The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

her power. He sensed the twisting of the lock on his manacles more than heard or felt the release.
    He lay back and listened, renewing his strength and his magic. Eyes half closed, he watched for any further change.
    Her father forbade the Rover’s suit
Her mother wept a malady
They cried and they blamed ’til the rafters rang
Never could he love the lady.
     
     
    They ran away to the forest’s lure
They refused her parents pity.
But they wept and they died, alone and poor,
Ne’er to return to the city.
    The last note of the Song hung in the air, an almost visible souvenir. And then she Sang the words again. The meaning of the lyrics penetrated Jack’s weary mind. A love song. A man and a woman of different class and culture separated by loyalties and responsibilities greater than themselves. Typical of SeLenicca, the ballad was sad, pronouncing dire fates to young people who valued love over money.
    In Coronnan, the song was joyful, and full of promise for the lovers. ’Twas a song he’d like to sing for Katrina—in better times and in a better place.
    He allowed himself only one moment of poignant regret. Katrina sang it correctly. She could never love him. His life as a magician was destined to be more solitary than that of a Rover. Superstition would push him to the fringes of civilization, make him an outcast. Katrina deserved better.
    The song built an ache in his heart as the notes climbed and lingered near the top of Katrina’s range. The dark blue-green of an everblue in moonlight pulsed at the depth of her aura.
    More blue burst forth and filled the gaps. Like quicksilver, the blue energy molded and flowed up and down and around. It slid into the floor and quickly filled the gaps in the paving stones, spread and formed a network of fragile ley lines.
    Baby lines that needed love and care and nurturing to grow and fully integrate with the four elements to become part of the Gaia.
    Katrina brought her song to a close and slumped against the wall. The power of her spell vibrated in the air. Some of the glow in the new ley lines dimmed, but they continued to pulse and throb.
    “Can you see what you’ve done, Katrina?” Jack gasped.
    “I sense nothing different. Only another tremor. But this one is smaller.”
    A crash and rattle of broken shutters and cracked wooden panels above them belied her words.
    “Not smaller. You have stabilized the ground directly beneath us, for the moment.” He continued to stare at the ley lines. His need to be free called to them. One tiny flash of blue stretched toward him, like a feeder root seeking water.
    Jack stretched out his foot to touch the line. His skin crawled as if a hundred ants swarmed up his leg.
    “Ah,” he sighed in relief. He allowed the power to nourish him.
    “You can open your chains now,” he said to Katrina, still drawing the magic into his starved and battered body.
    The rocking tremor increased in intensity. The iron bars rattled. Shouts of alarm echoed along the corridor. Torches fell from their brackets and smoldered in the damp, filthy straw.
    “I think we’d better make a break for it, Jack. This room might be stable, but the rest of the city is likely to collapse on top of us.” Katrina hastened to the door, rattling it to see if the lock had sprung.
    Jack pulled one last bit of power into himself, as if drinking the last few swallows of ale after a meal. He gestured the door open and crawled to his feet.
    No part of his body was free of pain. Each breath stabbed in his chest. His vision blurred and shifted focus, spinning his head in six directions at once. He used a little of his careful store of magic to reduce the pain to manageable levels.
    “Don’t pass out on me now, Jack. We’ve got to get out of here.” Katrina hauled on his arm toward the exit.
    He groaned from the pressure on his ribs.
    The last of the blue lines withered as a nearby building collapsed in a tumbling crash.
     
    Katrina draped Jack’s right arm around her shoulders, careful not to touch his wounded left side. Witches were supposed to be left-handed—that was one way to tell a witch from a normal person. So the guards had concentrated on Jack’s left side, to weaken him further. She knew he was right-handed. Another superstition broken by fact.
    Half-dragging his weight, she stumbled into the deserted corridor. The only light came from a fallen torch and the smoking straw beneath it.
    As she watched, the filthy mess ignited.
    “You’ve