The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

Brevelan’s unease. She was content with the presence of the Rover woman.
    Brevelan looked a little closer, trying to penetrate the redolent miasma. Her tongue flicked out to taste it. With the flavor embedded in her tongue, her ears opened to hear a strange incantation from the center of the protected bubble. The Rover woman’s magic was triggered by Song and by herbs, just as Brevelan’s was.
    “That smell makes me hungry enough to eat one of your meatless stews,” Yaakke remarked behind Brevelan. He and a staff that was already beginning to twist blocked the foreigner’s exit into the alley.
    “How did you get here?” Brevelan asked. Too many strange emotions flooding her system left her only mildly startled at the boy’s appearance.
    His hunger radiated from him, engulfing her. Her stomach growled in sympathy. The baby kicked and squirmed in protest. He, too, was as hungry as the apprentice.
    “Same way you and Jaylor got to the University.” Yaakke shrugged and winked.
    Then Brevelan looked at the boy, really looked at him. His eyes were blank with fatigue and his cheeks hollow, as if he hadn’t eaten in weeks. The first time she had seen Jaylor, he’d been in the same condition.
    “We’ve got to get out of here. All of us.” Brevelan didn’t realize she had spoken until she heard the words.
    “How?” Darville asked her without taking his eyes or his dagger away from the square-bearded foreigner. “The bridge is down and Jaylor’s on the next island with our boat. The currents swept us away from every landing. I had to swim the last channel.”
    “I can tell Brevelan how to transport us,” Yaakke volunteered. At least he hadn’t offered to throw the spells himself. As exhausted as he was, such a stunt would end in disaster.
    “No!” Darville protested. “Brevelan can’t endanger herself or the baby by working any more magic than necessary.”
    The baby kicked in agreement.
    A pair of blacker than black eyes peered out from behind the garlic armor. “What you thinking, throwing magic while baby yours grows within?” The accent and syntax were pure Rover. The garlic-flavored armor shifted to include Brevelan and Yaakke. Brevelan’s spell dissolved.
    “What? Who are you?” Brevelan and Darville asked in unison.
    “Healer I be. Baby asks my help. Curious he. Wants out to come and see what do we.” The old woman reached a gnarled and trembling hand to the swell of Brevelan’s stomach. “Almost time.”
    “Not yet, not for two more moons.” Brevelan tried to back away from the strange woman’s touch and her own fears left over from the premature labor triggered by Shayla. The circle of magic and Yaakke’s young body stopped her.
    “She only means to help, Brevelan. She won’t hurt you.” Yaakke held her shoulders with comforting confidence.
    “Boat have I. To safety you I take.”
    “Her name is Erda,” Yaakke interpreted. “But we won’t all fit into her boat. She wants to take the princess with her, too. His Grace and I can take my boat.”
    “How do you know all this?” Darville asked.
    “Just listening . . . sir.”
    Respect for any elder, other than Baamin, had always been difficult for Yaakke. Brevelan allowed a moment of surprise that the boy had used any title at all in addressing his prince.
    “I won’t go anywhere with you, Darville,” Rosie finally spoke.
    “Nor will I,” square-beard added. He raised a fist and smashed it against the unbreakable wall of magic. He continued to beat at it with increasingly frantic blows. “I can’t stay here. I’ve got to get the girl away from the capital. He’ll send me to the mines if I fail!” he wailed.
    The old woman looked up from her examination of Brevelan to glare at the foreigner. “Choices, none you have, minion of the sorcerer king,” Erda spat. “In boats, my men take all. Zolltarn likes not intrusion in territory his.”
    “Zolltarn!” Brevelan and Darville gasped together. The last time they had run into the king of the Rovers, he had attacked them and deliberately shattered Jaylor’s staff at the behest of Lord Krej.
    Suddenly, the crowd in the market square swelled in numbers. All of the newcomers wore black trews and vests, red or purple shirts, and multicolored scarves tied closely about their heads, the uniform of Zolltarn’s clan. The tall, black-haired chieftain strode forward, sliding through Erda’s armor as if it were nonexistent.
    Zolltarn fingered the tiny metal earring Darville