Read Online The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I by Irene Radford - Free Book Online
Authors: Irene Radford
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side of the road.
YOU APPROACH THE BORDER, said the first sign.
The next mark a few feet beyond was less obvious to the eye. This one was written in ancient runes. The magic rather than the visual image leaped out at Jaylor.
THE KING’S MAGIC CAN NO LONGER PROTECT YOU.
Not exactly the king’s magic. The Commune maintained the border, repelled possible invasion, and kept the overly curious inside. King Darcine had no real magic, nor had any king before him. This king had very little of anything left—health, personality, power. All he did have of value was a son. And no one in the capital had seen the prince for weeks at the time of Jaylor’s departure.
He pushed beyond the sign. The air thickened and resisted his efforts. Jaylor stopped and looked back.
A faint shimmer in the air marked the spot where the last rune rested. Only magic could produce that kind of distortion. Only a magician could see it, penetrate it.
Ordinary folk couldn’t pass that border. The Rovers had. The villagers must if they sought the witchwoman.
The wrongness of the situation bothered him. He should consult with Baamin, and soon. He wasn’t supposed to ask for help on a quest. But it wasn’t help he sought. He needed to warn the Commune. About the border and Rovers entering the kingdom. Warn them of dragons starving out villages and leading large numbers of people astray.
A few feet farther on, a path wandered off to the east and south. This must be the way to the home of the witchwoman. Kind of far out for her to serve the village. Her home would be in the foothills, possibly near the dragon’s lair.
The path narrowed. Trees closed in, darkening the way. Once more he had the sense of another presence—behind him. Closer this time. A whiff of Tambootie in the air.
The Rovers? He stretched his heightened senses once more and encountered a void. Not just the absence of a presence, the absence of everything. Someone, armored, was sending Jaylor’s awareness around the space he occupied.
A magician. In the pub he had encountered an old derelict who carried an image of himself as a vigorous man in his prime. A man with hair as red as Lord Krej’s.
Three years before Jaylor had entered the University, Krej, the youngest son of the Lord of Faciar had been a journeyman magician. His father and brothers had been killed in a senseless hunting accident. A wild tusker had charged. Arrows went astray. Grief stricken, the new lord renounced his magic and took a bride. He had to have lost most, if not all of his magical powers on his wedding night.
The magician who followed Jaylor could not be Krej himself. Possibly a rogue hired by him, or a cousin from his mother’s country? But why play with outlaw rogues when he’d been educated into the benefits, ethics, and strengths of traditional magic? Jaylor slipped off the path behind a tree. The rough bark was the same color as his dusty cloak. He merged with the tree. Even a master magician would find only a tree.
The reek of burned Tambootie preceded the nearing presence. Jaylor stilled his mind and his magic.
Just as Jaylor expected, it was the one-eyed man from the pub who emerged from around the bend in the path. Old Thorm, someone had called him. No longer drunk or derelict, he walked fully upright with hands extended before him. He sniffed the air carefully as he walked.
Rough bark scraped Jaylor’s face as he pressed closer to the tree. With his mind, he sought the core of the tree, identified with it, made it part of himself.
His pursuer moved forward, still seeking by sense and by magic. He was abreast of Jaylor when he turned and faced him. Jaylor stopped breathing.
“You there, magician,” One-eye hissed, “you can’t hide from me. I can feel your magic.”
Fear climbed Jaylor’s back and brought moisture to his skin. His mind deliberately closed off the seeking words that were a spell in themselves. He thought nothing, moved nothing, was aware only of the smell of
YOU APPROACH THE BORDER, said the first sign.
The next mark a few feet beyond was less obvious to the eye. This one was written in ancient runes. The magic rather than the visual image leaped out at Jaylor.
THE KING’S MAGIC CAN NO LONGER PROTECT YOU.
Not exactly the king’s magic. The Commune maintained the border, repelled possible invasion, and kept the overly curious inside. King Darcine had no real magic, nor had any king before him. This king had very little of anything left—health, personality, power. All he did have of value was a son. And no one in the capital had seen the prince for weeks at the time of Jaylor’s departure.
He pushed beyond the sign. The air thickened and resisted his efforts. Jaylor stopped and looked back.
A faint shimmer in the air marked the spot where the last rune rested. Only magic could produce that kind of distortion. Only a magician could see it, penetrate it.
Ordinary folk couldn’t pass that border. The Rovers had. The villagers must if they sought the witchwoman.
The wrongness of the situation bothered him. He should consult with Baamin, and soon. He wasn’t supposed to ask for help on a quest. But it wasn’t help he sought. He needed to warn the Commune. About the border and Rovers entering the kingdom. Warn them of dragons starving out villages and leading large numbers of people astray.
A few feet farther on, a path wandered off to the east and south. This must be the way to the home of the witchwoman. Kind of far out for her to serve the village. Her home would be in the foothills, possibly near the dragon’s lair.
The path narrowed. Trees closed in, darkening the way. Once more he had the sense of another presence—behind him. Closer this time. A whiff of Tambootie in the air.
The Rovers? He stretched his heightened senses once more and encountered a void. Not just the absence of a presence, the absence of everything. Someone, armored, was sending Jaylor’s awareness around the space he occupied.
A magician. In the pub he had encountered an old derelict who carried an image of himself as a vigorous man in his prime. A man with hair as red as Lord Krej’s.
Three years before Jaylor had entered the University, Krej, the youngest son of the Lord of Faciar had been a journeyman magician. His father and brothers had been killed in a senseless hunting accident. A wild tusker had charged. Arrows went astray. Grief stricken, the new lord renounced his magic and took a bride. He had to have lost most, if not all of his magical powers on his wedding night.
The magician who followed Jaylor could not be Krej himself. Possibly a rogue hired by him, or a cousin from his mother’s country? But why play with outlaw rogues when he’d been educated into the benefits, ethics, and strengths of traditional magic? Jaylor slipped off the path behind a tree. The rough bark was the same color as his dusty cloak. He merged with the tree. Even a master magician would find only a tree.
The reek of burned Tambootie preceded the nearing presence. Jaylor stilled his mind and his magic.
Just as Jaylor expected, it was the one-eyed man from the pub who emerged from around the bend in the path. Old Thorm, someone had called him. No longer drunk or derelict, he walked fully upright with hands extended before him. He sniffed the air carefully as he walked.
Rough bark scraped Jaylor’s face as he pressed closer to the tree. With his mind, he sought the core of the tree, identified with it, made it part of himself.
His pursuer moved forward, still seeking by sense and by magic. He was abreast of Jaylor when he turned and faced him. Jaylor stopped breathing.
“You there, magician,” One-eye hissed, “you can’t hide from me. I can feel your magic.”
Fear climbed Jaylor’s back and brought moisture to his skin. His mind deliberately closed off the seeking words that were a spell in themselves. He thought nothing, moved nothing, was aware only of the smell of
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