The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

Shayla’s tail sweep.
    “Nearly a year now. I kept delaying while I stopped to help people who needed healing.”
    “Like you stopped at the battlefield. I’m glad I had the chance to see you work before we were thrust together again by fate.”
    “By fate or by dragon lure?” She laughed and caressed his cheek with her palm.
    “Maybe both. I do remember a voice in the wind telling me to go east. I’d find what I sought in the east. This dragon magic is better than Rover ritual.”
    (We waited for you both to grow and mature into the vision of united magicians and united mundanes. You had to recognize the need before you could use the tool,) Shayla said, nodding her head at their clasped hands. The pastel colors of her eyes suggested a smile—if a dragon could smile.
    Nimbulan kissed Myri’s forehead as he eased her down onto the blanket.
    A smile lit his mind. Myri’s white-blond hair and pale eyes reminded him of Quinnault! The curious elongated shadows he’d seen on Quinnault’s face had looked curiously like the muzzle of a dragon.
    “You sneaky creatures. You’ve been priming all of us for this moment. Maybe using us is a better word. How many of Quinnault’s words of peace came from you?” He laughed in admiration of their foresight—or precognition. How much of past and future did dragons see?
    Shayla nodded her head slightly. A light chuckle of approval and agreement whispered across his mind.
    “What if I can’t gather their magic?” Myri interrupted his speculation.
    “You will. It just takes a bit of searching to find it. The air is filled with it. Breathe it in, like a heady aroma then concentrate and push the air deep into your being, behind your heart.”
    “I’ve tried again and again. I can’t even smell the Tambootie in the air that you and Powwell can. Kalen can’t find it either. What if this new magic belongs only to men?”
    (She may be right.) Shayla speared them with her big crystalline eyes. Looking directly at the refracting light drew Nimbulan out of his body, deep into the sparkling colors, so like the colored umbilicals he’d seen in the void.
    “We will try again,” Nimbulan insisted. “Myri must be a part of gathering and combining magic. You dragons singled her out of all humans to be your link to us. And I need her to be a part of everything I do. In this life and the next.” He kissed her again, long and full.
    The world drifted away. Only he and Myri remained, their bodies, minds and souls entwining like a spiral of sparkling light illuminating the void.
    “Can’t you two do anything but kiss?” Powwell loomed over them, hands on hips, a disgusted, but fascinated scowl on his face. “Dinner’s here. The dragons brought a deer. They even gutted and cooked it for us. But we’ll have to skin it. I’d love to ride a dragon while they hunt. Their fire must reach a hundred leagues!”
    (Far less than one league, child. Barely two dragon lengths,) Shayla chuckled.
    “Have you something to dig roots with? The dragonets will roast them for us, too. I’m hungry. Can you really throw flames that far, Shayla? I bet you’d end a battle real quick with just one blast.” Powwell said.
    The dragon stilled and almost faded from view.
    (Do not suggest that dragon fire be used as a weapon. We have vowed to teach you to control your magic and your battles rather than blast you away with our anger.)
    Shayla came back into view, her rainbow horns and wings glowed brighter than before. She bent her head as if listening intently to the young man. (Now that you gather dragon magic, you will need dragon food. Enjoy the meat we provide you.) A curious expression came over the dragon’s muzzle, a mirror image of Powwell’s hungry gaze at the deer carcass.
    Myri laughed, breaking away from Nimbulan. Nimbulan chuckled, too. Adolescence must be catching up with Powwell for him to be so concerned with food. Nimbulan faced his fiftieth birthday next winter. He shouldn’t be so hungry his stomach felt like it was wrapping around his spine.
    “There are fresh greens growing on the bank of the brook, Powwell. Pick those and eat them raw. ’Tis the wrong season for roots.” Myri stood, brushing off her skirt.
    “Raw vegetables! Ugh.” Powwell stuck out his lower lip and tongue, scrunching up his nose in distaste. A young dragon did, too.
    “You ate my ma’s greens all the time, Powwell,” Kalen informed him. She stretched and yawned from her nest in the dragon paws.