Read Online The Wizard's Treasure (The Dragon Nimbus) by Irene Radford - Free Book Online
Authors: Irene Radford
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courtyard to the colonnaded passage. Marcus rested a hand on the wooden panels, seeking. “One life force, barely stronger than the witchlight,” he whispered. “Stargods! He’s dying!” Marcus pushed hard against the door. It flew inward, banging against the wall to their left.
Robb followed closely, alarmed and ready to defend them both with spells and mundane strength. The sight that met his eyes chilled him more than the storm.
An old man, wasted to skin and bones, lay crumpled upon a stark bed that was pushed right up against the narrow cell’s wall, barely made comfortable by a thin pallet and blanket. His image flickered in and out of view, like a dragon in sunlight. His long white hair and beard were matted and yellowed with illness and neglect.
A little ball of blue/white/red witchlight nestled in a window niche high above his head. The light did not flicker or cast shadows. So why did the ancient man fade in and out of reality?
Half the time he looked as transparent as a ghost, but his chest continued to rise and fall with great effort. He hadn’t passed into the void between existences yet.
“Start a fire. He needs warmth,” Robb ordered. He thrust Marcus aside as he raced to the side of the narrow stone bench that served as a bed. “What ails you, elder?” he asked respectfully as he pulled pouches of herbs from his pack.
Marcus busied himself throwing kindling into the rusting brazier beside the bed. The room was small enough that only a little fire would heat the space nicely. He ignited the twigs and leaves with a snap of his fingers and added larger sticks as quickly as he could. At least the old man had prepared for a fire before illness, injury, or just plain old age felled him.
From the fine cut of his stylish robes and trews, Robb guessed that he had come from a noble and wealthy family. Probably a younger son grown beyond usefulness. He and Marcus would have heard of an heir or lord gone missing. After all, they had spent most of the last three years gathering the gossip of Coronnan.
“Save your medicines for yourself, lad,” the ancient waved weakly at Robb’s packets. His voice faded and grew with his flickering image. “Leave here. Quickly. This place is cursed. Don’t get trapped . . .” His breath gushed out of his chest on a dry rattle like leaves stirred in a drying breeze.
At last his form settled into the current reality, a dry husk that no longer held his spirit trapped between worlds. The witchlight died, leaving only the light from the small fire.
Robb gently closed the old man’s staring eyes. “I didn’t even have time to ask his name,” he said sadly. “I’ll hate burying him without a name.”
“At least he did not die alone.” Marcus looked up from the merrily blazing fire. A little heat spread out from the brazier.
Robb and Marcus set about straightening the old man’s limbs. When he lay peacefully on the stone bench, looking comfortable and glad that he no longer struggled through life, Robb searched his pockets for some clue to his identity. His fingers brushed against cool metal disks.
He fished one out and stared at the shiny gold. The soft metal glowed in the gentle firelight. It caressed his fingertips and eyes with an almost living color. His jaw dropped as he recognized the one hundred mark on the old-style coin. The face and inscription did not trigger any memory in him.
“Our fortune is made, Robb. He’s got dozens of gold coins in his pockets. Dragons only know how many more are stashed around this lonely monastery.” Marcus held up a handful of coins. He gulped as he, too, held them up to catch the light.
Robb’s vision fractured into a dozen bright rainbows.
The world tilted.
He fought to retain his balance, eyes focused clearly on the gold coin and nothing else. A fine veil of mist seemed to cover everything.
“The Commune can buy a lot of respectability with these. Not to mention books and equipment for the University,”
Robb followed closely, alarmed and ready to defend them both with spells and mundane strength. The sight that met his eyes chilled him more than the storm.
An old man, wasted to skin and bones, lay crumpled upon a stark bed that was pushed right up against the narrow cell’s wall, barely made comfortable by a thin pallet and blanket. His image flickered in and out of view, like a dragon in sunlight. His long white hair and beard were matted and yellowed with illness and neglect.
A little ball of blue/white/red witchlight nestled in a window niche high above his head. The light did not flicker or cast shadows. So why did the ancient man fade in and out of reality?
Half the time he looked as transparent as a ghost, but his chest continued to rise and fall with great effort. He hadn’t passed into the void between existences yet.
“Start a fire. He needs warmth,” Robb ordered. He thrust Marcus aside as he raced to the side of the narrow stone bench that served as a bed. “What ails you, elder?” he asked respectfully as he pulled pouches of herbs from his pack.
Marcus busied himself throwing kindling into the rusting brazier beside the bed. The room was small enough that only a little fire would heat the space nicely. He ignited the twigs and leaves with a snap of his fingers and added larger sticks as quickly as he could. At least the old man had prepared for a fire before illness, injury, or just plain old age felled him.
From the fine cut of his stylish robes and trews, Robb guessed that he had come from a noble and wealthy family. Probably a younger son grown beyond usefulness. He and Marcus would have heard of an heir or lord gone missing. After all, they had spent most of the last three years gathering the gossip of Coronnan.
“Save your medicines for yourself, lad,” the ancient waved weakly at Robb’s packets. His voice faded and grew with his flickering image. “Leave here. Quickly. This place is cursed. Don’t get trapped . . .” His breath gushed out of his chest on a dry rattle like leaves stirred in a drying breeze.
At last his form settled into the current reality, a dry husk that no longer held his spirit trapped between worlds. The witchlight died, leaving only the light from the small fire.
Robb gently closed the old man’s staring eyes. “I didn’t even have time to ask his name,” he said sadly. “I’ll hate burying him without a name.”
“At least he did not die alone.” Marcus looked up from the merrily blazing fire. A little heat spread out from the brazier.
Robb and Marcus set about straightening the old man’s limbs. When he lay peacefully on the stone bench, looking comfortable and glad that he no longer struggled through life, Robb searched his pockets for some clue to his identity. His fingers brushed against cool metal disks.
He fished one out and stared at the shiny gold. The soft metal glowed in the gentle firelight. It caressed his fingertips and eyes with an almost living color. His jaw dropped as he recognized the one hundred mark on the old-style coin. The face and inscription did not trigger any memory in him.
“Our fortune is made, Robb. He’s got dozens of gold coins in his pockets. Dragons only know how many more are stashed around this lonely monastery.” Marcus held up a handful of coins. He gulped as he, too, held them up to catch the light.
Robb’s vision fractured into a dozen bright rainbows.
The world tilted.
He fought to retain his balance, eyes focused clearly on the gold coin and nothing else. A fine veil of mist seemed to cover everything.
“The Commune can buy a lot of respectability with these. Not to mention books and equipment for the University,”
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