The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

bride.
    Princess Rossemikka surveyed the room in all her majestic glory. Her long, multicolored hair was drawn into a braided coronet atop her head, emphasizing her long neck and graceful shoulders, as well as the extremely deep plunge of her bodice.
    True to the custom of her people, the edges of her scarlet gown just barely covered her nipples and swelling breasts, then separated to a vee pointing almost to her navel. A thin lace of silver thread bound the gown together. Brevelan wasn’t sure how the girl could keep the dress up, let alone float toward Darville’s outstretched hand without tripping.
    Silver embroidery on the red silk picked out images of plants and creatures from the high desert plateau in a wide band around the hem. A kahmsin eagle, the fierce hunter and protector of its young was symbolic of the warriors bred there and exported to fight the wars of the world. The barbed tumbler that never set down roots, but thrived on the arid volcanic soil, so like the nomadic herders of Rossemeyer. Swirls of thread represented the ever-present wind. And other images Brevelan couldn’t recognize.
    Draped over the whole, crown to toe, as a token of modesty to both cultures, was a veil of spun silver.
    The couple stared at each other for long moments as the gathering waited in silence. Silence that stretched, grew impatient, and gave way to soft rustlings, throat clearings, and whispered comments. And still Darville stared at his princess. Love pulsed from them in ever widening circles, isolating them. They were two, soon to be one. No one else needed to exist.
    Brevelan ducked her head to the sleeping baby in her arms. A tear dropped to the blanket covering his head.

Chapter 26
     
    I laugh . I laugh at these stupid mundanes . They know nothing of the drugs they push at me. I can smell the antidote, even before Krej slips it to me.
    So easy a remedy. Why did Maman wait until someone within the coven needed an antidote before giving us the recipe? A little of the blessed Tambootie. A lot of eel oil. Some garlic and common kitchen herbs. All bound together with black sand from the volcanoes of Hanassa. Our intense magic has penetrated even to the harsh soils of our land.
    A look of fear, a scream of pain as they strip me and rub the witchbane into my skin, and they believe I am cured of magic. They could have put the drug into plain water or wine and poured it down my throat to make it work faster, less painfully.
    But no, they had to take their pleasure in torturing me, titillating their perverse senses by pushing their noxious and useless compound into every pore and orifice on my voluptuous body.
    I will endure the pain and Krej’s laughter. I will endure because I will triumph over their petty punishment. They cannot know that the energy of the pain they inflict will feed my power. They have forgotten that witches of old used the pain and death of slaves as a source of magic.
    They will learn what real torture is, before this night is through. My coven is with me. We will have our vengeance. Darville will never have the chance to father the child that will unite the kingdoms. Another will have that privilege. And then I shall kill them all. The pain they suffer before I allow them the release of death will endure through the ages, feeding yet more magic for generations to come.
    The mundanes and traditionalists withdraw. They believe me powerless. Even the magic barrier is taken from this prison cell.
    Fifteen minutes of loud weeping to lull their senses. They still hear the weeping. They still see my naked, shivering body within the prison cell.
    I laugh. I laugh as I walk past their dicing guards. From behind, I smite the idiots with a lightning bolt. In the interest of time, I allow them to die quickly, without pain.
    Rossemikka will be under my control again before dawn. And just to show them how weak they truly are, I shall have the babe as well. Magic is strong in him. He will bolster the coven as soon as he comes of age. He already recognizes me. He won’t even miss his mother.
     
    Jaylor opened one eye and peered at the door through his crusted eyelids. The raucous knocking that had awakened him sounded again. And again.
    Behind the closed door to the bedroom, a baby cried hungrily.
    “My lord?” a strange voice pleaded for entry.
    “Lord? Since when am I a lord?” Jaylor muttered and rolled over. He pulled the pillow over his head, trying to block out the sounds that assaulted his too short