The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

her.
    “Traditional magic is bound to Coronnan and can only be worked for the benefit of the kingdom. The dragons see to that.” He pushed aside one of the overhanging ferns. Once again the scent of elf-leaves whispered across their senses. “Magicians can combine and build stronger magic, but again only to make the kingdom safe. That is how the magic border was established and maintained. And how the rogues were exiled. A rogue works on his own, for his own benefit. I don’t know where they find the magic. But each one must work as an individual. No one magician is stronger than the Commune and the ethics enforced by it.”
    “My magic works for the good of the kingdom.”
    “So does mine. But whoever hired Old One-eye wants something other than the best for Coronnan.” He allowed the silence to fill the space between them.
    “I’m not a member of the Commune, I can’t ‘gather’ magic. Does that make me a rogue?”
    Jaylor opened his eyes and looked deeply into hers. “I prefer the word ‘solitary’ as opposed to communal.”
    They stared at each other, and, slowly, she reached out to clasp his hand again. Stillness settled around them, isolating them from the sounds of birds and insects. Even Mica and Puppy seemed far away.
    “My magic comes from deep within me. I don’t have to follow exact formulas to keep it in line with everyone else’s. If Old One-eye’s magic forms inside him like that, then his only limitation is his own physical strength. I don’t think he’ll allow himself to be stopped by honor or integrity.” Jaylor warned her.
    “You face the same physical limits and you are much younger and stronger than he.”
    “But not as practiced. I’ve wasted most of the last twelve years trying to work the other kind of magic. I can do it. But it’s harder for me.”
    This time Brevelan lifted her free hand to draw a finger along Jaylor’s bearded cheek. The curling hair around his mouth tickled her palm, inviting a deeper caress. A contented sense of completeness filled her, gave her the courage to ask her next question. “Why is it so hard for you? If you have that extra belly, then you should be able to gather and throw magic.”
    A rough chuckle rumbled from his throat. “Traditional magic requires an inner peace and stillness. My insides are too restless to be still long enough to gather the proper amounts of magic.”
    She knew the feeling. There was always something more to do. Her body never wanted to be still. Until now. Standing here in the wilderness of the southern mountains, touching him, she felt as if everything in her life had a proper place. Her restlessness evaporated. “Perhaps we can join our magic, as we did to heal Puppy.”
    “That was no magic on my part,” he protested vehemently. His eyes snapped open, but he didn’t withdraw his hand.
    “Wasn’t it?”
    “I merely pushed the bones back into place. You healed the muscles around them.”
    As if to prove his statement the wolf bounded back along the trail toward them. His step was strong and sure.
    “Are you sure, Jaylor? Think back on it. How much of the effort you put into helping Puppy was brute strength and how much was magic sight?” She allowed her hand to drop just enough to clasp his.
    “Oof!” The wolf jumped against Jaylor, muddy paws soiling his shirt. He dropped Brevelan’s hand to fend off the animal. Puppy grinned in his special way and bounced back to the trail. “Your manners need a great deal of improvement, Wolf,” Jaylor scolded him. He reached for Brevelan’s hand once more.
     
    Adventure! Darville raised his face to the sun and trotted along the path in front of his people. His instincts told him this journey was incredibly important. It was a return to a way of life that had been interrupted by his injury.
    Already his nose felt keener. He was aware of much more than just the familiar scents back in Brevelan’s clearing. His sight, too, was brighter. He was strong and eager for whatever the trail might bring.
    A whiff of Tambootie drifted on the wind, an odor he associated with the dragon. Shayla had come last night, outlined in the moonlight, flaming Old One-eye. Just as she had that other time when Darville had fallen over the cliff. Only the enemy wasn’t One-eye then. He was something else.
    Deep in this throat Darville growled at the memory of the man responsible. The one-eyed man meant pain and changes Darville couldn’t comprehend.
    That man smelled of