The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

shape-change.” A second harpy joined Janataea. Thick of body, with dangling human genitals, ugly in the black skin of the creature.
    Lord Krej.
     
    “What is happening?” Jaylor was already breathing deeply, preparing a spell.
    “I don’t know. Mikka is in danger!”
    The room swirled around them in a blinding rainbow. Cold. Deathly cold, not of this world, blasted his body.
    Black nothingness.
    Sensation returned with blinding speed. Darville collapsed to the carpeted floor. The Council Chamber wasn’t carpeted. But his apartment was.
    He looked up, fighting the dizziness. Double images wavered and blurred, then righted within his brain. Jaylor paced, seeking and sniffing, seemingly unaffected by the rapid transport.
    Darville searched the bed, where he had reluctantly left Mikka sound asleep. The sheets should have been rumpled and stained from their night of loving. The soft fabric had been slashed by a bloody knife. Rich tapestries hung in tatters around the bed. His note was shredded. And so were the pillows. Feathers littered the room. The fresh rose he had so lovingly placed beside his bride was wilted on the floor, crushed, as if ground beneath a vindictive foot.
    “Mikka? Stargods! Where is she?” Darville scooped up the remnants of the flower. Its scent cloyed at his senses.
    “Violent magic swept through this room, moments ago.” Jaylor continued to pace the room. Each step moved him faster. Each sniff pinched his nostrils whiter.
    “Mikka?” An emptiness yawned in Darville’s middle, blacker and more desolate than the void.
    “I can find no trace of her.”
     
    Brevelan sang a transparent bubble of gentle armor around herself and Glendon. “Such a hungry baby.” She fondled his tiny head.
    For a few moments, while he nursed, he was quiet and content. Their rocking chair seemed to find the rhythm of her tune and her heartbeat by itself.
    “You are so special, my son. So wonderful,” she cooed within her song.
    The empty peace of her clearing in the southern mountains beckoned to her. She longed for Jaylor to finish his business in the capital so they could return to the quiet isolation of her home.
    Jaylor had changed her entire perception of herself and her magic. With his love to support and nurture her, she could face the swirl of confusing emotions that beat at her armor in the city, without allowing them to swallow her whole. But it was hard work. She didn’t know how long she could maintain control, and nurture her baby, too. Oh! How she longed for her clearing.
    “Tall trees, Glendon. Lots of tall trees and soft ferns. A stream for fresh water and a bathing pool warmed by hot springs. The garden gets bigger with every season. There’s more than enough there to satisfy us. You and me and your father. Just the three of us.”
    Glendon kicked and cooed as he nursed. She focused on her infant son and the emotions he broadcast so loudly.
    Hunger. Sleep. Hunger. Too hot. Hunger. Too cold. Hunger. Hold me. Hunger.
    Such a demanding baby. Barely a full day old and already he had grown. His personality was beginning to assert itself long before most infants. This was one life Brevelan could not separate from herself. Not for a long time, anyway. By absorbing his needs into herself, she could almost overlook the crowds of emotions that pressed against her careful control.
    She caressed the downy head of hair and sang a stronger wall of armor. This was a special time with her son. A private time for creating lasting bonds of love and interdependence.
    Women had sung this kind of magic for aeons without understanding the power they held. A gentle tune while stirring the stew blessed the meal. A lively whistle while hanging the wash ensured the sunshine through the afternoon. And tunes hummed in rhythm with a rocking chair, while nursing or mending or knitting, wove protection about the hearth and home.
    All women had magic in their songs. But men, especially the isolated and often celibate members of the Commune, would never recognize it as magic.
    Glendon interrupted his greedy feeding to stare into Brevelan’s eyes. Unfocused, uncertain, he sought something/ someone that eluded him. He returned to his meal. If Brevelan didn’t know better, she would think he was less satisfied with her milk than he had been a moment ago.
    Since the night of Baamin’s last summoning spell, when a strange and disturbing Presence had invaded the clearing, Brevelan had sensed her baby seeking, seeking,