The Silent Dragon: Children of The Dragon Nimbus #1 (16 page)

CHAPTER 23

A
GASP CIRCLED THE GREAT HALL, moving from one mouth to the next without break, like the circular ripples fanning outward from a rock dropped into the river.

Linda stepped back from the archway in dismay. Miri and Chastet caught her retreat and pushed her forward once more.

“They’ve seen us. We have to follow through,” Miri admonished her.

The laughter of derision thrives on embarrassment;
Linda remembered her mother’s lessons in court etiquette.
By quietly ignoring those who wish to make you look beneath them, you rob them of fuel and they have nothing left to laugh about.

“I have to do this. I
can
do this,” she said to herself. Twice. Then a third time to firm it up in her mind. Then she lifted her chin, kept her eyes level with the tapestry across the room and took her first step forward into contention for her rightful place as her father’s heir.

Murmurs followed the pattern of the gasp, rippling around the room in ever increasing waves of sound.

Her parents turned to see what had caused such a stir among the nobles and their followers. M’ma raised her eyebrows and sketched a slight curtsy to her, with the right depth and inclination of head the queen should afford an honored child. No more, no less. Then she turned back to face the court with a smile on her face.

One obstacle surmounted.

P’pa, on the other hand, scowled mightily, the corners of his mouth trying to attach themselves to his shoulders; the furrow above his nose pulled his eyebrows inward and downward until they nearly met as they might on a wolf muzzle. Did his queue bristle like a wolf’s tail when scenting the unknown? His keen gaze and expression gave her a deeper impression of wolf that had sighted its prey.

She tripped over the weighted toes in her low boots. Chastet caught her elbow until she steadied. To cover her stumble, Linda whisked the be-feathered cap off her head, swept it before her and bowed low over her arm, extending her right foot forward, as she had seen other young men do when approaching a higher ranking noble.

P’pa nodded for her to rise. She did so slowly, replacing the cap on her scraped-back curls. It landed slightly askew. She left it at the odd tilt to avoid fussing, like a girl.

“Not exactly how I expected you to appear when formally presenting your brother,” P’pa said. His expression returned to neutral. Only the storm that darkened his golden eyes betrayed his true emotions.

Linda braced herself for orders to return to her dressing room and come back only when properly attired.

But M’ma was biting her cheeks to keep from laughing.

Linda’s heart lightened as her mother beckoned her forward to stand beside Glenndon. She did so, keeping a wary eye on her father.

Glenndon, Stargods bless him, didn’t seem to notice anything untoward. Girls wearing boy’s clothing might be the norm out in the wilderness of the University of Magicians for all she knew.

“Be grateful we didn’t order dancing tonight,” M’ma said under her breath.

“That would upset ranking and protocol to no end,” P’pa replied with a glimmer of easing in his scowl.

The herald standing at P’pa’s right blew his long trumpet. The banner bearing the de Draconis crest of a dragon outlined in iridescent white on a light green ground—giving the impression of transparency—with a darker green and gold background proclaimed to one and all that the king had entered the room. “Lords and Ladies of Coronnan, Darville de Draconis, king by the grace of the dragons, and his lady, Queen Rossemikka, are pleased to present to the court their heir, Prince Glenndon de Draconis, and the Princess Royale, Rosselinda Kathleen Mirilandel de Draconis,” he said in his stern voice that projected to the far corners of the great room, even into the musicians’ balcony above them.

All the lords and ladies, their younger family members, and retainers bowed or curtsied as one as they faced the royal family, whispers and scandalized gasps swallowed.

“Princess Rosselinda, please escort Prince Glenndon to the court,” M’ma said. She turned challenging eyes upon P’pa who merely nodded, once, curtly, the storm in his gaze still raging.

But this was court. Neither he nor M’ma ever,
ever
betrayed by any gesture or expression anything but what they wanted the court to know. Family arguments remained within the family.

Linda had no doubt arguments would rage later. Until then, she had a job to do.

