The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

queen’s household had seemed like a small temporary step upward. Temporary had dragged into a third year and approached a fourth.
    She skimmed over three more bridges on her way to the ambassador’s residence. The rushing waters between each of the city islands cleansed her of the weight of living in the palace. At the end of the next bridge, a line of heavily laden sledges blocked her way. She wove her way among them, speaking softly to the huge steeds harnessed in front of them. The placid steeds nuzzled her pockets for treats she didn’t have.
    “You’ll have to settle for a scratch,” she whispered to an animal in the middle of the caravan as she ran her blunted fingernails up and down the center of its head.
    The steed snorted and stamped with pleasure. The sounds muffled the approach of a merchant and the steed’s wrangler. Their whispered words stopped her in her tracks.
    “Do you have the poison?” the Rover-dark merchant asked the blond wrangler.
    “I have it hidden.” The wrangler touched the scrip at his waist, right next to his long dagger.
    “As soon as the ambassador gives me the diplomatic pouch, I’ll pass it to you. You’ll only have a few moments while I distract him. Then we’ll have to strap the pouch onto the courier’s chest where it will stay for the duration of the journey. The queen’s letter to her brother will be on top. The last item added. Will you be able to do it?”
    “Three drops on the queen’s seal will kill King Rossemanuel within an instant of opening the letter. He always caresses the seal as if touching his beloved sister. The poison will be traced to Rossemikka. She will be executed for murder.”
    Margit suppressed a gasp. She couldn’t let them discover her now. She had to find out who wanted to murder the queen’s brother and depose Rossemikka before she bore an heir to Darville. The delicate political balance among the Three Kingdoms would be terribly upset. Who would inherit the thrones of Coronnan and Rossemeyer?
    “Ordinary poisons might not be enough. If the boy has inherited any magic talent from his mother’s family, he could detect and neutralize it,” the merchant protested.
    “The ingredients were prepared by King Simeon’s mistress. Who knows what magic she added to the formula.” The wrangler shrugged, unconcerned. “She distilled it right after the Solstice when the coven’s rituals created some very powerful magic for her to tap.”
    “Good. Once the little king is out of the way, his younger brother will pose no problem. His health was compromised years ago by Janataea when she was governess to all three Rossemeyer brats. The coven has agents in place to name Simeon the rightful king of Rossemeyer. We’ll have control of all three kingdoms before the year is out.”
    Margit slid behind the huge sledge steed. Who did she tell first? How could she keep the queen’s letter out of the diplomatic pouch? Her first thoughts flew to Marcus, the journeyman magician who took her reports whenever he wandered into town.
    No time for that. She had to summon Jaylor with a candle and a glass. No time. Ambassador Kevin-Rosse expected her. He could arrest these assassins. Unless he was part of the plot. He and Queen Rossemikka rarely agreed on anything, especially Rossemeyer’s limited involvement in the war against SeLenicca.
    Who could she trust?
    Only herself.
    A smile crept across her face. “I’ve never practiced the invisibility delusion on anyone but Mama. Maybe it’s time to see how well it works on strangers,” she said to the steed. The animal nodded its massive head as if in agreement. Probably only a beg for more scratches. Margit complied as she thought out her plan.
    Three minutes later she replaced the tiny vial in the wrangler’s scrip. He didn’t react to her presence at all. Now the vial contained only plain river water.
    She had leisure now to reveal the plot to Jaylor, and only Jaylor, on the next full moon when she summoned him.
     
    “Look, there’s the queen!” Iza tugged on Katrina’s sleeve to watch the processional. The lacemakers and other factory workers had been given a day away from their work to celebrate the third birthday of Princess Jaranda.
    “Queen Miranda does not look well,” Katrina observed. Tight lines of fatigue and worry creased the hereditary monarch’s eyes. Though barely two years senior to Katrina, the queen looked much older. Her body was too thin; her four plaits pulled so tight