The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

swell of the child, the other upon the woman’s shoulder.
    “Because the house was stuffy, the sun is shining, and Garvin is away for the day.”
    Good. It was just boredom and loneliness, not the compulsion that forecast an early labor.
    Energy flowed through Brevelan’s fingers, seeking the child. A personality shifted beneath the heavy folds of the woman’s clothing and the taut skin of the mother’s belly. A strong and steady heartbeat tingled up Brevelan’s fingers. The dark comfort of the womb enveloped her. A soothing world of water and nourishment rippled against her skin.
    She curled her back and ducked her head. Just before her knees bent and drew her into the same posture as the unborn, the same awareness as the babe, she clutched at her own identity and withdrew.
    “Bold and restless, strong, too. I think it’s a boy.” She shook her hand to free it of the lingering link with the child. Her back wanted to continue to curl, so she arched it in defiance. The utter loneliness of being only one person, where a moment ago she had been two, left her dizzy.
    “He’s strong, but not yet ready to come out and face daylight.”
    “How do you know from just a touch?” Maevra looked utterly amazed.
    Brevelan shrugged. “I’m a witchwoman.”
    “Don’t let the others hear you say that.” Maevra looked over her shoulder anxiously. “They may not call you that to your face, but they still make a gesture of warding.” She held her right hand tightly in her left preventing herself from initiating the cross of the Stargods.
    Brevelan covered Maevra’s hands with her own and smiled at her patient. “Give them time. They must learn to trust.” Brevelan released her hold on her patient’s hands.
    Maevra opened and flexed her fingers. “Soon, I hope. I need you with me when little Garvin is born.”
    “I will be there. I promise.” Brelevan hugged Maevra reassuringly. “Come, rest in my clearing. I’ve baked fresh oat cakes, and I think there’s still a little cider left.” She guided her guest a few paces. The path opened and revealed the entrance to the clearing.
    “I’ll never understand why this place is always hidden, unless you show the way,” Maevra laughed nervously. Her hand twitched again.
    “I don’t know myself,” Brevelan admitted. “The clearing was waiting for me when I came here last summer. It protects me and provides for me.”
    “That’s good. Then the magician won’t be able to surprise you.”
    “What magician?” Fear lumped in her throat. Had her family sent a magician to find her and take her back for judgment?
    “A wandering one. He was in the pub earlier asking questions. He was disguised, but Old Thorm saw through it. I swear he sees more with that one eye than the rest of us do with two.”
    Old Thorm, the wandering, one-eyed drunk who was always nearby when there was trouble.
    “What did Old Thorm do to the magician?” Brevelan listened to the clearing. No one came. She was safe for now.
    “Oh, you know Old Thorm, filled him with dragon lore. Then he sent the young man on a wild lumbird chase. Told him to come by way of the road. He’ll never find you.”
    “I hope you’re right, Maevra. But magicians have a talent for dropping in when you least expect them.” The dream image of a man approaching at sunset haunted her.
    Suddenly she saw the clearing from a second set of eyes. Eyes that approached from the west, the image they saw overshadowing her own. Chill dizziness swamped her senses. Her gram used to say that kind of feeling was a hand from the grave reaching out to remind you that all in this life is temporary.
     
    “Baamin always said I was more stubborn than smart,” Jaylor mumbled to himself. “I want answers, and I intend to get them. Besides, I may never again have the chance to visit with a real Rover.” The magic he’d gathered and stored as he walked quivered anxiously. He should avoid this place, these people.
    He listened to the power growing inside him for a moment. The warning was stronger than ever. Jaylor moved forward anyway.
    The lone figure of a tall middle-aged man, nearly as big as himself, appeared before him. Silver wings of hair at his temples made the black mane seem darker, oilier.
    Jaylor caught a whiff of the man almost as soon as he saw him. Musky sweat, days old, with just the faintest hint of Tambootie underneath. His instinct was to recoil from the faint scent of evil. His armor snapped into place.
    He