The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

fight for.” Konnaught had made his belief in his superiority over all of Coronnan well known. His father, Kammeryl d’Astrismos, had claimed kinship to the Stargods and therefore felt he needn’t dirty his hands with normal people.
    Quinnault had killed Konnaught’s father on the field of battle. He owed the boy more than he could repay. But the boy also owed him obedience and loyalty in return for protection and an education.
    Quinnault sighed and wondered what kind of temper tantrum would result if he ignored Konnaught’s demand for attention.
    “Mikkey,” he called, waving the rock toter to him.
    The little boy relinquished his latest burden almost gratefully and ran the few steps to stand before Quinnault. “Yes, Your Grace?”
    “Lord Konnaught is in the armory. Go tell him to bring me a short sword and sheath. Make sure he comes himself and doesn’t give you the weapon to carry for him.”
    “Yes, Your Grace.” Mikkey bowed again, a little less awkward this time.
    Quinnault ambled over to stand at the foot of the palace steps. The jumble of people cleared around him, giving him a semblance of privacy, acknowledging his separateness. He had no doubt that at least a dozen ears would overhear his conversation with the troublesome young lord no matter where he conducted the interview.
    Konnaught approached several long minutes later. He carried a sword far too big and heavy for his twelve-year-old frame. His father’s sword. The sword that had nearly split Quinnault in two until the people of Coronnan joined with Quinnault’s sister Myrilandel and a purple-tipped dragon to heal the man they proclaimed king.
    The weak sunlight of late autumn highlighted the blond in Konnaught’s sandy-colored hair—blond, not the red inherited from the Stargods. Just before his father’s death, rumors had abounded that the name of one of the Stargod brothers at the top of the d’Astrismos family tree had been inserted by Kammeryl. The warlord had also dyed his hair to resemble the bright locks of the three divine brothers.
    “Why do you demean yourself by consorting with peasants?” Konnaught kept the heavy sword firmly at his own side.
    Quinnault couldn’t see any evidence of the short sword he had requested.
    “You are the king! You should be giving orders from your throne, not out there working with peasants.” Konnaught nearly spat the last word.
    “The ‘peasants’ are Coronnan. Without them, I would have no one to rule, and my kingship would be meaningless. We’ve had this conversation before, Konnaught. I do not agree with your father’s views of authority and responsibility,” Quinnault said mildly, refusing to let the boy rile him.
    “You would have the land. Land is more important than peasants. If my father were king, you wouldn’t see him out hugging ruffian babies and hauling rocks like a mule.”
    “The Stargods did not see fit to let your father be king.” Anger began to heat Quinnault’s skin. He wanted to turn this malcontent over his knee and spank him.
    There had to be a better way to deal with him before he became a bully like his father. Kammeryl d’Astrismos had used pain and intimidation to prove his superior power.
    Quinnault refused to do that. He had found a way to bring peace to Coronnan without forcing his followers into submission, with Nimbulan’s help. And the dragons’. And the help of all those dozens of people working around him.
    “Since I am your king, and you are my fosterling until you come of age, you are required to obey my orders.” Quinnault placed his hands on his hips and glared at the boy.
    Konnaught stood up straighter. He darted glances about him in alarm.
    Quinnault made a decision. He’d allowed his fosterling too much freedom.
    “Konnaught d’Astrismos, you will accompany me on my rounds today and lend a hand wherever I deem fit. Come.” Quinnault turned toward the battlements. “But first you must fetch me the short sword I asked for earlier. And put away that weapon. It’s too big for you and too unwieldy for me to carry in a boat.”
    Konnaught caressed the jeweled hilt of the sword. Reluctantly he returned to the armory, a circular stone building on the far side of the courtyard. His steps dragged until he was halfway to his destination. Then he stiffened his back in defiance.
    “You won’t be needing a weapon for yourself, Konnaught,” Quinnault called.
    “A lord must always appear a lord. A sword on his hip displays his