The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

faded within the envelope of light.
    The wry half smile lighted Quinnault’s face once more. He must have seen the aura, too, known that Kammeryl’s temper would get the better of him; known that the man’s inner balance was always precarious.
    Quinnault wasn’t strong enough to deflect the rapidly twisting blade aimed for his gut. Bright blood stained his tunic across his middle. He staggered, clutching at the wound with his free hand. His sword dangled uselessly from a rapidly weakening left hand.
    Kammeryl moved in closer for a killing blow. Confidence slowed him. He wanted to savor the moment of his adversary’s death.
    Nimbulan wanted to close his eyes, knowing the battle was over. Firmly he made himself watch. For at the moment of Quinnault’s death, he would have to begin the campaign to proclaim him a martyred saint in the name of peace.
    Quinnault ducked and rolled. Kammeryl’s blow barely touched his shoulder. As Kammeryl brought back his sword again, his raised arms lifted his body armor, revealing a vulnerable crack in his middle. Quinnault thrust his sword tip toward the bared midriff, but he was rapidly losing his strength. The blade went no farther. Kammeryl laughed, raising his sword higher.
    “You’re dead, Peacemaker. You’re dead already. I see the light fading from your eyes. I could stand here and watch you bleed to death. But I’ll be merciful and make it quick.” As he brought the weapon down, he bent forward to guide the blade to the fallen man. Quinnault thrust upward with the last of his strength.
    Both men collapsed. Their blood mingled and stained the beaten grass beneath them.
     
    Myri wrenched herself away from Nimbulan’s convulsive grasp. The sight of her brother’s blood brought her talent into full, insistent preparedness.
    (Don’t, Myrilandel. Don’t risk your child,) Shayla reminded her.
    “I must save him. I can’t watch him die,” Myri protested.
    (Then let Amaranth help you. Gather his magic for your healing spells.)
    “Women can’t gather dragon magic.” She ripped Quinnault’s tunic open, exposing the wound. Then she pressed a strip from her skirt against the gaping edges of skin, praying the pressure would slow the bleeding.
    “Anyone can gather magic from a purple-tipped dragon. Even women and mundanes, provided the dragon in question is willing.” Old Lyman, the mysterious magician who seemed to know more about dragons than Myri did, chuckled as he reached pale hands to help add pressure to the wound. “In another existence, I was called Iianthe—the last purple-tipped dragon before Amaranth and Amethyst made a premature entrance into this world. After that I drifted for many years as the guardian spirit of the beginning place until Nimbulan called me forth in the name of peace. Amaranth is willing to give magic to this spell. I must guide you both.”
    A swoop of wings fanned the air before Myri could question the old man whose fingernails appeared slightly lavender where the blood pulsed beneath them. The crowd pressing close to Myri and her patient gasped and fled backward. A gentle thud behind Myri announced the landing of her familiar, now in full dragon form.
    “I am not a healer, but I will direct the flow of magic through you so that it does no harm to your baby,” Lyman whispered.
    (Give me your hand, Myrilandel.) Amaranth’s mental voice came to her, deeper and more mature than she had ever heard him. It sounded very like Lyman’s voice did to her ears.
    She had no time to reflect on the oddity. Beneath her hands, Quinnault’s life hung in the balance.
    “Amaranth, you’re too big to cuddle in my lap like you used to when I worked a healing.” She stretched her free hand to grasp his extended forepaw. “I think I need both hands for this.” She studied the red-soaked skirt she still pressed into Quinnault’s wound. She sensed his life slipping away. They didn’t have much time.
    Amaranth waddled closer, not nearly as graceful on the ground as in the air. Gently, he extended one wing to cover her like an iridescent veil while his muzzle rested lightly on her shoulders. The other wing extended to Lyman.
    Energy tingled along Myri’s spine and into her arms. Stronger than the ley lines, this magic begged to be used for good. Her talent wrapped around it.
    Both hands free to hold the wound in place, she let the magic flow freely into her brother. A healing Song honed and directed the magic. Her vision followed the healing into