The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

of grief before continuing. “I’ll send the message myself. I don’t need to know a specific magician’s address.” He already knew when and where to contact Moncriith, and that Moncriith had found and lost Kalen and Powwell. But he wouldn’t let that bit of information slip to Stuuvart.
    “That won’t be necessary, Ackerly.” A strange voice interrupted. A voice from the past that shouldn’t have ever spoken again.
    “With my head and my heart and the strength of my shoulders, I renounce the presence of this ghost!” Ackerly crossed himself hastily as he mumbled the prayer. Then he looked to the source of the voice and crossed himself again. “Nimbulan!”
    The dead had come back to haunt him. Shabbily dressed in peasant clothes, a day’s growth of beard, and slightly grubby, Nimbulan alive would never have allowed himself to fall into such dishevelment, unless deep in the throes of his addiction. He must be dead. He had to be dead! The overdose of Tambootie mixed with Timboor had killed him.
    Maybe this was an impostor, cloaked in magical delusion?
    “Nimbulan!” Quinnault stood so fast his chair crashed backward and skidded across the floor.
    “You can’t be here, you’re dead! I buried you myself.” Ackerly found himself backing toward a doorway that led to the interior of the keep. The door to the courtyard was filled with magicians and apprentices trailing in Nimbulan’s wake. And right beside him, close enough to be a family unit, walked Myrilandel and the two missing children.
    “Apparently, Ackerly, you buried me too hastily and not deep enough,” Nimbulan replied. A wry smile creased his otherwise grim face.
    “Where have you been, my friend? Why were you gone so long? What brings you back? How? But . . . ?” Quinnault rushed forward and clasped the Master Magician’s hand with both of his own.
    He’d never greeted Ackerly with such enthusiasm. Never called him friend. Never acknowledged Ackerly’s help and guidance.
    “One question at a time, Lord Quinnault.” Nimbulan returned the lord’s affectionate greeting. “My adventures were long and numerous. Suffice it to say, I have perfected a way for two or more magicians to join their magic, compounding the effect of a spell. Without the Tambootie. I have no more need of drugs to enhance my magic. I have a better way. Henceforth, no solitary magician will be able to stand against those who join me. We will remove magicians from battles and politics. We have a chance for peace.” Nimbulan raised his left hand, palm outward, fingers slightly curled, little finger bent almost to the palm, as if ready to capture the threads of the Kardia and weave them into a spell. The habitual gesture confirmed that this was indeed Nimbulan and no impostor. The perfectly proportioned hand with more than ordinary grace couldn’t be imitated.
    “Stuuvart, Kalen stands before you and you do not welcome her. A moment ago you demanded justice for her disappearance.” Ackerly reminded his steward of why they had come to Lord Quinnault’s hall. He needed to get back to an ordinary topic, one he could deal with while the rest of his mind worked furiously. Why wasn’t Nimbulan dead? The Timboor mixed with the ink on the letter should have killed him if the additional drugs in his cup hadn’t.
    “My daughter clings to another woman as if she were her mother. She hides from me, her beloved father.” Stuuvart glared at Ackerly, daring him to contradict his legal claim on Kalen. “What happens here? Who are these people?” He beat his clenched fist against his forehead, effectively hiding his facial expressions.
    “Yes, Nimbulan, introduce us to your friends. Then tell us your adventures over food and drink. You must refresh yourselves.” Quinnault raised his hand to signal a servant. Then he clapped the magician firmly on the shoulder, a smile spreading across his face.
    “My lord, may I present to you my wife, Myrilandel. My apprentice, Powwell, I believe you have met—and Kalen, Ackerly’s apprentice, who discovered I was missing from the crypt and ran away to find me.” Nimbulan gathered the three into the circle of his arms as if they were his own children. “And this is Amaranth, my wife’s familiar.” At last the witchwoman raised her face from the cat she held quite tightly in her arms.
    “My sister’s name was Myrilandel,” Quinnault said as he kissed the woman’s hand. “Unfortunately, she died when only two. I thought the