The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

through the pavilion walls. She didn’t trust the feeling of comfort or the sensation of protection shrouding her. She knew Moncriith would try to trick her into confessing her association with demons.
    If only she could remember her childhood, or her parents, she might know if he spoke the truth about her. She rarely managed to keep images of her life for more than a day or two. Already Magretha and the village in the western foothills where she died were fading from her memory. Only Amaranth remained constant. The flywacket, in his purely cat form, purred gently where he rested, a heavy, secure weight on her chest.
    Someone moved nearby. She turned toward the sound of footsteps shuffling on carpets. Through closed eyelids she sensed light around her; light that would stab and blind while her head ached with the aftermath of a healing. Yet she had to know who stood by her so protectively.
    “Who are you, Myrilandel?” a man asked her gently. Not Moncriith.
    If she knew the answer, she would tell him.
    “Overworking magic will rob a person of their wits. Your sense of self will return as your talent and your body revive. Perhaps I should ask where do you come from?”
    He lifted a cloth from Myri’s forehead and replaced it with a cool one. Blessedly cool. The throbbing in her head subsided a little.
    “I come from nowhere,” she replied. Her voice sounded hoarse.
    “I have never heard of a drained talent taking memories with it. Perhaps you are in need of the ritual trial by Tambootie smoke.”
    Trial! Smoke! Surely this man was one of Moncriith’s followers, sent to lull her into trust.
    She had lived many places—none of them home. She had no memories of her parents to tell him. Magretha was the only parent she remembered. Her guardian had chosen a solitary life at the fringes of society when someone abandoned Myri in the woods with only Amaranth to care for her. The witchwoman needed a successor to her work and a healthy youngster to care for her in later years. Home had been a long series of shacks or caves. They’d fled to a new one every time local villagers began blaming an ugly old woman and her strange fosterling for every ill that life brought them.
    Myri had few memories of her own about those early years, only the stories Magretha told over a winter fire. Indeed, most of her memories began with Magretha’s death.
    The comforting weight of her familiar disappeared. When? “Where is Amaranth?” He always helped her recover after a healing. He would warn her of danger—of Moncriith.
    “Who is Amaranth?” The man sat down upon the bed where she rested. The rocking of the mattress sent her insides sloshing about and upset what little equilibrium she had attained.
    “Merawk!” Amaranth growled and hissed at the man. His weight pressed against her side now.
    “Yeow! You miserable animal. I’m not going to hurt her.” The man jumped off the cot cursing. More movement, and a weight landed upon her chest.
    Amaranth stretched his warm, furry body atop Myri. He butted his head into her chin. She found his ears with her fingers and scratched. She gritted her teeth against the pain in her head. Amaranth was back where he belonged; nothing else mattered. His rumbling purr brought peace to her stomach.
    With new courage, Myri opened one eye a tiny slit. A tall man, thin almost to gauntness, sucked on his hand where Amaranth had scratched him.
    “You are a magician,” she stated the obvious. Only the strange cult of men who controlled the forces of nature cut their hair so oddly, straight at the shoulders, with the back tightly braided. This man’s dark auburn mane was shot with silver and slightly disheveled. Instead of tunic and trews, he wore formal blue robes, the kind usually reserved for audiences with noble personages. The length of blue cloth draping from his shoulders and loosely belted added to his height and did nothing to hide his slenderness.
    “And who are you, Myrilandel? You have a huge talent for healing, nothing short of miraculous. Kennyth’s arm will be weak, but you gave it back to him and saved his life. And yet you are so poorly trained, you let the magic control you. We brought you back from the brink of death.” He held his hand out, palm raised, fingers gradually curving so that his little finger almost touched his palm. A curious gesture that seemed a part of him.
    “Moncriith allowed you to help me? Probably so he could enjoy the spectacle of watching me burn.”