The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III by Irene Radford Page B
Authors: Irene Radford
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had.
“Why did you request that the Commune release me from my important studies for this visit?” Bessel asked Maydon after a long moment of hostile silence.
“Book learning never served anyone but greedy magicians. Besides, she asked for you.”
“Then I’d best go inside and see her.”
Neither man moved.
“Aren’t you going to use your s’murghin’ magic to force me to back up?” the one-legged man challenged his son, never letting his contempt lessen in his voice or posture.
“No.”
“Why not?” Surprise loosened Maydon’s fierce grip on his crutches a little.
“I won’t contaminate my mind or my honor by touching your ugly thoughts,” Bessel replied. He wanted to believe that his family had become hostile toward Bessel’s magic talent because they didn’t understand it. They’d never encountered a magician before, other than the Battlemages attached to the armies that periodically pillaged the mines and the village.
“Watch your mouth, boy. I’m your da, your family.”
“You ceased being my father the night you threw me into the teeth of a winter storm to fend for myself.” For the first time, Bessel noticed that his father’s stocky frame, formerly rotund, had wasted to tough sinew and bone. His eyes looked too bright, and an unnatural flush rode high on his cheeks and brow. His hands were swollen where he clutched the crutches.
The once substantial stone home looked as frail and neglected as its owner. But then, Maydon had always considered his job as accountant for the mines a poor second to working the mines themselves, even though the job brought in a great deal more money—enough to build this house for the family.
“Did you know I was captured by outlaws?” Bessel continued. Bitterness nearly choked him. “They had a magician of sorts with them who wrapped a spell around me so that I couldn’t use my magic to escape. Did you know that those outlaws used me as their toy for two weeks until I was sold at auction?” He clung to the warm memory of Nimbulan marching into the outlaw camp and outbidding all the others for the right to exploit Bessel’s talent, to enslave him, and abuse him.
But Nimbulan hadn’t exploited anything. Instead he’d given Bessel the love and understanding to use his talent wisely. Nimbulan had become more of a father to him than Maydon had ever been.
“Only what you deserve, Magician,” Maydon spat the title, staring at Bessel, lips pursed so tightly they lost all color.
“Maydon, come quickly,” a woman called from inside the house. “Maydon, she needs you.”
Bessel recognized his aunt’s voice. Baarben had lived with her brother’s family for as long as Bessel could remember. He bit back a cry of welcome for the woman who had been as much a mother to him as his own mother.
Maydon stepped back into the house. His expression of fierce rejection of his son faded into anxiety.
Bessel followed him, being careful not to touch his father. They hadn’t touched since the day Bessel had used his magic to free his father from a mine accident. The heavy rocks and timbers that pinned Maydon had cost him his leg. But Bessel had saved his life.
Maydon had declared that without the leg he wasn’t certain he had a life. He’d blamed Bessel and the boy’s cursed magic talent for saving him.
Every time Bessel remembered what outlaws had done to him, he wished he hadn’t levitated beams and rocks from his father’s leg, hadn’t made it possible for the other miners to rescue him.
The moment Bessel passed the doorframe, a strange smell stopped him short. He should recognize it. What? The memory escaped him, slipping in and out of his mind like a dragon. One moment it was there, almost tangible, and then the light shifted and it was gone.
He hesitated to enter the house until he understood the smell. Something told him it was dangerous.
The sound of his aunt’s loud weeping finally drew him inward.
The smell intensified as he neared the
“Why did you request that the Commune release me from my important studies for this visit?” Bessel asked Maydon after a long moment of hostile silence.
“Book learning never served anyone but greedy magicians. Besides, she asked for you.”
“Then I’d best go inside and see her.”
Neither man moved.
“Aren’t you going to use your s’murghin’ magic to force me to back up?” the one-legged man challenged his son, never letting his contempt lessen in his voice or posture.
“No.”
“Why not?” Surprise loosened Maydon’s fierce grip on his crutches a little.
“I won’t contaminate my mind or my honor by touching your ugly thoughts,” Bessel replied. He wanted to believe that his family had become hostile toward Bessel’s magic talent because they didn’t understand it. They’d never encountered a magician before, other than the Battlemages attached to the armies that periodically pillaged the mines and the village.
“Watch your mouth, boy. I’m your da, your family.”
“You ceased being my father the night you threw me into the teeth of a winter storm to fend for myself.” For the first time, Bessel noticed that his father’s stocky frame, formerly rotund, had wasted to tough sinew and bone. His eyes looked too bright, and an unnatural flush rode high on his cheeks and brow. His hands were swollen where he clutched the crutches.
The once substantial stone home looked as frail and neglected as its owner. But then, Maydon had always considered his job as accountant for the mines a poor second to working the mines themselves, even though the job brought in a great deal more money—enough to build this house for the family.
“Did you know I was captured by outlaws?” Bessel continued. Bitterness nearly choked him. “They had a magician of sorts with them who wrapped a spell around me so that I couldn’t use my magic to escape. Did you know that those outlaws used me as their toy for two weeks until I was sold at auction?” He clung to the warm memory of Nimbulan marching into the outlaw camp and outbidding all the others for the right to exploit Bessel’s talent, to enslave him, and abuse him.
But Nimbulan hadn’t exploited anything. Instead he’d given Bessel the love and understanding to use his talent wisely. Nimbulan had become more of a father to him than Maydon had ever been.
“Only what you deserve, Magician,” Maydon spat the title, staring at Bessel, lips pursed so tightly they lost all color.
“Maydon, come quickly,” a woman called from inside the house. “Maydon, she needs you.”
Bessel recognized his aunt’s voice. Baarben had lived with her brother’s family for as long as Bessel could remember. He bit back a cry of welcome for the woman who had been as much a mother to him as his own mother.
Maydon stepped back into the house. His expression of fierce rejection of his son faded into anxiety.
Bessel followed him, being careful not to touch his father. They hadn’t touched since the day Bessel had used his magic to free his father from a mine accident. The heavy rocks and timbers that pinned Maydon had cost him his leg. But Bessel had saved his life.
Maydon had declared that without the leg he wasn’t certain he had a life. He’d blamed Bessel and the boy’s cursed magic talent for saving him.
Every time Bessel remembered what outlaws had done to him, he wished he hadn’t levitated beams and rocks from his father’s leg, hadn’t made it possible for the other miners to rescue him.
The moment Bessel passed the doorframe, a strange smell stopped him short. He should recognize it. What? The memory escaped him, slipping in and out of his mind like a dragon. One moment it was there, almost tangible, and then the light shifted and it was gone.
He hesitated to enter the house until he understood the smell. Something told him it was dangerous.
The sound of his aunt’s loud weeping finally drew him inward.
The smell intensified as he neared the
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