The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

inept choice. “Only Jaylor the bumbler would pick a straight staff,” claimed Robinar, the acknowledged leader.
    “Don’t you know that a magician’s staff is supposed to be twisted and gnarled?” the youngest of the journeymen reminded him.
    “A magician’s staff is an extension of his personality. A straight staff means a boring magician with no skill,” chimed in another young man.
    Jaylor allowed their words to roll over him. His anger simmered just below the surface. He’d never been very adept at magic. But he knew he’d cut the right staff. This piece of wood fitted him. It felt right in his hands.
    Tomorrow they would all separate. Their master’s quests would take them to the twelve provinces of Coronnan. Just once, just this once, Jaylor needed to prove himself in their eyes.
    He planted the staff in front of him and gripped it tightly as he closed his eyes. With a deep breath, he dropped into the lightest of trances. In his mind he was in the wine cellar, a place none of them had ever visited but each knew intimately through magic.
    First one cup, then another and another filled with the richest of wines. Seven cups for seven journeymen.
    His fellow students stopped laughing when they found themselves balancing the brimming cups. And not the rough pottery mugs reserved for students. These were Baamin’s own glass cups. Precious glass reserved for only the highest ranking officials in Coronnan.
    “Laugh at me again when you can perform such a spell!” Jaylor raised his cup in toast. “To seven new master magicians.”
    His companions raised their cups in silence, their eyes fixed upon Jaylor’s staff.
    The once straight grain of the wood had begun to twist. . . .
    By the end of Jaylor’s quest, the staff had become more plaited and gnarled than any of the staves carried by his class of journeymen. Each spell he threw had shaped the tool to become a true reflection of the character of his magic.
    Jaylor was the only one of the seven to live long enough to achieve master status. Krej had seen to that.
    Now he was so weak, his wife had to lend him magic for the simplest of spells. Why bother trying?

Chapter 6
     
    “H ere, kitty, kitty, kitty,” Darville coaxed. He rubbed his fingers together as if he held a tidbit. His back bent into a very undignified crouch on the docks.
    “Your Grace, surely you can assume a less . . . ah . . . um . . . a straighter pose while awaiting the ceremonial barge. What if your new bride should see you with your bum in the air?” Sir Holmes moved to stand between Darville and the crowd that lingered on the dock with them.
    “The barge will sail when the Guild of Bay Pilots decrees and not one heartbeat sooner,” Darville grunted. “Come, Mica. Come, my pretty kitty.”
    “Niow.” Mica turned her back on Darville and scooted farther under the jumble of dockside cables and crates. She made it clear that she wanted nothing to do with barges and docks or anything that touched the unpredictable tides and mudflats of the Great Bay.
    “Come, Mica!” This time Darville tried a direct command. Mica pressed herself farther into her hiding place.
    “Your Grace, we don’t have time to wait on the whims of your cat,” Sir Holmes reminded him of his duties. “The ambassador is already displeased that the Princess Royale must enter Coronnan by way of Syllim Island like any other immigrant. We can’t afford to be late. Such an insult could negate the treaty before it is ratified.”
    “Tell that to the s’murghing pilots. They hold the key to the maze of currents.” Darville straightened from his doubled-over position and dusted off his knees. “Mica probably isn’t a very good sailor. She can meet the princess later. What is the girl’s name again? Something unpronounceable.”
    “Rossemikka. Ross-eh-mick-a, sir. All of the royales carry the honorific ‘Rosse’ as part of their name. Officials of the government add it to the end of their names when they take office. I’m told by the ambassador’s valet that the family calls her Rosie.”
    “Rosie, huh? Are there roses in the bouquet I’m to present her?” Darville adjusted his gold brocade tunic to fit smoothly over his chest and shoulders. The s’murghing court garment hadn’t been designed for crouching and stretching to grab an errant cat.
    “I believe most of the flowers on the ceremonial barge are roses, Your Grace.” Sir Holmes sighed and looked longingly back to the palace. “Or magic