The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

knocked his young apprentice senseless with a mind probe. The lesson had been clear. Never allow another magician to learn your spells.
    Secrecy among magicians was a major barrier he had to overcome. Mistrust among the older magicians who had come to the school might prevent this little communication spell from working. Only Ackerly seemed to grasp immediately the concepts of this new magic.
    If only Nimbulan still trusted Ackerly. The man had evaded questions about the overdose of Tambootie and Timboor that had almost killed him, with sly hints and accusations against everyone except himself. He’d even blamed Nimbulan for endangering the apprentices with his experiments.
    Ackerly was amazingly adept at gathering dragon magic. Nimbulan hadn’t expected his assistant to be more powerful with the new system than he had with the old. Ackerly grasped the concept of gathering magic quickly and demonstrated the technique adeptly to the younger boys, something the older master magicians couldn’t—or wouldn’t—do.
    They needed speed. Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ army marched closer every minute.
    Nimbulan would have gladly excused his assistant from the practice until he knew for sure who had poisoned him last winter, but he needed his help.
    Journeyman Gilby stumbled over the words of the spell. The entire circle of magicians and apprentices faltered and stopped in their recitation.
    “Begin again,” Nimbulan said impatiently.
    When they were all competing against each other, keeping their spells private had been vital, lifesaving. Now they all must use the same spell, in unison, and work in concert for the same goal.
    The future he envisioned banished all barriers among magicians. They would share more than power during vital spells. They would share knowledge and pass it down to each successive generation.
    At last the magicians worked their way through the spell three times without error. “Hold hands, men. The magic only works when you are in physical contact with every other magician working the spell,” he directed.
    Twenty bodies shifted and shuffled in embarrassed silence. Men didn’t touch each other in their culture. Another custom Nimbulan must banish. Finally they were all joined, old and young, trained and raw. Ackerly, the last man in the line, placed his free hand on Lyman’s shoulder, completing the circle. Lyman held his master’s glass in front of the flames in the hearth.
    “Together now, breathe in on three counts, hold three, release three.” A tingle of energy ran up Nimbulan’s arms. The room filled with power, begging him to join it. He watched the men’s auras blend into one giant pulse. Arcs of many individual colors swirled and shifted until they were all one glowing dome of lavender/white energy. Lavender, Lyman’s signature color. If Ackerly led the group, would his yellow dominate the aura?
    They knew so little about why dragon magic allowed communal working and ley line magic didn’t. Magic was strictly fuel, wasn’t it? They didn’t have time to puzzle out answers.
    Nimbulan stepped back, physically and magically. He wasn’t part of this spell. He needed to observe the effects from a distance. So he watched the auara as a reflection of available power. The single united aura grew until it filled the room and pushed outside the stone walls of the room.
    “Again, breathe in, hold, release, hold.” The united aura began to throb and reach outward.
    “Once more. Breathe, hold, release, hold.” The level of power in the room grew and multiplied like a living thing, replicating itself faster than they could think. All color vanished as the united aura whirled until it became the nearly transparent all color/no color of a dragon’s hide.
    “Chant the words of the spell, and send the flame to Naabbon, Lord Hanic’s new magician. Send the flame across the island, watch it skip over the river, guide it west by southwest, across the grazing land, through the rich farmland up to the foothills.” Nimbulan closed his eyes and imagined the progress of the flame. He’d sent a message along this very route the week before that fateful battle last autumn. Then he had pleaded with Keegan to return and complete his training. His message had been ignored then. Would it be again?
    His left hand reached out, palm forward, as if drawing the communal magic into himself. He forced himself to clench his fist and drop it back into his lap. He couldn’t participate. He had to observe.
    At