The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

her pale skin, as if she’d dashed icy water on her face to revive herself. Perhaps fever burned her cheeks. Her eyes looked dull, and she still shuffled as she walked. She poked the fire listlessly. Finally, she set the pot on a rock next to the blaze and sat back on her heels to rest.
    “All I have is some jerked meat and dried fruit. I’ll boil the meat for a broth for you. I’ll eat the meat.”
    “The fire isn’t hot enough to boil the water. We’ll need more wood.”
    Her shoulders drooped further and she dropped her gaze to the few branches beside her. Clearly the effort to gather more was too much for her. If they were to survive and recover, he had to help.
    Bracing himself to endure the pain he gathered his knees beneath him and rose to all fours, back arched to keep his abdominal muscles moving as little as possible. “I can’t wait any longer. I’ll bring a few sticks on my way back.” He gritted his teeth and crawled into the underbrush.

Chapter 25
     
    “ I suppose it’s too late to warn the village,” Nimbulan mumbled into the horn cup Myri had fished from her pack.
    “Warn them of what?” Myri couldn’t muster much enthusiasm for the trek back down the hill to the village she had left . . . was it only yesterday? She’d be content to sit and watch the birds flitting through the branches of the everblue trees. A flock of a hundred or more tiny kinglets had gathered to serenade the world.
    “Rovers. They planned to raid the storehouse last night during Festival,” Nimbulan said.
    “They won’t find much but torn fishing nets and broken bay crawler pots. The winter stores have been exhausted and the fishing sparse. The villagers probably didn’t notice the raid until this morning. They were quite intent on making a good Festival in hopes of a bountiful summer.” They needed a fertile Festival. Nearly half of last year’s Festival babies had died within a few days of birth. Several of the mothers had also died despite Myri’s best efforts to save them. All of them might have succumbed had she not been there to midwife them. Experience and hard work often worked better at birthings than magic. Not always. She could not save all of them. She hadn’t been able to save Granny Katia, beloved by the entire village.
    Mourning families tended to remember only the losses. How many of them blamed her for the deaths?
    If the villagers followed her, Nimbulan would be in danger, too. She looked at the slender silver cord of magic that connected her heart to his. He’d only crawled a few yards into the woods before the cord stretched thin and tried to yank him back. Her trip to the creek hadn’t been much farther away. They were bound together, probably for a long time. Whatever fate followed one, would involve the other. Concern for him overrode her resentment at the implied control he had over her through that cord.
    “Televarn seemed to think this village rich, with adequate stores left over.”
    “Televarn! Stargods, we have to get out of here.” Frantically, she gathered together her few possessions. The cooking pot, the water jug, her knife . . . Amaranth!
    “Neither of us is in any condition to move, Myrilandel.”
    “And less prepared to defend ourselves when he comes looking for me and . . .” she almost said “my flywacket.”
    “He thinks I’m dead. And I would be if you hadn’t come when you did. Televarn has no reason to return.”
    “Unless he questioned the villagers or overheard them talking about me. We have to leave. Now!” This time she stood and kicked dirt over their little fire. Should she scatter the remnants and obscure all evidence of their presence?
    “How do you know Televarn?” He grabbed a fistful of her skirt, the only part of her he could reach.
    “He covets something of mine he can never have.” She wrenched her skirt free of his grasp.
    “What?” He stared at the few possessions she crammed into her pack.
    Just then a dark, winged shadow fluttered into the little clear space of their camp. Amaranth landed between them, near the remnants of the fire, a gray scurry clamped firmly in his jaws. He left his wings half-furled.
    Nimbulan stared, gape-jawed at the legendary flywacket.
    “Amaranth!” Myrilandel gasped. “You shouldn’t reveal yourself to strangers.”
    (He’s not a stranger. We trust him.) Her familiar dropped the dead rodent near the fire. He fluffed his wings and tail as he paced circles around the two of them, growling and