“Brother?” she turned her most vivacious smile on the silent boy. Then she bent her head and gestured for him to accompany her around the room, side by side. He towered over her, nearly as tall as their father, but he matched her stride, step for step, neither pushing himself forward nor drifting behind. Though she thought he might prefer to do the latter.

“Lord Andrall and Lady Lynnetta, allow me to present Prince Glenndon, my father’s son,” she said formally. “Lady Lynetta is P’pa’s aunt,” she added more quietly. Glenndon should know the family tree, but she wasn’t sure how much his other family had taught him.

Glenndon bowed, a bit awkwardly.

“Not so low.” Linda nudged him. “You outrank them.”

Glenndon straightened with a bit of a wiggle, uncertainty in his face and posture.

“Welcome to the family,” Lady Lynetta said loudly. She glanced around to make sure the gathering listened. She didn’t spend much time at court, leaving that chore to her husband, but when she did come, her senior status and closeness to the king meant that lower ranking ladies
always
listened to her. Then she placed her hands gently on Glenndon’s shoulders and reached up to kiss his cheek. “I’ve wanted to meet you for a long time. Soon we must sit down and catch up. I knew your Da a long time ago. I like to think we were friends before the unpleasantness caused the magicians to withdraw.”

Leave it to Lady Lynetta to gloss over a governmental crisis and turn it into a mere unpleasantness.

“Welcome,” Lord Andrall said heartily. He too embraced Glenndon in that brusque way that men almost hugged and touched cheeks.

Glenndon breathed a bit easier as he looked to Linda to lead him to the next lord in line.

According to seniority and rank that should be Lord Laislac, a widower who had a different lady—never a wife—on his arm at each meeting. This one was closer in age to his fifty-plus years than most. Unfortunately they were on the far side of the room, almost hiding behind several junior courtiers and whispering madly behind hands that effectively covered their faces. To march over to them would be . . . awkward at least. That left Lord Jemmarc and his son Lucjemm eagerly pressing closer.

And who was the young woman behind them, barely sixteen if a day, very close in age to Lucjemm, and almost cowering, with shoulders hunched and hands wringing? She was dressed in a rich gown of faded red and gold brocade with multiple layers of fine lace in three different patterns at cuff, neck, and hem that could have been worn by Rosselinda’s grandmother decades ago. It hung loosely around the girl’s waist but crammed her bustline into too tight a fit. Obviously not new and not made for her. Someone must have dragged it out of storage at the last minute for her to wear tonight.

Linda looked more closely at the way Lucjemm sidled away from her, a step before his father. Jemmarc hung back just a bit from his son, trying to include the girl in the deep bow he offered Linda and Glenndon.

Linda kept her nod quiet and slight. By all protocols set forth ages ago, the young woman should be presented to the queen before anyone. By offering first introduction to herself and Glenndon, Jemmarc did them both high honor in acknowledging one or both of them as heirs. She wanted to preen at that. But . . . if she accepted the introduction she showed disrespect for her mother.

On the other hand she showed disrespect by garbing herself in male clothing.

On the other hand . . .

Lucjemm obviously did not want himself associated with the lady. His eyes lingered on Linda and flashed with admiration.

Her heart did a silly little flip. She relaxed her shoulders and stood taller, grateful for
his
approval.

“Who do we have here, my Lord Jemmarc? A new face at court is always refreshing,” M’ma said coming up behind Linda and Glenndon. P’pa stood right beside her, still scowling whenever his gaze drifted to Linda.

Linda released the breath she hadn’t realized she was holding.

“My niece, Your Grace. Newly come from the country,” Jemmarc said on a deep bow. “My sister’s stepdaughter, Graciella.”

The young woman sank into a proper curtsy, never lifting her eyes above her hands.

“Welcome, child,” M’ma said. “Visit me tomorrow at the third hour after noon. We shall take refreshment and discuss your role at court. You will join us, Princess Rosselinda, properly attired for the occasion.” M’ma took P’pa’s arm and aimed them both to the other side of the Great Hall.

