The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

time. If the mundanes could see Brevelan and her children, they’d never again believe that witches couldn’t bear children. That was an action he dared not allow.
    Jaylor smiled anyway. Brevelan’s dragon-dream was coming true. Shayla had promised her a clearing full of healthy children. In the vision, the oldest boy was as blond as King Darville, all the rest as red-haired as their mother.
    Jaylor’s eyes automatically searched the clearing for blond Glendon, now three, and his redheaded brother, Lukan. The boys were rolling around the freshly tilled kitchen garden, wrestling with a wolf pup. As usual they were filthy, healthy, and laughing.
    “We have been blessed, Brevelan.” He patted the evidence of their new child. A tingle of awareness shot up his arm. The child was already asserting its personality.
    “Twins this time.” Brevelan sighed happily. “Girls.”
    “What! I thought this was to be another boy. Next time is supposed to be twins. Dragon-dreams don’t lie.”
    “We make our own future, dear heart. This time we made twins,” she laughed at him and with him. “Gossip from the capital says that Darville is much better since he learned to sign his name and wield cutlery with his right hand. He’s learning to live with the pain. His wound isn’t worse,” she continued happily.
    “If the boys don’t find Shayla and heal her, then Darville will always have a useless left arm,” Jaylor reminded her. Memory of Darville’s situation sobered the bubbling joy of impending fatherhood.
    He and Darville had wrestled in the mud as boys, much like Glendon and Lukan. They’d been happy and healthy then, blond- and auburn-haired, just like Glendon and Lukan.
    Yaakke had spent his childhood as a kitchen drudge, without much happiness, love, or companionship. Jaylor wasn’t sure why his thoughts turned to his lost apprentice. Sending two journeymen off on the same quest as Yaakke must have reminded him of the boy’s failure.
    Had the wild fluxes of a maturing body caught up with his unbounded magical talent? If so, perhaps he was better off dead. The massive, uncontrolled powers unleashed in such circumstances must have been lethal to Yaakke’s spirit as well as his body.
     
    “I am reluctant to authorize a full-scale invasion of SeLenicca, Andrall,” Darville informed his most trusted Council member. He paced the small retiring room behind the Council Chamber.
    “ ’Tis sound military strategy, Your Grace,” Andrall reminded him. “We control both ends of the pass through the mountains. Our position will be reinforced if we hold more territory on their side of the border.”
    “The battle mages we employ at the front fear there is not enough magic in SeLenicca for them to protect our troops from Simeon’s mages. I would give a fortune to know where they get their power! Besides, invasion will put us on the offensive. If we keep to defensive resistance, we have leverage in convincing other countries to honor the trade embargo against SeLenicca.”
    “The Council of Provinces intends to push for an invasion, and override your veto if necessary, Your Grace,” Andrall whispered, though no one had access to this room except through the empty Council Chamber.
    “I need something to bargain with. Something that will . . .” Darville stopped in mid-sentence. A shift in the tapestry that separated them from the main room alerted him to the presence of an eavesdropper. Both men stood absolutely still, hands holding ceremonial short swords at the ready.
    “Ahem, Your Grace?” Fred called from the main room.
    Darville relaxed and thrust aside the wall hanging. “Yes, Sergeant?”
    “I have someone important for you to interview, sir.” Fred clamped his mouth shut and stared pointedly at Lord Andrall.
    “You can trust His Lordship, Fred. Who claims my attention now?”
    “The spy, sir.”
    “Which spy?” There were so many, in SeLenicca, in Rossemeyer, in the households of his lords, at the front . . . He dared not trust anyone these days. Not with the Gnuls gaining influence with the Council and the Council paying people to spy on himself and Mikka.
    “The one we sent from Sambol last year, sir. The one who knows about cats . . . dead cats.”
    A frisson of alarm ran from Darville’s spine to his hands, making him itch to wield his sword. If ever he needed Jaylor’s counsel, it was now. How did he deal with people who left gutted cats in places where he was likely to find them? The