The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

could accomplish any task the masters set for him, as long as he could work the spells his own way. It was only when they forced him to limit his work to traditional methods or join his magic to another’s that he faltered. Over the years he’d learned to fake traditional spells. Most of the time he got away with it. The times he was caught had cost him promotions and the right to pursue his master’s cloak.
    But he was on quest now. All he had to do was figure out the riddle of Old Baamin’s command. His master wouldn’t have given a single task, no matter how farfetched. Something else was cloaked in the wording.
    “Go see a dragon.” A dragon was invisible, so he’d have to use his magic sight. What else was he supposed to see while looking for a dragon?
    This quest was turning into one of those incredibly boring story problems that were cloaked in archaic symbolism. Jaylor hated those tests. He always failed because he couldn’t blend traditional spells with ancient language, or he looked at the problem from a twisted angle and saw too much.
    The wine finished, he sent the cup back to the University. Not to the cellars. To the kitchen, where it could be washed and returned to its proper place.
    He wished he could see the faces of the scullery drudges when the cup appeared on the counter. Would they tell Baamin? Serve the old wire-puller right if they did. Let him stew over the whereabouts of his least favorite student.
    Jaylor stretched again. His leather journey clothes creaked with dirt and hard use.
    The sun was still above the horizon, though the air was not truly warm this early in the season. The creek burbled happily, swollen with snow melt. Jaylor shivered in the light breeze. Just perhaps he could wash off some of the travel dirt from his shirt and body.
    Another sip of wine, perhaps, to help him decide. Wine. If he could transport the wine why not a tub of hot water? He stirred his brain into trance mode.
    No, he was still tired and drained. He might need some strength when he confronted the witchwoman and her familiar. Those old crones knew non-magical tricks that could fool some of the best master magicians.
    Perhaps just a basin of hot water and some oil to condition his boots and trews. From Baamin’s private bathing chamber? The old man wouldn’t be there now in the middle of the afternoon. So why not?
    As soon as the thoughts formed, a basin of steaming water, perfumed with sweet stellar petals, appeared before him along with a small flask of oil from the pantry. He set them in the nest of tangled roots that had been his bed.
    The wash worked wonders on his mind and body. He’d forgotten how light and free one felt when newly clean. The restorative power of a wash was worth the drain on his magic.
    Invigorated, he sent the basin and the flask back—to the kitchens. In his mind he watched them settle onto the washing counter. Returning his used vessels to the kitchen was his signature. By tonight the entire University would know that Jaylor was alive and well. They’d think he was back in the capital instead of nearing the southern border.
    Baamin had taught him to hide his tracks, if nothing else.
    He chuckled and set his staff on the road. As soon as he stepped away from the protective branches of the oak, the hairs on the back of his neck stood straight up. They almost hummed with tension. Was someone from the village following him?
    He extended his senses around him.
    Nothing. Whatever followed him was gone, or just the product of his imagination. He shouldered his pack and set the staff back on the path of his quest.
     
    “Is that where it hurts?” Brevelan gently probed the huge paw of the golden wolf. He whimpered slightly and tried to withdraw the limb she held. She had no fear of the long teeth he kept muzzled.
    “It’s never quite healed, has it, Puppy?” He whined again and rested his head on her knee. His golden eyes looked up in adoration. A low moan, the canine equivalent of a purr, erupted from the back of his throat.
    Ever so gently, Brevelan continued to probe the paw while she hummed a little tune of her own making. Her song rooted out the sore spot and soothed it. The golden eyes drooped in contentment.
    “You old faker!” she exclaimed, but continued to rub the paw. “You limped in here just so I would give you some attention. With her free hand she ruffled his ears. The energetic caress roused the wolf from his near slumber. His tongue caressed her