The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

Simeon a dragon-dream to lead him astray?”
    (He is immune to the visions we weave, as are all descendants of Hanassa.)
    “Simeon was born in Hanassa, son of the exiled princess of Rossemeyer,” Jack sighed. He’d been born in Hanassa, too. Why wasn’t he immune? His Rover blood perhaps?
    The dragon didn’t offer any more explanation.
    “Shayla must be able to fly away before the next solstice.” Jack recognized the growing need within him to confront the power-hungry king who had brought so much pain and suffering to the Three Kingdoms. “I will deal with The Simeon when I have healed Shayla and seen her safely home,” he promised himself.
    Halfway down the stairs, a sense of vertigo overtook him. The smell of woodsmoke on the wind and the rising sun over hilltops dumped him back into the dragon-dream he had experienced three years ago, the first time he had met the unnamed blue-tip. He sniffed the air, agitated that the fire might sweep down Shayla’s valley and destroy her refuge as well as the pristine beauty of the place.
    “I have been here before. In my first dragon-dream.”
    (’Tis friendly fire.)
    “Friendly?”
    (’Tisn’t wild.) The chuckle behind the mental voice stopped Jack more than the command.
    “Explain, please.” Jack continued to stare out across the hills, seeking the source of the fire and the presence of the strangers who approached.
    (Villagers slash and burn to clear fields for planting. Not the most efficient means, but all they know. They defy The Simeon’s policy of exploiting the land for export. That way leads to starvation for all—human, animal, and plant life. These people begin to work the land, to nourish it with crops and with their toil. A friendly fire can be the beginning of life.)
     
    “Margit! Damn it, girl, where are you hiding?” Darville yelled as he carried Mikka to their bed. “Margit!”
    Mikka moaned and clutched her belly.
    “Easy, my love. I’m getting help.”
    “Why now?” Mikka sobbed. “Why must I lose the baby now. I carried her so long, nearly five moons.” She clung to her husband, not letting him leave her on the bed.
    “Margit!” Darville gently disengaged Mikka’s hands where they clutched his tunic. He rubbed at the raw wound in his left arm, newly aggravated by carrying Mikka from her solar where she had collapsed in a pool of pain and blood.
    A sneeze betrayed Margit’s arrival before she spoke. The only time the girl didn’t sneeze was when she was out of doors.
    “Yes, Your Grace?” Margit dipped a curtsy as she skidded to a halt in the doorway. She breathed heavily as if she had run from the cellars.
    “Summon Jaylor and Brevelan. We need them now. Hurry, girl.” He shoved her toward the alcove where she slept.
    “What? What am I supposed to do?” She turned big innocent eyes on him, gray-blue and wide as the Great Bay.
    “I haven’t time for your deceptions, Margit. I know you are Jaylor’s apprentice and summon him on a regular basis. Now do it again. We need Brevelan here. The queen will lose the baby if she doesn’t get here quickly.”
    “How’d you know, sir?” Margit asked as she fumbled with a firestick to light the candle. Frustrated by her hurry, she snapped her fingers and brought flame to the wick.
    “I’ve been dodging Jaylor’s tricks and magical pranks since I was fourteen. I knew he had a spy around somewhere. You’re the most logical person.”
    “Yes, sir.” She closed her eyes a moment. When she opened them again, they were slightly glazed, looking through her tiny shard of glass into far distances.
    “Darville, she mustn’t. It’s not safe for Brevelan to come,” Mikka protested weakly from the center of the bed. Her face had no more color in it than the white pillow slips.
    “I don’t care. Brevelan is the only healer I trust to help you. If anyone can save you and the baby, ’tis her.” He didn’t dare think about the possibility someone had slipped her another abortive, deliberately murdering their baby.
     
    “Shayla, can your brats . . . um . . . children sing?” Jack gently pushed an inquisitive green-tipped youngster away from his pack. The dragon extended his lower jaw in a good imitation of a pout.
    As fast as he separated one baby dragon from the packs, another breathed fire on the coals and burned the warming remains of last night’s dinner. One of the purple-tipped dragonets scooped up a mouthful of water from the chuckling stream that ran through the