffered the same disease, but without Lily’s help?

“There is a plant, we called it fireweed back home because it was always the first thing to grow in a field after a fire,” Souska said hesitantly.

“What about this plant?” Lily asked, some enthusiasm returning to her voice. She’d grown up tending a huge vegetable garden, flusterhens, and goats, but knew almost nothing of larger-scale farming.

“It is good forage for animals.”

“But will it grow after we salt the fields? Don’t forget, the dragons said the miasma needed fire
and
salt to kill it completely.”

“I don’t know. I’ll have to taste the dirt after we burn.”

“Taste the dirt?” Lily looked skeptical. The deep shadows within their hut turned her face into a skeletal mask.

A portent?

Souska shuddered.

“I think I need to taste the dirt now.”

“No, Souska. No, don’t!” Lily’s frightened words stopped Souska in the doorway. “The miasma is still there. You’ll get sick and I . . . I’m afraid to go on without help.”

“Don’t be afraid. I only need a grain or two to know what’s in there.”

“That may be too much. Wait until we burn.”

“What if we don’t need to burn?”

“The dragons said we do. My parents always taught me to trust the dragons.”

“But we only have the word of one dragon. Krystaal. And she’s young. She may not have all the wisdom and knowledge of the elder dragons. She may be wrong.”

“Dragons are
never
wrong. What one knows, they all know.”

Souska doubted that. But who was she to question anyone? She had almost no magic.

But she knew about farms, soil, crops, rotating fields . . . “Perhaps a young dragon could misinterpret what the others know.”

She stepped out of the hut and headed for the edge of the far field, beyond the village precincts to the wild prairie.

“Where are you going, Souska?” Lily called after her. She stood in the doorway, holding onto the frame as though she didn’t have enough strength to follow.

“I’m going to call a dragon.”

Robb stumbled heavily on the upslant of the dungeon corridor. If he took one more step, he thought he might vomit, or pass out from exhaustion.

Lokeen had not believed him when he said he could do nothing more after throwing the spell to find Samlan. He’d barely had the strength to eat, let alone ride another half day into the city.

Now he knew why scrying into the past was considered a spell of last resort. If looking at events only a few moons away from the present cost him this much strength, what would peering at history do to a magician?

He wondered that those commissioned with solving crimes ever tried it. They could see the truth but they might not recover enough to tell others what they’d conjured.

At this moment, Robb didn’t care if he lived or died. He just knew he could stand no longer.

His guards threw him into the nearest cell, closer to the stairs and as far away from the Krakatrice pen as possible. His window, high up on the outside wall of the cell was small, barely an air opening. He didn’t care. He probably wouldn’t live long enough to breathe the freshness of the back courtyard anyway.

He landed on a pallet that smelled fresh, rolled onto his back, and let blackness creep over him.

A sound disturbed him. The light had shifted. He must have slept several hours. Not enough. He groaned as he rolled to his side, every muscle and joint in his body protesting the movement.

“Can you sit?” a woman asked. Not a harsh voice, nor the shy whisper of Maria.

“Who?”

“I’m Gerta. Maria sent me with broth and bread.”

He cracked one eye open to see a tall silhouette standing beside him. She gave the impression of long, raw muscle, not an ounce of fat on her body. She wore a version of the palace guard uniform: black trews and tunic with red piping at the collar, cuff, and down the outside leg seam, and a red sash around her waist. He thought the sash might hide pockets and sheaths for weapons. Even if she hadn’t discarded weapons before entering the cell—as all of the male guards did—he didn’t have the mental or physical strength to steal one. He doubted he’d best this woman in a wrestling match even in his prime.

“Can you sit?” she asked again, patient and withdrawn, showing no concern.

“With help,” he choked out.

She knelt, placing a fragrant tray on the floor as she thrust one well-muscled arm beneath his shoulders and grabbed his left arm above the elbow with the other. He didn’t add much help to maneuvering him up enough to lean against the wall, panting from the effort of moving at all.

“Must I feed you too?” Now impatience worked its way into her voice.

“Give me a moment to breathe.”

“You’ve had three hours.”

“I need about forty-five more.”

“You don’t have it.” She thrust a morsel of bread into his mouth.

It tasted like . . . the aftermath of the best sex ever, sweet, aromatic, light but full of seeds and texture.

