The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

over you.”

Chapter 7
     
    K ing Quinnault made his way through the groups of people in the palace courtyard. He didn’t have enough to do. Dedicated underlings jumped at every task he created in the battle preparations. As king, he was supposed to be free to make decisions. So far, he didn’t even have that chore.
    Nimbulan, as the experienced and respected Battlemage, directed the defenses today.
    Common citizens filled the courtyard. Quinnault smiled at them as he strode away from the confines of the palace. The corpse of the purple-tipped dragon had been cleared away from the busy courtyard. Later, after the battle, they would hold some kind of remembrance and consign it to the funeral pyre.
    Two of the Master Magicians had fought the formal burning of the dragon body. They needed to study it, dissect it, learn the secret of generating magic. But Nimbulan had insisted. The dragons deserved the same respect as any human—especially Amaranth who had aided in healing King Quinnault last spring. All of the magicians respected Nimbulan enough to bow to his demands.
    Quinnault’s magical ties to the great beasts went beyond affection. He grieved with the entire dragon nimbus over the loss of the little purple-tipped dragon. Amaranth had been one of his family.
    He sorely missed his telepathic communications with the dragons. He’d never shared that level of intimacy with any human. He strongly doubted he ever would.
    He moved through the crowd of his bustling citizens, making his kingly, but distant, presence known to them. He couldn’t do much else.
    Some of the women bent over a huge cauldron, boiling bandages. They paused in their work only long enough to dip him a curtsy. Most of the men acknowledged their king with a nod of the head.
    A year ago, he had worked alongside these people building bridges among the islands. Then, he’d been only a lord, the Peacemaker. Now he was king, less useful and more removed from the people he served.
    A gaggle of children piled stones together by the gate. Useful weapons, should the enemy manage to attack the palace itself. A five-year-old waddled toward the pile with a stone far too heavy for his skinny arms. He dropped the rock off balance. The entire mound began to spill backward on top of the boy.
    Quinnault dashed forward to pluck the child out of the way. He held him against his chest until the rocks stopped tumbling all over the courtyard.
    “Can’t you stay out of the way, Mikkey!” an older boy scolded. He had been supervising the arrangement of the stones.
    “I only wanted to help,” Mikkey blubbered.
    “We need all the help we can get.” Quinnault set the boy down and wiped his tears with the hem of his tunic. “Next time, Mikkey, why don’t you give your rock to him and let him place it on top of the pile.” He indicated the older boy with a thrust of his elbow.
    “Yes, Your Grace.” Mikkey executed an awkward bow.
    “We’re all working together today. No need for bows among battle comrades.” Quinnault ruffled Mikkey’s hair. The older boy stared at the familiar gesture with wide eyes and dropping jaw. Quinnault reached over to offer him the same rough affection. Then he showed the boys how to arrange the rocks for better balance.
    He moved toward the riverbank and the men who wrestled with small boats to float felled trees into the bay. Over half of these people had been refugees from the war a year ago. He expected them to pack up and leave at the first signs of trouble. Instead, they worked side by side with the long-time residents of the islands to defend their new homes—to uphold his kingship.
    “All I really wanted was to be left in peace,” he said to himself. He turned a full circle, watching all of them work together for a common defense. His heart swelled with pride. He needed to work with them, show them how much their loyalty meant to him.
    “Excuse me, Your Grace.” Another child tugged at his tunic. “Lord Konnaught requests you attend him.” The little girl, not more than five or six, hesitated on her esses but managed to push them out without lisping.
    “Where is Konnaught?” he asked her, looking about. The son of his former rival for the crown wasn’t among the workers in the courtyard. Quinnault thought he’d ordered all of his fosterlings to help with the defenses.
    “His lordship is in the armory, Your Grace.” The little girl bobbed a sketchy curtsy and ran off.
    “He should be out here, learning who we