The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

armor should any menace greet him.
    “At last!” A very pale Margit grabbed his arm and pulled him through the tangle of gowns and scarves that cluttered the cabinet. Worry creased her brow.
    Jaylor turned back to give Brevelan assistance through the wardrobe. The presence of twins in her womb made her bulkier and more awkward than usual.
    His eyes sought Mikka and Darville as soon as Brevelan planted both feet on the carpeted floor. Mikka lay on the bed, pale and unmoving. Darville knelt beside her, holding her hand as if he could will his strength into her.
    The queen’s rich gown of rusty-brown silk revealed only the barest traces of the baby she had carried almost five full moons. The neckline dipped considerably lower than most thought modest, almost to the nipples. She was so proud of her pregnancy, she had reverted to the fashion of her home country, Rossemeyer. Among the desert dwellers who knew death’s constant presence, a woman’s breasts were considered a symbol of life. Mothers were granted the privilege of exposing their bosoms.
    “At last. Brevelan, you’ve got to do something. Save her. Please!” Darville released his wife’s hand and began pacing around the bed with his characteristic restlessness. His golden aura spread outward, swirling with the red and indigo of suppressed energy and serious thought.
    Jaylor retracted his armor a little at a time while he watched Darville. Brevelan opened her satchel before she reached Mikka’s side.
    “Hot water, Margit. Fresh linens, and bowls to mix some potions. This isn’t going to be easy. Maybe you’d be more useful keeping inquisitive courtiers out,” Brevelan said to the maid. She rolled up her sleeves as she took Mikka’s wrist, examining her pulse.
    Margit left quickly, with a sigh of relief.
    “She’s afraid of cats,” Jaylor whispered to Darville.
    Concern shadowed Brevelan’s eyes. She looked up at Jaylor and gestured for him to take Darville away.
    “We’re in the way, Roy.” He guided his reluctant friend into the anteroom. Only Fred waited there, standing guard by the door. “Leave us, Fred. And keep everyone away. The king and queen need privacy.”
    The sergeant nodded and retreated. Quickly he brushed tears from his eyes before closing the door behind him.
    “About time you two showed up,” the king muttered. “I think someone poisoned Mikka to make her miscarry.” The black linen sling, dyed to match his clothing, hung limply about his neck. Over the last three years, the support for his injured arm had become an accepted part of his wardrobe, almost a badge of honor. The constant pain had taken its toll on Darville. Much of his joy in living had faded. He no longer resembled the bouncy young wolf Brevelan had rescued from a snowstorm. He had become an impatient, prematurely old king.
    “Who would do such a heinous thing?” Jaylor asked. Immediately his armor snapped into place. He lowered it deliberately to allow his TrueSight to seek traces of an alien presence.
    “I don’t know! Margit found traces of an abortive in her porridge a few days ago. Everything she eats is tested before she puts it into her mouth.” Darville ran his hand through his mane of golden hair, forcing himself to deliberate calm. “We had word of a Gnul plot. I thought we’d taken care of them.”
    “The coven also has access to obscure poisons.” Jaylor decided the rest of that story could wait.
    Silence hovered between the men. The easy silence of long friendship. Even after three years of separation, the old companionship bound them together.
    Darville flexed and moved his injured arm stiffly up and down, trying to restore movement and circulation.
    “Sit down, Roy. You’re making me nervous. I’ll get you some wine.” Jaylor pushed his friend into the nearest chair.
    “No. I need all my wits about me. This isn’t the first miscarriage. But this one is more dangerous. She hasn’t been well.” He ran his hands through his hair again. They met resistance at his queue restraint. He ripped it off and flung it into a corner.
    “I’ve had reports.” Jaylor handed him a cup of wine. “Drink. You aren’t helping Mikka when you’re near to hysterics.”
    Darville sipped at the cup and put it aside. He returned to rubbing his arm.
    “Does it itch?” Jaylor asked. “That’s usually a sign of healing.”
    “I irritated it carrying Mikka in here from the solar. Fortunately she was alone. None of her women will summon a mundane