The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

sniffed again to make sure he had caught it correctly. Definitely Tambootie, but not unpleasant. Mixed with the other pungent smells of bruised grass, fragrant stew, evening dew-fall, the essence took on a haunting hint of exotic adventures rather than danger.
    “Welcome, stranger.” The Rover’s voice boomed out over the camp. He held his arms open in greeting.
    “Have you hospitality for a lonely traveler?” Jaylor asked. In ancient times when passage across the border was easy and the people of Coronnan chose to travel, there were traditions of hospitality. Jaylor presumed that Rovers still held to those old rules.
    He leaned heavily on his staff, as if he needed the stout wood to bear much of his weight. Thus anchored to the ground, the staff channeled his extended magic as he continued to scan the area with the extra senses available to him. The staff vibrated and tried to twist away every time Jaylor looked directly at the Rover.
    “The camp of Zolltarn is always open to fellow travelers.” The Rover’s loud voice filled the stream’s hollow with camaraderie. “Come share our evening meal and rest your weary bones on soft furs. In the morning we leave. Perhaps we follow the same roads?”
    “Perhaps.” Still wary, Jaylor slung his pack to the ground in front of him, keeping one hand on the strap. The other clutched his staff.
    A woman emerged from the tent. Tall and handsome, with blue-black hair, she carried a basin. She wore the tent colors, red and purple with black trim. Her skirt and petticoats swirled about her ankles. The colors drew Jaylor’s eyes upward to nearly bare shoulders and the sharp shadow of cleavage. She, too, carried the musky odor of Tambootie.
    Jaylor felt himself drawn forward to see more of her, smell more of the enticing mixture. His gaze rested on the just noticeable swell of her belly. She carried a precious life there.
    He took a step back lest his magic influence the unborn. One of the many superstitions he’d encountered on his journey claimed a magician could capture and command the soul of an infant. Jaylor knew he, personally, wouldn’t do such an evil thing. Who knew what the rogues of old had done? Rural memories, he discovered, were long, much longer than in the fashion-conscious capital city.
    His glance shifted to Zolltarn. Somewhat old to be the father. Yet the woman was none too young either.
    “My wife.” Zolltarn rested his arm about her shoulders possessively. He smiled into her upturned eyes with warmth and pride.
    Other members of the tribe emerged from the security of the garish tents. Each woman carried a bowl of food for the evening meal. All were dressed in wild color combinations similar to Zolltarn’s wife’s. Many showed the same degree of pregnancy. Jaylor reeled in the tendrils of magic that fed his senses. No point in chancing that his personality might influence the unborn.
    “From where do you hail, fellow traveler?” Zolltarn led Jaylor to a stump beside the largest fire.
    Caution, Jaylor warned himself. Rovers had a talent for reading thoughts. He couldn’t allow this barbaric chieftain to suspect he was a magician on quest. He’d come this far without violating any of the rules of secrecy that surrounded such tests.
    Except that in the last village a one-eyed derelict had called him “magician” as he left the pub.
    “Here and there. Over the next hill and beyond.” It was the truth in a way, just not the whole truth. Another of the rules on this endless journey.
    “Your accent speaks of education. Why is it you rove when you could be usefully employed? Why is it you bring with you no trading caravan when only merchants follow the roads of Coronnan?”
    “The only goods I have left are in my pack,” Jaylor said truthfully.
    “Your hair is ruddy brown, not black, your eyes are soft and your skin pink like that of a city dweller too long in the sun. You have not the look of a Rover.” Zolltarn’s eyes squinted in the smoke from the fire.
    “One roves. One looks as one looks.” Jaylor avoided Zolltarn’s probing gaze. “Was there no magician at the border to grant or deny you entrance?” he parried Zolltarn’s question with another.
    Several Rover men moved closer. Jaylor felt his armor strengthen. His magic didn’t trust these people.
    “In this forgotten corner of Coronnan? No one bothers with a border. Not since Lord Krej inherited the province, anyway.” The Rover snorted as he fingered the wicked blade in