The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

quivered in fear.
    A low chuckle drifted to her perked ears. “When entering the presence of a lady, a gentleman always asks permission.”
    Rosie decided to trust his politeness. “Then you may enter.”
    “Through a locked door?”
    “You are a magician.”
    “That is true.” The bar across the inside of the door lifted easily and the lock turned by unseen hands.
    Rosie gasped as the massive panels of hard oak swung open on silent hinges. She wanted to protect herself with one of the gestures she’d seen used whenever a magician passed. But she didn’t know the rituals, didn’t know if they worked.
    Framed in the doorway was a man about her own height, with a round face and a twinkle in his blue eyes beneath massive white eyebrows. His robe was the same color as his eyes and was much too big for him. He almost tripped over the hem on his first step forward.
    Baamin looked up and down the corridor, then hitched the middle folds of his cumbersome garment higher through his belt of golden rope. He strode confidently toward her, only to trip again on an uneven tendril of fabric.
    “Dragon dung! Oh, excuse my language, Princess. I haven’t had time to commission a new garment.” He fussed with the blue wool again to hide his blush.
    His embarrassment warmed Rosie’s heart. How could a man with such an inviting smile and humorous eyes be evil?
    Unless all of his actions were a charade designed to lull her suspicions.
    The smell of beta’arack permeated the man’s skin and clothes. A smell almost welcome in its familiarity.
    “Have you come to punish me for . . . for . . . the scenes I made today?” Rosie hung her head, not wanting this endearing old man to be the one to lock her in the tower. Maybe that was not deemed punishment here. Maybe she would be thrown into the churning river.
    “No, Princess. We do not punish people here for being afraid.”
    Rosie sensed the coils of compulsion traversing the gap between herself and the old man. Her head reared up in instant fear. She retreated from the magic toward her hiding place against the wall.
    “I have come to find the root of your terror and see if we can banish it.” The compulsion vanished. “Perhaps you ran from the cat because you do not know what wonderful companions they can be.” His voice invited her to confide in him. He reached a trembling, age-spotted hand to her in friendship.
    Rosie shook her head in denial.
    “Perhaps we should sit. This old body tires easily these days.” He dragged a light, armless chair from the corner and set it at an angle to the padded chair beside the fireplace. “I may not sit until you do. ’Tis court protocol.”
    Rosie edged toward the chair, uncertain if she should trust him or flee. The door had been left politely ajar. She could run. But where? She chose to sit, curling her legs beneath her.
    “Now tell me, Your Highness, what do you like about our fair country so far?” His tone was fatherly, inviting her to be candid.
    “Nothing.”
    “Oh, dear, dear me. That is very unfortunate. Are we so much different from your home in Rossemeyer?” Baamin reached across the narrow gap separating their chairs to pat her hand.
    Rosie started to withdraw from his touch, as she would with any stranger. Then, at the last moment, she allowed her hand to remain in her lap. He covered it with his warm, dry palm. His skin was callused and cracked with age, but his touch was gentle, ever so gentle and reassuring.
    “Everything smells wet. The river is too big and too close.” Rosie wrinkled her nose.
    “I understand Rossemeyer is very dry.” He reached into his robes and withdrew a flask that smelled of the familiar distillation of the treacle beta from Rossemeyer. He offered her a sip. Rosie shook her head. He took a long swallow and continued, “Your few rivers are narrow and irrigate only small areas, I hear. Rain falls but once or twice a year on the plateaus.”
    Rosie shrugged instead of commenting.
    “Once the winter rains begin here, they won’t stop until next summer. Damp does terrible things to an old body. I don’t like the wet either, Your Highness.” Another swig from the flask, and he put it away. If she could gain access to that flask, she could insert the poison Kevin-Rosse had given her. But did she really want to?
    “Your gown is lovely, Princess.” His words took on a lulling quality. “The color is very like your eyes. The chair’s upholstery is a shade darker, as if it were made