Linda gestured Glenndon in the opposite direction. He lifted an eyebrow in question, a smile playing with his mouth. In that moment he looked exactly like P’pa when trying not to laugh at an inappropriate joke.

“Yes, it is always like this,” Linda grumped to Glenndon. “Always a dance of politeness trying to sort out who outranks whom and who gets to say what before anyone else.”

An image of a dozen blue-robed men standing in a circle yelling at each other flashed across her mind’s eye.

The same,
Glenndon said. Whether it was mind speech or a whisper she couldn’t tell. But he smiled, banishing his perpetual anger, and turning his face and entire demeanor into that of a handsome and charming young man.

Behind them, Miri and Chastet sighed deeply, the first sign of them both falling in love.

The challenge of staying one step ahead of either or both of those two made Linda laugh. She took his arm and steered him toward Lord Bennallt, Miri’s father. An interesting game to find out if he’d smile upon or forbid his daughter chasing the Crown Prince.

CHAPTER 24

G
LENNDON SUPPRESSED A YAWN and scrubbed the sleepies from his eyes. Midnight. The court had finally retired, leaving him exhausted yet unable to sleep. The events of the past few days, his mission, the tension among the courtiers jockeying for place and rank, spun through his mind in endless possibilities for disaster.

And then there were the enticing flirtations with Lady Miri and Lady Chastet . . .

He needed to do something positive while his brain sorted things out behind his surface thoughts.

Ley lines and the Well of Life tugged at him. Hunting them out was something he could do. Something he
had
to do. Now was as good a time as any.

He thought through a refreshment spell, willing new energy into his aching back and tired legs. Instantly the stones of the wall behind his room tapestries jumped into new vividness. The mortar in all its discolorations took on new meaning. This line of stones matched too evenly. The white binding material seemed missing. He traced the outline of a door with his fingertip, sensing the emptiness behind it.

Further examination with his fingertips and enhanced eyesight showed him that one stone on the left, about waist-high, protruded barely a finger’s width out from the others. He pressed the flat of his palm on it hard, and winced at the grinding noise as it moved on long-unused pivots and became stuck less than halfway through its rotation.

One, two, three,
he counted silently, holding his breath, waiting for someone to come investigate the noise. Six more counts and all remained silent. He didn’t wait any longer and slipped through the narrow opening. The stone barely brushed the tapestry that hid it. At first glance, anyone looking into his room would not notice the opening.

The moment Glenndon stepped onto the staircase landing he sensed ley lines waiting for him. A surge of energy through his feet seemed almost like a joyous greeting from a long-absent friend. He wiggled his bare toes against the stones in reply. No need for the torch that rested in its bracket beside the door, along with flint for lighting the oil-soaked rags. (Who did the king trust enough to keep the torches fresh and viable? Probably Fred and no one else.) The tendril of silvery blue at the bottom of the stairs enticed him forward, giving him more than enough light.

He skipped downward, running his hand along the wall, memorizing the texture and degrees of dampness. On the last stair before the tunnel the line led him elsewhere as his fingers caressed an imperfection. He paused, tracing the indentation. Right, down, left, cross, spikes atop a swirl into a spiral. A rune. Part of an ancient alphabet found only in the oldest of writings about magic. A rune that meant someone royal. His room was among the family apartments. A signpost to help him find his way home.

The silvery blue line wiggled impatiently. He stepped upon it and felt his magical talent blossom. His body wanted, no, needed, to throw a spell, any spell to bind him to this ley line once and forever.

Did he dare? Were the witchsniffers still about to sense the presence of magic? Would they even be able to sense a little spell this deep beneath layers and layers of stonework?

His duty as a magician was to test them, to learn how far their talent extended.

Light.
A glow ball appeared in his hand. The ley line dimmed in the contrasting light. Still it shone for him, leading him onward through the maze of tunnels.

He strode forward watching for more runes. He found access to the queen’s suite, and a branch from it to the king’s quite readily. Of course they would have easy exits in time of trouble. Linda’s room branched from his own staircase. Manda and Josie had a room shared with a governess off the same primary steps. Farther on he found a circular rune that he did not recognize. He’d explore that one another time. For now he needed to see where the widening ley line led him.

