The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume I: Volume I

was once more a man and naked.
    “Get dressed,” Jaylor responded. He shook himself free of the lingering spell. She looked for the telltale signs of fatigue. They were absent. Jaylor didn’t even look hungry.
    “Those men got away. They’ll talk. Our enemy will move faster, change his plans. We need to follow quickly.” Darville moved briskly, efficiently, once more a prince and a soldier.
    “I’ll regather the scattered leaves.” Jaylor made no move. Rather, he stood facing his old friend, spine rigid, eyes defiant.
    “No. We haven’t time,” Darville decided.
    “They were important to Krej’s minions. I will find out why.”
    “No,” Brevelan gasped. She stepped between the two tall men. “You mustn’t. Tambootie is too dangerous!” She reached to touch his chest, to implore him not to experiment.
    Darville took her other hand.
    She gasped for air. Their jealousy was suffocating her.
     
    “You seem to have lost weight, master magician.”
    Baamin looked a long way up to the man who broke the taboo and spoke to the Senior Magician before being addressed. Maarklin, the exceedingly tall magician to the court of Nunio, looked down his even longer nose toward Baamin. He still wore his blue master’s cloak over his unadorned fire green robes. His height and natural bearing added elegance to the simplest garments. During their days as apprentices they had called the tallest of the class “Scrawny.”
    They’d called Baamin “Toad knees” then. No more. Now they called him “Master.”
    “The strain of the times,” he replied with a dismissive wave of his hand. There were reasons for his decrease in girth. Like a sudden revulsion for the taste of meat. Traditional magic required a magician to restore his body with animal protein. This rogue magic thrived on breads and roots. Meat now made him sluggish. But Scrawny didn’t need to know that.
    “Unusual summons, sir,” commented Fraandalor, the member of the Commune posted to the court of Krej in Faciar. He too was tall, but slightly stooped, as if his blue cloak and shimmery gray robes were too heavy for his shoulders. Years ago he’d been known as “Slippy,” like the sea snakes that washed up on the shores of the Great Bay every summer. Sea snakes provided a sweet nutritious meat when prepared properly. But the cook had to be careful lest careless cooking left a natural poison in the meal.
    Baamin reminded himself that Slippy could very well have been corrupted by his lord’s greed for power. Or by the temptations of rogue magic. Was Slippy the man wandering the southern mountains in the guise of Baamin’s nightmares? Impossible. He couldn’t have performed magic in Shayla’s cave two days ago and be back in Coronnan City today.
    “Unusual circumstances.” Baamin perspired heavily under his formal court robes, blue cloak and trews, long gold tunic and fine cambric shirt that hung on his reducing belly. Responsibility and new powers lay uneasily on his shoulders.
    “Gentlemen, please take your places.” He waved them to the thirty-nine chairs placed around the formal table, made especially for the Commune of Magicians almost three hundred years ago. It was round, as tradition dictated, forged by dragon fire of solid black glass—perhaps the most valuable item in the entire kingdom.
    Except for Shayla, Baamin thought. A glass dragon is much more valuable.
    “Did you say something, sir?” The magician to his left raised a puzzled eyebrow.
    “Just arranging my thoughts.” Baamin took his own place farthest from the sealed door. The room was as round as the table, devoid of windows or decorative hangings. The only contents were the huge glass table and stone chairs. It was kept comfortably warm through a system of vents from the kitchen fires. Even so the perspiration turned cold on Baamin’s back as he assumed his role as leader.
    “A most inconvenient summons,” Slippy reiterated.
    “Most inconvenient circumstances.” Baamin glared at the questioner. “Gentlemen, the king is gravely ill. He barely draws breath, his body does not move.”
    “That shouldn’t make much difference,” Scrawny snorted. “He hasn’t done anything in years. By the time the kingdom realizes he’s dead, we will have a smooth transition of power to Darville.”
    “There are . . . ah . . . complications.” Baamin coughed.
    All attention centered on him. His personal armor slid into place just before he felt their probes into his mind. Probes