The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

from the ridgepole. A golden wolf stood in the comer of the flag.
    Darville’s personal emblem. The presence of the king explained the other three banners. None of those lords would be willing to remain idle in the palace when there was a chance to kiss royal ass in the field.
    The tent flap opened and a shadowy figure slipped out into the fresh night air. A tall man, broad of shoulder, slim of hip, stretched and yawned. King Darville. Jaylor’s best friend.
    As Jaylor watched, the king walked to the perimeter, speaking with each of the guards. Darville’s personal contact with his soldiers had won their loyalty and made him a better general.
    Why would Darville bring his army within two days’ ride of where Jaylor and the Commune hid from the Council of Provinces?
    Jaylor yawned and stretched. He couldn’t think straight until he’d indulged in some much needed sleep. Darville would never deliberately harm him. Time enough to puzzle this out in the morning.
    He thought of Brevelan’s warm body and inviting arms. Already he ached to hold her tight against his chest and sleep with her sweet scent filling him with her serenity and calm.
     
    Hilza coughed and coughed again. Katrina looked up from her newest lace pattern to check her sister. Hilza’s thin body collapsed jerkily with each new spasm. Dots of sweat popped out on the little girl’s brow though the workroom was icy. The kitchen fires that heated the whole house had been extinguished right after a meager breakfast of thin porridge, in order to conserve firewood.
    Hilza coughed again, nearly choking from lack of breath. Maaben dropped her tablet of figures and dashed out of the room, slamming the door behind her. Distantly, Katrina heard the front door bang shut. She knew that Maaben would seek refuge from the stress of little food and less heat, of sickness and short tempers, with Tante Syllia and Oncle Yon. Their relatives welcomed Maaben, fed and cosseted her, where they rebuffed the rest of the family. King Simeon’s displeasure with P’pa had extended to anyone seen assisting the Kaantille family.
    Tears streamed down Hilza’s face. “I can’t help it, Katey. I can’t stop coughing. Why does Maaben blame me?” She choked out the words around a raspy throat.
    “I don’t know, Hilza.” Katrina cradled her youngest sister against her chest, rocking her gently, humming an old lullaby to soothe her.
    All is quiet, all is still,
Sleep, my child, fear not ill,
Wintry winds blow chill and drear,
Lullaby, my baby dear,
Wintry winds blow chill and drear,
Lullaby, my baby dear.
     
    “Maybe Maaben is afraid,” Katrina cooed to her now quiet sister.
    “She hates me,” Hilza whispered around a sniffle.
    “Hush, little one. Hush.”
    Let thy little eyelids close,
Like the petals of the rose;
When the morning sun shall glow,
They shall into blossom blow,
They shall into blossom blow,
When the morning sun shall glow.
     
    “P’pa is trying to raise more money. He’ll come home tonight with bundles of firewood and a fat chicken for our dinner.” Katrina’s mouth watered at the thought of meat, so long absent from their table.
    “And M’ma?” Hilza murmured drowsily.
    “M’ma has made a wonderful lace shawl for the queen. If Queen Miranda accepts the gift, then M’ma can go back to work at the palace.” M’ma had worked the shawl with weaving silk, a thread much heavier than most lacework. Yet the fibers worked up to appear filmy and frothy. If M’ma started a new fashion trend, then she would be in demand to design more shawls and maybe veils. The Kaantille family would be rich again.
    “But the queen may not like the gift,” Hilza protested. She partially roused from her sleepiness but didn’t raise her head. The cords of her neck stood out rigid and hard under Katrina’s caressing fingers.
    “She must accept it, little one. No one makes lace like M’ma does. The shipments of lace overseas are fetching less and less money since M’ma left the palace. Queen Miranda has to take M’ma back.” She hoped.
    The lace factories had stopped buying M’ma’s designs. She’d falsely promised exclusive rights to the patterns once too often.
    The front door slammed again. A heavy reluctant thread on the steep stairs. That would be P’pa. If his steps dragged, then his mission had failed. There would be no chicken for dinner.
    Another step behind P’pa. This one springier and lighter. A stranger. The door to the workroom