The path descended, first a gentle slope and then stairs descending deep into bedrock. The weight of the air changed as well. He thought he left Palace Isle and was now under the river.

His lungs labored to draw in air. Acres and acres of river water weighed down on him. If any of the stones and dirt gave way . . .

He scurried back the way he’d come, despite the widening and deepening of the ley line. Another time, when he was less tired, less prone to his fears. Perhaps, less alone.

“What are you up to, Jemmarc?” Darville asked the air.

The lord in question paraded around the practice yard with his “niece” Graciella clinging to his arm as if she needed his strength to stand upright. She wore another heavily brocaded gown today, this one of simpler cut without all the extra trim weighing it down. This one fit her better, but was still a design left over from a century ago. At least.

Linda’s bold trews and tunic last night would have been more appropriate for the mud and sawdust of the yard enclosed by a split-rail fence. Jemmarc should have left Graciella in one of the palace rooms overlooking the yard, even if all of those rooms were occupied by servants. Ladies did not generally like being too close to the cursing, sweat, and occasional blood that spilled in this arena.

Except Linda, who seemed to thrive in the masculine atmosphere.

“It looks to me like he is setting the girl up to become his next lady,” Linda muttered beside him. Today she wore normal girl clothes, a roughly woven but sturdy skirt and bodice with tight-fitting sleeves on her snowy white shirt. The loose cut of the skirt meant that, if necessary, she could loop up the length of it in one hand while she wielded a sword in the other.

If she chose. But they also broadcast her intent to leave the rough swordplay to the men today.

“You may be right, Linda. But the girl would be a more appropriate wife for his son Lucjemm,” Darville mused while testing the balance and flexibility of the sword he’d chosen from the rack for a teaching session. While going through the motions of preparation, he let his gaze wander, noting every man, soldier and courtier alike who had descended upon the yard.

“Why don’t you go charm the frown off of Lucjemm’s face,” he suggested. The look they exchanged said there was a lot more to his request than simply lightening the young man’s mood.

Linda nodded—too willingly for her contrary nature—and eased her way around the outside of the fence. She made her progress look casual, greeting this person, commending that squire, pointing out features of a new armor design. Darville trusted his daughter to worm any information from the junior lord there was to have. Her mother had trained her well.

But why was she almost eager to speak with him? Darville suddenly felt as if he’d missed something vital. Something Mikka would have noticed and he should have.

Before she reached Lucjemm, the double door to the armory burst open from the inside. Glenndon stood in the arched portal blinking in the sudden sunlight. He wore an ill-fitting breastplate, gorget, and greaves, with a sword belt and empty sheath fastened around his slim hips. He looked angrier than Lucjemm.

Linda paused in her progress and furrowed her brow at the boy. Her shoulders started reaching for her ears even as her spine stiffened. She harbored a lot of resentment.

Darville would have to work with both his children. Or throw them into a dungeon cell together and let them work it out on their own.

“Good morning, Prince Glenndon,” Darville called to him. “Come and select a weapon.”

The boy stomped across the yard, pulling at the ill-fitting armor.

“Tell me what’s wrong,” Darville asked quietly.

Glenndon turned deep blue eyes up to meet his, a gaze so similar to his mother’s the king wanted to step back. He could have been looking in a mirror of himself at that age, except for those eyes—keen reminder of his first love and what they had meant to each other long ago. He knew well how age lines began to tug at the corners of his own features, how comfort and good food had begun to fill in the hollows and soften the angles on his own face. And yet . . .

“Tell me what displeases you, Glenndon.”

A grimace, a shrug to ease the straps of the breastplate, and a defiant chin were the only answers offered.

“Can’t help you if you won’t say the words.” Darville turned his shoulder to his son while he ran his gaze across the line of blunted swords. Linda hadn’t been this difficult to deal with, and by all covenants and conventions she should have had no interest in weapon play.

She had moved to stand beside Lucjemm.