“Don’t swallow it whole, you’ll be sick. Take time to chew.”

He obeyed, savoring the wonder of fresh-baked bread while he tried to remember how to swallow. That accomplished, she held a bowl of warm liquid to his lips, salty, rich broth. He swished it around his mouth letting some of the moisture penetrate before forcing himself to swallow. It came easier this time, like an old skill he hadn’t practiced in a long, long time.

More broth, more bread. By the third dose of each he was able to hold the bowl himself.

“Finish it, then sleep a bit more. Friends will come to your window at midnight.”

Only the click of the latch on the outside of the door and the presence of more of his meal told him he hadn’t dreamed her. She reminded him a lot of his Maigret when they were young and carefree, wandering the world without plan.

“Maggie, I miss you.” He fell asleep and dreamed of his wife.

Lukan paced the opulent suite Lady Maria had assigned Skeller. Plenty of room for the bard and Lukan and Chess to share. Lukan had appropriated the valet’s closet—an alcove with a normal-sized bed and built-in cupboards for his own meager possessions and a full wardrobe for the prince’s. And he had a door to close for privacy. His parents’ bedroom back home was smaller.

Chess found another closet on the other side of the master bedroom for his own use. That left Skeller alone in the center room with a bed big enough to sleep all three of them, and a couple more. He had to use a set of three portable steps to climb onto the down mattress.
No thank you!
Lukan thought to himself.

At the moment, all three of them waited in the front room or parlor. Waited for what, Lukan didn’t know.

Then he wondered if Glenndon had a similar suite at the palace in Coronnan City. He didn’t envy his older brother the lack of privacy, or the necessity of maintaining a large wardrobe, or . . . much of anything at this moment.

At least this suite was up, on the third story. Lukan
really
wanted to find a way to the top of the massive tower, to stand outside and let the wind wash him clean of the confining toxins of living in a city. He hadn’t been higher than the two-story rooftop of the blacksmith shop since leaving the ship. The entire city seemed to move onto their flat roofs the moment the sun touched the horizon in summer. He understood the need and liked the idea. A lot.

“What are we waiting for?” Chess finally asked.

Skeller looked up from tuning his harp, something he did a lot, especially to fill idle hours, a familiar ritual to ease his thought process. If he were truly troubled, he’d be plucking random chords from the instrument. “Aunt Maria said we must stay here until summoned. I presume she’s waiting for the king to find out we’re here.”

“If the population of this castle is anything like the University, someone informed him before he dismounted in the courtyard,” Lukan muttered. He snapped his fingers to light a candle against the growing darkness. Nothing happened. He tried again. This was a truly simple spell, one of the first taught to new apprentices.

He tried a third time. Not even smoke left his fingertips. In frustration he slapped the candle and its pewter holder with the back of his hand.

“I’ve heard rumors that there is something in the castle that prohibits magic of any kind,” Chess offered meekly.

“Then how did my father dispatch letters to me?” Skeller asked.

“You’ll have to ask him yourself,” Gerta said, appearing at the door. She closed the door behind her and leaned heavily against the solid barrier. With her eyes closed, she breathed deeply and her posture relaxed.

“You look different in uniform,” Lukan said in sympathy. He wouldn’t like the stiff fabric of her tunic and trews, or the red piping that had to lie in straight lines no matter how weary she was.

“I’d forgotten how tense everyone is, how wary. No one trusts anyone else, and I hate it. But Lady Maria needs me to protect her and to reach out to the other women soldiers and rebuild our unit.” She heaved a big sigh and lurched straight once more. “His Majesty has demanded you present yourself and explain your unannounced return, Your Highness,” she addressed Skeller formally.

“And so the dance begins,” he muttered. Reluctantly he slipped the harp into her case, staring at it a long time.

“I don’t think the king will appreciate your bringing the harp to a formal audience,” Gerta said.

“Then bring her I must.” Skeller fitted his arms through the straps and turned to face the door, grim determination firming his jaw. “And I do believe I shall play a spritely dance for him. He hates dancing.”

Lukan groaned. He’d played similar games with his father and masters, doing his best to unsettle and challenge them because . . . well, because he could.

Somehow, he sensed that Skeller played a much more dangerous game. The scent of fear still permeated the city.

“Um . . . Lukan, you can’t bring your staff,” Gerta said, staring straight into his eyes with deadly determination.