The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

sleep. He nearly fell off the cot he had set in front of the hearth. Brevelan had been sound asleep long before his duties were finished last night and he hadn’t wanted to disturb her or the baby.
    From the sounds coming from the bedroom, his wife and son hadn’t slept any more than he had. The blasted brat had cried for nourishment most of the night. So what difference did it make where Jaylor parked his body after Darville’s wedding?
    “Master Jaylor, the Commune requests your presence immediately.” The voice was sounding anxious.
    Jaylor figured he’d best answer the door before someone broke it down.
    Slowly he unfolded his body, wrapping the blanket around his naked middle. “Coming,” he yawned. The baby cried again. Jaylor’s hearing leaned more toward the bedroom than the corridor.
    An apprentice stood in the dark hallway wringing his hands. His eyes were wide with fear and awe, and more than just a little confusion.
    “What?” Jaylor asked sharply.
    “Master Jaylor, the Commune is in session. You’ve overslept and missed most of the discussion.” The boy looked away from Jaylor’s bare chest. He stammered and shuffled his feet as well. “And, sir, the council also requires you to sit in Master Baamin’s place. They don’t dare disturb the prince . . . er . . . the king, sir.”
    Jaylor groaned. So this is what it meant to be Old Baamin’s heir. No sleep, no peace, and rival authorities demanding he be in two places at once.
    What he wouldn’t give to be able to do just that! With a hearty breakfast to fuel his body and the dragon’s trick with a transport spell, safer than Yaakke’s, he just might be able to appear to do that.
    “Send me food, lots of it,” he dismissed the apprentice.
    “And on your way to the kitchen, fetch Yaakke to me as well.” Nothing like a few surprises to keep Commune and Council off balance until he figured out what they wanted.
    He knew already what they wanted—Zolltarn out of the seat in the Commune he now claimed. That was probably the only issue the magicians would unite on this day.
    A knock sounded on the door again. Jaylor thrust it open in his fatigue-ridden impatience.
    His breakfast tray hovered at eye level. Bread, cheese, mush, and ale. Lots and lots of ale.
    Someone in the kitchen knew how to fuel a magician’s body against the stresses of long sessions with Commune and Council.
    Interesting that the platter contained no meat. Jaylor hadn’t eaten meat since his first encounter with Brevelan. Dragon magic, like the dragons themselves, required massive amounts of animal protein for fuel. Solitary magic, on the other hand, drew power from Kardia Hodos herself. Mixed plant proteins gave him energy now, flesh just weighed him down.
    Who in the University understood this already?
    Jaylor made a mental note to grant that servant a raise.
     
    Mikka arched her back and stretched her arms over her head. A languid yawn escaped as she felt the smooth sheets of her marriage bed caress every inch of her naked body. A faint ripple of enjoyment, deep in her center, reminded her that Rosie still lurked behind her consciousness. Mikka was learning to live with that. As long as the cat’s persona didn’t erupt without warning, she was in no danger.
    She stretched her left foot across the wide bed to caress Darville’s naked leg. Instead of hard muscle and springy hair, she met only more and more of the sheets. One eye popped open and scanned the expanse of empty bed. On the pillow opposite her lay a rose and a note.
    Smiling, Mikka lifted the fragrant flower to her nose. Blood red and smelling of desert winds and roaring rivers. How like Darville to choose a rose from her own country as his first gift to his bride. Rossemeyer had reclaimed the desert in the deep river valleys. And on the high plateaus they cherished the freedom of the wind.
    The note was scrawled hastily, almost unreadable. Something about the Council. Oh, well. She’d been raised to understand the demands placed on a ruler. Her training for her position as queen and chatelaine had been extensive—until Janataea had intervened. Mikka knew what was expected of her.
    Palace Reveta Tristile had not had a chatelaine for many years—not since Queen Rebakka, Darville’s mother, died nineteen years ago. Mikka wondered who had been in charge. The servants were obedient and food arrived hot and on time, so someone must give orders. There was no time like the present to find out who ran