The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

bunched together. None of them could escape the truth.
    Slippy and Lyman and thirteen others, including Zolltarn, stood straight, accepting the spell. The blue fog became a dust and settled lightly on their heads and shoulders and remained blue, intensely, vividly blue. As blue as the depths of the Great Bay in sunshine.
    Five master magicians squirmed and twisted, trying to avoid the spell. The dust of truth turned fiery green as soon as it touched them, burning the truth out of them. None of them had enough magic to escape.
    “You five, stand aside, lest your false magic contaminate the rest of us,” Jaylor ordered.
    The men in question looked to each other, looked to their former comrades, looked anywhere but at Jaylor and themselves.
    “I said stand aside,” the Senior Magician roared.
    “We haven’t done anything wrong!” the youngest of the lot, a man nearly forty, squeaked. The dust of truth burned his tongue. He opened his mouth to scream in pain, but no sound came out. Where the dust touched his skin, on face and hands, he aged decades before their eyes. His bones shrank and twisted with rheumatism. Dark auburn hair turned gray, then white and brittle. The more he protested and fought the truth, the older he grew, shriveling and dying before their eyes.
    “I didn’t think you had this kind of cruelty in you, Master Jaylor.” Darville stared at Jaylor from the doorway, aghast at the torture the man endured. The Council hovered behind him, staring mutely at the horrifying sight in the corridor.
    “ Stargods, no man should be forced to tell the truth that way.” Lord Wendray finally looked away.
    “Should I have sent them all, innocent and guilty alike, to the dungeon, and allowed mundanes to torture the truth out of them?” Jaylor allowed his anger to surface, anger at himself for throwing the spell, anger at Krej for making it necessary. “ ’Twas not my spell that caused the anguish of premature old age. ’Twas the nature of the magic they borrowed. That false power burned up their lives.”
    “Take them to the hospice. They no longer have magic of their own to escape a mundane cell, and they will need care.” Darville bowed his head in regret for the loss.
    The other four impostors stood absolutely still, not daring to protest the truth spell in any way.
    “Send a loyal scribe to their rooms to record every detail of their confession. The truth is the only way these remaining four will escape the fate of their comrade.” Jaylor lowered his staff and entered the Council Chamber, grateful to the dragons for giving him the means to expose these men. Sick with himself for having to do it.
     
    Annoyed at yet another interruption to the day’s work, Darville nodded for the breathless messenger to enter.
    An obviously nervous priest eyed Jaylor as he edged into the Council Chamber. “Your Grace, my lords.” He bowed to one and all. His eyes slid warily around Jaylor. “I have just picked up a distress call in my glass. The city of Sambol reports that King Simeon’s troops have penetrated the outlying passes, as well as the main trade road into Coronnan, and are massing to besiege the city.”
    The priest backed out toward the doorway under a bombardment of questions. “I’m sorry, sirs. I don’t know anything more. I only picked up the general distress call. It was sent out in all directions, to no one specific. A weak spell from an exhausted healer.”
    “You may return to your duties.” Darville cut through the hubbub of voices. “Troop placements. How many? Exact locations? Supply trains? I need details!” he ordered the lords.
    “Perhaps the kidnapping of your wife is for the best, Your Grace.” Marnak the Elder stood by his chair, voice level and courteous.
    “What?” Darville roared. “You think Lord Krej’s treason a good thing?”
    “You have fullfilled the treaty with Rossemeyer. Her kidnapping and slaying by magicians is beyond your control. We are now in a position to negotiate peace with King Simeon.” Marnak continued to stand behind his chair.
    “I agree,” Lord Wendray rubbed his temples. “My city cannot withstand another assault. By the time reinforcements can be sent, even by forced march, Simeon will have a clear road up the Coronnan River, to the capital. We’d be better off abandoning the queen and treating with SeLenicca.”
    “And what of the ten thousand mercenaries from Rossemeyer that are disembarking onto our mainland as we speak?”