The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

had seen the magical bolt of blue fire that caused Miranda’s steed to rear and bolt. All who had seen knew who had launched it. No one dared accuse the king, or the king’s black-haired, outland mistress. Such an accusation was an invitation to a torturously long death. Iza had returned to the lace factory from Simeon’s dungeons, with numerous bruises but no broken bones. Her mind drifted aimlessly and she spoke no more. She still wound bobbins and straightened pins, the chores of a lifetime not easily forgotten.
    Surprisingly, Brunix continued to allow her to live in the dormitory despite her growing clumsiness.
    The populace returned to their neglected temples with apologies and prayers and offerings. The Stargods were benevolent. Simurgh would not restore their queen and depose the bloodthirsty king. The Stargods might.
    New candles on the altar cast flickering shadows on the walls of this tiny and nearly forgotten chapel. The geometric shapes, carved into the stone, faded in and out of visibility with each shift of the light. Katrina peered at them until her eyes burned.
    The motifs in the lace shawl’s flower centers were the same runes that decorated this wall, variations of the limited ledger language. She’d studied the lace shawl often enough to know the symbols by heart. Three runes out of the hundred displayed resembled the words for illegal trade; none of the others were familiar.
    What did they mean? No one understood this ancient language anymore. Tattia Kaantille must have known something of it, or she wouldn’t have included the runes in the shawl. A message or merely an unusual twist in the design?
    Surely not the latter. The runes were interesting and in a different motif could have been lovely. The flowers surrounding the runes were too soft and flowing to support the hard angles and straight lines of this forgotten alphabet.
    An ancient priest wheezed as he slipped out from behind the little altar. He wobbled past Katrina to replace the sputtering candles on the stand at the opening to the chapel. His threadbare robes had once been fiery green, but the dyes had faded with time and too many washings to muddy brown.
    “Excuse me, good sir,” Katrina whispered to the priest. “Do you know anything of these runes?”
    “Eh?” He bent toward her, cupping an ear with his hand.
    “The runes.” She pointed to the chiseled markings. “Do you know what they say?” She raised her voice a little. Hope of a discreet inquiry and quick answer faded.
    The old priest turned to face the wall, peered at the ancient writing, and shook his head. Then he bent closer, holding his lighted taper right up against the markings.
    Sigils flared bright red against black stone as if gathering life from the flame. Seemingly random nines in a distinctive geometric pattern leaped away from the wall burning their image into Katrina’s mind. The same symbols, in the same order as the ones Tattia used.
    Katrina’s eyes widened in surprise and excitement. The old priest backed away from the wall shaking his head. “I’m sorry, daughter. I can’t see well enough anymore to read this wall.”
    “But you know something of the ancient alphabet, perhaps something of the old prophecy? Did you read the wall for my mother three years ago?” She rose in her eagerness to get to the bottom of this puzzle.
    “Knowledge of the runes has been forgotten by most. Best you spend your time and energy praying for the queen.” The priest wandered off again.
    “Maybe the knowledge has been forgotten, but you read the wall, old man. I’ll find the truth yet.” She turned to follow, eager to pursue her questions in a more private place.
    “A word, Mistress Kaantille?” A stranger restrained her with a whisper.
    She knew that voice! The man who had offered her freedom for the shawl. The shawl had a message. For this man or another?
    “Stay away from me.” She backed away from him until the low altar rail pressed against her thighs.
    “I can offer you freedom and passage out of SeLenicca in return for the shawl. Your mother promised it to me three years ago. But she died before she could give it to me. I have searched long and hard for it. And for you, Katrina Kaantille.”
    “The stranger who offered to buy the shawl? M’ma refused your offer. Why should I accept it?”
    “Your situation is more desperate now. Your M’ma refused my first offer. Later, she promised to bring it to me. I waited for her until dawn on the