The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

hunt bemouths, the huge fish that terrorized sailors who washed overboard, but could feed an entire village for a week if captured. She remembered watching as her mother, Shayla, brought her and Amaranth, her twin, to the edge of a burial ground in the dark of night—at the site of a human tomb.
    Shayla was her mother! A lifetime of seeking her heritage fell into place. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Mixed joy and fear at finally knowing sent her to her knees as she relived the last time she saw her mother in dragon form.
    (One of you must choose to inhabit the body of this human child. There can only be one purple dragon alive at any one time. One of you can no longer live with the nimbus,) Shayla had instructed on that long ago night.
    Myrilandel—then Amethyst—and Amaranth had quibbled and argued over the great honor to become human, to grow and learn, to guide other humans to live in harmony with dragonkind.
    In the end, Amethyst had managed the shapechange faster than her brother. Amaranth was so lonely and bereft without his twin, his otherself, he had taken the form of the flywacket and become the human child’s familiar. Shayla had deposited them both near the home of Magretha, a witchwoman with a longing for a child and the magic potential to teach Amethyst all she needed to know.
    But remnants of Myrilandel’s spirit had lingered in her not-quite-dead body. Dragon memories disappeared in the face of very strong human memories of name and personality. The two spirits in the same body compromised on forgetfulness.
    “I remember how to fly now. Amaranth, wait for me.” She lifted her arms again, willing the change to overtake her.
    (No, my child. Amaranth is the only purple-tip dragon now. You must stay human. You must remain Nimbulan’s consort and helpmate.) Shayla said.
    “Why? Why must there only be one purple-tip when we were born twins?” Myri almost cried with regret that she could not fly. A small piece of satisfaction also dwelled within her. She couldn’t leave Nimbulan. She had to remain human for him, for their child.
    (’Tis the way of dragons. For as long as dragons have claimed this planet, purple-tips have been born as twins. Their destinies are special and separate. One may remain with the nimbus, the other must seek to fill a vacancy in the world—a vacancy that if left empty will endanger all dragons.)
    The need to fly temporarily overrode her emotional bonds with Nimbulan. She’d come back to this human body later. But she had to fly now! As a dragon, she’d be able to protect Nimbulan. She spread her arms once more, willing them to form wings. No, the wings must sprout from her back. The pronounced bone structure along her back must elongate into the showy march of purple-tipped spines.
    (Do not forget your child, Myrilandel. Purple dragons are very rare and very special, but they are neither male nor female. If you revert now, your child will be lost forever. There will never be another. Will you kill Nimbulan’s child so that you may fly?) Shayla asked.
    Myri lowered her arms and hung her head. Her hands curved protectively around her still-flat belly. “I can’t become a dragon again and aid my husband by giving him dragon magic. I can’t use my talent to heal those who will be wounded. What am I to do? I can’t just wait and watch and do nothing while men die!”
    Kalen reached up and held her hand in mute sympathy.
    (You will be needed. Amaranth will show you. Anyone, even a mundane, can gather magic from a purple dragon. But you must be touching him when the time comes. And you must be very careful. Lyman will help you.) Shayla’s voice faded as the dragon turned her concentration to the spells Nimbulan and his enemies prepared.
     
    Nimbulan stood on the knoll at the east end of the battlefield. He rested his foot on the magic-blasted stump, one elbow on his raised knee. The view before him was much the same as it had been last autumn—as it would have been to Druulin twenty years past.
    Two armies faced each other, each grouped around the slight rise where their Battlemage prepared to direct the course of the battle. Behind the mages, assistants, apprentices and messengers waited to assist.
    He didn’t need to be an empath to feel the tension roiling through the air. Men on both sides paced restlessly, checked and rechecked weapons, fussed with steed harnesses. They spoke in whispers, then snapped at each other in loud shouts over trivia.
    Nimbulan had seen