Read Online The Broken Dragon: Children of the Dragon Nimbus #2 by Irene Radford - Free Book Online
Authors: Irene Radford
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predecessor as Senior Magician and Chancellor of the University. And to be a stern taskmaster, pulling the best out of recalcitrant students.
“Please help me to prepare for your lessons,” he begged, pulling himself up until the lip met his waist. Three more steps up, and he’d be all the way into the upper room. For it was a room once more. He could barely see where the coils of colored light had been. Sunlight filtered through a dozen arrow-slit windows above the stacks of books.
Relief washed over him. He knew this world. The realm of dragons frightened and thrilled him at the same time. He could barely wield sword and shield; how could he think about embarking on any kind of adventure other than through books and lessons?
A distant chuckle rattled in the back of his head.
(You will need no sword for this experience, boy. Look to your books for now.)
“Which books?” Mikk replied eagerly.
(Figure it out.)
“When will I hear from you again?”
(When you are ready. When you have grown from boy to man and back to boy again
.)
“
S’murghit
! What does that mean?”
No answer. Nothing but a vacant feeling at the back of his head. Vacant enough to upset his balance again. A sensation of falling washed over him while he could still feel the press of the ladder rung against the soles of his boots.
Using his forearms as a brace he crawled out of the ladder well onto the wide wooden planks of the floor. He sneezed out centuries of dust and collapsed onto his chest. The dust smeared his tunic heavily. Another curse almost escaped his lips at the mess the fabric absorbed. He needed to get himself upright. But his feet still dangled in the opening. He crawled forward again until his toes scraped wood. Only then did he attempt to rise to his knees, grabbing hold of the nearest stone bookcase and pulling himself upward. His head cleared. Dust motes sparkled in the streams of sunlight.
Maybe he’d imagined those coils of light and had seen only clouds of dust.
And maybe cats flew.
He stumbled forward, right hand on the nearest shelf. His fingers bumped into a protruding book.
(Figure it out.)
Had he truly heard that? Or remembered it? Or imagined it?
He pulled the book free of its mates—all snugged back into line. A thin book with a plain, undyed binding, frayed around the edges. If there had ever been a title and author impressed or painted on the spine or front cover it had vanished long ago.
Almost afraid to breathe and cause the pages to crumble, he opened the fly to the title page. He saw letters but did not have enough light to decipher them. He tilted the book until one of the weak shafts of light landed on the fine lettering. Written in a clear and careful hand, common to all University students, he picked out the dark brown ink atop a light brown parchment:
C HRONICLES OF A P IRATE
O R
H OW I BECAMES THE M AGICIAN OF C ORONNAN
B Y
K IMMER S SCRIBE OF THE S OUTH
The chuckle filled the vacancy between his ears.
“Do I have permission to take this back to my room and read in better light so that I might understand the lesson?” he called into the air.
Silence.
Skeller slung his harp case around from his back, thinking the caravan was lagging and in need of a tune. The second he loosened the flap from its buckles he knew something was different. In his view of life, different could mean very wrong and out of place or new and exciting and therefore wonderful. Like watching the girl with the red-gold braid as she gently maneuvered and manipulated the lady in her charge. Her eyes danced as she smiled. Surely this young woman enjoyed life and found merriment in all that she graced with her gentle touch.
A new tune bounced from his mind to his fingertips. It began with her smile as she peeked from between the caravan’s draperies and laughed at the antics of a baby goat trying to keep up with its mother and snatch a quick drink from her udder.
He reached into the carrysack for Telynnia with
“Please help me to prepare for your lessons,” he begged, pulling himself up until the lip met his waist. Three more steps up, and he’d be all the way into the upper room. For it was a room once more. He could barely see where the coils of colored light had been. Sunlight filtered through a dozen arrow-slit windows above the stacks of books.
Relief washed over him. He knew this world. The realm of dragons frightened and thrilled him at the same time. He could barely wield sword and shield; how could he think about embarking on any kind of adventure other than through books and lessons?
A distant chuckle rattled in the back of his head.
(You will need no sword for this experience, boy. Look to your books for now.)
“Which books?” Mikk replied eagerly.
(Figure it out.)
“When will I hear from you again?”
(When you are ready. When you have grown from boy to man and back to boy again
.)
“
S’murghit
! What does that mean?”
No answer. Nothing but a vacant feeling at the back of his head. Vacant enough to upset his balance again. A sensation of falling washed over him while he could still feel the press of the ladder rung against the soles of his boots.
Using his forearms as a brace he crawled out of the ladder well onto the wide wooden planks of the floor. He sneezed out centuries of dust and collapsed onto his chest. The dust smeared his tunic heavily. Another curse almost escaped his lips at the mess the fabric absorbed. He needed to get himself upright. But his feet still dangled in the opening. He crawled forward again until his toes scraped wood. Only then did he attempt to rise to his knees, grabbing hold of the nearest stone bookcase and pulling himself upward. His head cleared. Dust motes sparkled in the streams of sunlight.
Maybe he’d imagined those coils of light and had seen only clouds of dust.
And maybe cats flew.
He stumbled forward, right hand on the nearest shelf. His fingers bumped into a protruding book.
(Figure it out.)
Had he truly heard that? Or remembered it? Or imagined it?
He pulled the book free of its mates—all snugged back into line. A thin book with a plain, undyed binding, frayed around the edges. If there had ever been a title and author impressed or painted on the spine or front cover it had vanished long ago.
Almost afraid to breathe and cause the pages to crumble, he opened the fly to the title page. He saw letters but did not have enough light to decipher them. He tilted the book until one of the weak shafts of light landed on the fine lettering. Written in a clear and careful hand, common to all University students, he picked out the dark brown ink atop a light brown parchment:
C HRONICLES OF A P IRATE
O R
H OW I BECAMES THE M AGICIAN OF C ORONNAN
B Y
K IMMER S SCRIBE OF THE S OUTH
The chuckle filled the vacancy between his ears.
“Do I have permission to take this back to my room and read in better light so that I might understand the lesson?” he called into the air.
Silence.
Skeller slung his harp case around from his back, thinking the caravan was lagging and in need of a tune. The second he loosened the flap from its buckles he knew something was different. In his view of life, different could mean very wrong and out of place or new and exciting and therefore wonderful. Like watching the girl with the red-gold braid as she gently maneuvered and manipulated the lady in her charge. Her eyes danced as she smiled. Surely this young woman enjoyed life and found merriment in all that she graced with her gentle touch.
A new tune bounced from his mind to his fingertips. It began with her smile as she peeked from between the caravan’s draperies and laughed at the antics of a baby goat trying to keep up with its mother and snatch a quick drink from her udder.
He reached into the carrysack for Telynnia with
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