The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

Coronnan by the grace of the dragons, sat back in his demithrone at the high table. He left the golden goblet where the understeward had placed it moments ago. The servant still stood beside the king, jaw flapping, carrying tray clutched to his chest as if a talisman.
    “It’s poisoned, Your Grace. I saw your death and that cup in a vision through my glass.” Nimbulan waved the gold-framed piece of precious clear glass. He’d been looking for a clue to his missing wife’s whereabouts when the premonition of danger intruded.
    Three weeks had passed since Shayla had announced to one and all that the Covenant with dragons was broken. No dragon had been seen in Coronnan since. The amount of dragon magic available to the magicians diminished each day.
    Soon they would have to resort to illegal solitary magic to perform everyday tasks of communication.
    Nimbulan guessed that the dragons’ withdrawal coincided with the disappearance of his wife, Myrilandel, and the severing of the magical cord that bound him to her.
    Nearly two weeks had passed since he had returned to the capital after discovering her absence from the clearing. The villagers had been extremely reluctant to tell him anything about her disappearance. They were too busy rebuilding after a disastrous fire.
    Not a day had passed since that Nimbulan hadn’t searched for her. Fruitlessly. Every spell went awry. He couldn’t sleep. His concentration wavered at the most inopportune times. He had to find Myrilandel soon.
    Quinnault and the magicians wanted Myri found, too. They needed to restore the Covenant with the dragons. But Quinnault had ordered Nimbulan to remain in the capital while they monitored an attack fleet from Rossemeyer gathering in the mouth of the Great Bay. The quest to find Myrilandel should go to a younger man. No one doubted that she must be found and the Covenant with the dragons restored.
    “Who wishes me dead, Nimbulan?” Quinnault pushed his heavy chair farther away from the table and the tainted goblet.
    “I didn’t do it, Your Grace,” the understeward protested. “I only carried the cup here from the cellar. I didn’t . . .” He looked pleadingly toward his king.
    “Who prepared the cup?” Nimbulan approached the high table from the front, below the dais, never moving his eyes away from the suspicious goblet. Moisture condensed on the outside of the cold metal. Quinnault’s favorite red wine was always served at room temperature, not chilled.
    Nimbulan didn’t have much time. If the poison came from magic, it would dissipate quickly, leaving no trace of the assassin or clue to the nature of the spell.
    “Did you ask for wine, Your Grace?” Nimbulan raised his left hand, palm extended toward the goblet, fingers slightly curved. The sense of danger stabbed his palm. Reflexively he jerked his hand away from the cup.
    “No. But when it arrived, I welcomed it, not realizing I was thirsty until then,” Quinnault said as he slowly rose from his chair. His eyes remained fixed upon the cup.
    “The new girl in the scullery told me to take it to you, Your Grace,” the understeward said. “I don’t question things like that, sir. The steward could have asked her to take the prepared cup to me. The order could have come from any number of people. I didn’t do it, Your Grace!”
    “A new servant?” Nimbulan raised his eyes to the understeward. The man’s aura radiated layers of blue truth shot with the nearly white energy of fear. At least he could still sense auras. If he’d had to throw a truth spell over the young man, who knew what his magic would do.
    “There are always new servants, Magician Nimbulan,” the understeward explained. “They start in the scullery, and if they last, they move up to more respectable chores. I’ve been with His Grace five years. I would never think of harming him.”
    “You might not think of it, but a rogue magician could plant the idea in your head and you’d never know it. Describe the girl.” Nimbulan moved his raised hand in a circle, wrapping the dangerous cup in a web of magical containment. When he saw the noon sunlight sparkle against the magic, he relaxed a little. He’d managed at least this simple spell. Time would not touch the poison and humans could not touch the cup.
    “Short.” The understeward held his hand up to his chin, indicating the maid’s height. “A delectable little mole just to the right of her mouth. Dark hair and eyes. Beautiful eyes . . .”