“Doesn’t say much, does he,” the young lordling sneered loud enough to be heard across the entire arena.

“He doesn’t need to. I understand him when he truly wants me to,” she replied diffidently. “Better to observe and learn than blurt out words just to fill an awkward silence.”

Darville wanted to applaud her. His heart swelled with pride at her wisdom and her defense of the newfound brother she resented and disliked.

“Come, Glenndon, here’s a sword that should suit your strength and reach.” He presented the grip of the sword he’d tested earlier to his son over his crooked arm. His heart swelled with pride that he finally had the chance to show off his son to the men he worked and trained with nearly every day.

Glenndon hesitated, staring at the weapon as if it were one of the legendary six-winged vipers. His eyes grew big, pupils contracted, eyebrows reaching for his hairline.

“I know this isn’t a blade you are familiar with. Take it. It won’t eat you, or flame you.” Why was the boy so hesitant? Hadn’t he ever worked with a sword before?

Off to the side, Darville glimpsed Linda stiffening as the other men in the arena all paused to watch the interplay of father and son, teacher and pupil, king and heir.

Glenndon shrugged. He did that a lot. His face relaxed into a half-grimace of resignation. Slowly he lifted his left hand and took the end knob in three stiff fingers. The weight of the thing seemed to surprise him as he dropped it into the scuffed dirt at his feet. Then he just stood there, shifting his distressed gaze from sword to king and back again.

“
S’murghit!
Pick it up, Glenndon.” Darville wanted a stronger curse, would gladly have spewed one, except that Linda stood ten paces away, taking in every word and gesture.

She’d heard worse when she trained here, disguised as a boy.

Glenndon obediently bent to retrieve the sword, again holding it awkwardly with his fingers. When he stood upright, the weapon dangling dangerously over his foot, he looked at Darville with questions in his eyes.

Now what do I do?

Darville almost heard the words. Maybe he only interpreted the boy’s posture and expression.

“Didn’t your Da . . . Senior Magician Jaylor teach you anything about weapons in that University?” Darville’s voice rose in frustration. “An opponent on the battlefield would have run you through by now.”

Glenndon half-smiled and tilted his head.

“
S’murghit!
At least show him how to hold a weapon before you expect him to fight with it. You gave me the courtesy of private lessons until I could match any squire in the arena,” Linda said in exasperation. She gathered her excess skirts in her left hand and tromped over to stand beside her brother. “May I show you a proper grip?” she asked Glenndon with suitable protocol.

“Never take a weapon from someone unless you intend to use it on them. Always ask,” Darville quoted the rulebook of blade etiquette. “And where did you learn that word, Princess Rosselinda?” As if he didn’t know. He scrunched his face in displeasure, as much at her vocabulary as being reprimanded by his own daughter in the practice yard.

She rolled her eyes at him, as only a girl just blossoming into womanhood could show disgust at an elder.

He felt useless as a parent, as a man, beneath those oh so superior eyes. His pride had gotten in the way of good sense. Of course the boy had no need to learn swordplay. He had other weapons. Many other weapons. Some of them blades, but all small, balanced for throwing.

“You taught me how to grip a weapon the first day. Why do you presume he already knows how?” she yelled back at him, head and chin thrust forward, a mirror image of his own posture of defiance.

“He should know . . .” Darville tried to defend himself, knowing it was a hopeless gesture. The girl had learned command from her mother after all.

“Why?” She kept her gaze on Glenndon’s hand, folding it correctly round the grip.

“Perhaps I’d be an acceptable tutor, Your Grace,” Lucjemm offered with a crisp bow. “Though I am not nearly as experienced or talented as yourself, my memory of my first day in the armory is more recent. And I expect less from him.”

“Good idea. Do it. Report progress to me often.” Darville stomped off, pride in his son deflated, expectations shattered, and patience unraveling.
S’murghit,
he knew the boy had no training. Darville had to teach Jaylor rudimentary swordplay. Why should Jaylor have taught his son? S’murghit! He’d have to answer to Mikka for this, and find a way to appease his son.