The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

and slept some more. “We don’t have to make the trade treaty now; we’ve proved we can defend ourselves. The ambassador must learn that the treaty is an offer of friendship more than trade advantages. We also have many prisoners of war to ransom back to Rossemeyer. We bargain from strength this time.”
    Fifty ships had sailed into the mudflats of the Great Bay. Perhaps twelve managed to hoist enough sail to catch the wind that shifted to an offshore direction. Thirty-some ships rested at bizarre angles with their hulls run aground on mud and lethal debris. Five had burned to the waterline, their sailors captured as they jumped for the relative safety of the water. Some of the refugees managed to swim toward departing ships and save themselves. Many more died in the pounding waves and the witchfire that continued burning on the surface of the Bay. Hundreds of men had surrendered to the crews of the fishing boats.
    Nimbulan closed his eyes and concentrated on the flames that bounced and separated with each wave of seawater. When he looked again, all traces of witchfire had winked out. The sudden darkness soothed his eyes but not his soul. He’d cleaned up the last spell of the battle. He could rest now.
    “Speaking of treaties of friendship, there are several offers of marriage alliance to consider.” Quinnault changed subjects in mid-thought—not uncommon for his keen intelligence. “I’ll need your help with a letter to King Lorriin of SeLenicca. I really can’t marry his sister. She’s ten years older than me and a barren widow. But we have to word the rejection to sound like I am not worthy of her beauty rather than that she is inadequate to be my queen.”
    “And how old are you, Your Grace?” Nimbulan raised one eyebrow skeptically.
    “You know, as well as I, that I’ll see my twenty-eighth Winter Solstice a moon hence.”
    “A mere infant.” Nimbulan frowned at his king. “That makes the Princess of SeLenicca thirty-eight. She’s been widowed for many years. Perhaps she hasn’t had the opportunity to bear children.”
    “I can’t take the chance. I need a young and fertile princess. And I won’t have just any well-born lady with the proper dowry and political connections—there are three offers for those. She must be intelligent and have a sense of humor. If she’s easy on the eyes, so much the better.” Quinnault paced, left hand behind his back, shoulders hunched. With his long face and hair in wild disarray, his silhouette resembled that of a young dragon.
    How many of his draconic mannerisms were natural? Some of them could be a result of his magical link to the dragons established at his coronation. Nimbulan didn’t know how much of the link remained since Shayla had declared the Covenant broken. King Quinnault didn’t talk about it.
    Every thought of dragons brought Nimbulan back to his missing wife, Myrilandel. Shayla, please take care of her for me, he pleaded with the sole female dragon in the nimbus and Myrilandel’s mother. I miss her more than I thought possible.
    Nimbulan’s age and loneliness weighed heavily on his shoulders. He had to convince his king to allow him to leave the capital immediately so he could begin his search for Myri. He’d forsake the much needed rest if he had to. But not his meal. He’d get nowhere fast without food. And soon.
    “We’d best get busy. I’m certain General Ambassador Jhorge-Rosse will be demanding an audience at first light.” Quinnault turned sharply on his heel at the end of his serpentine route.
    “You seem to have a disgusting amount of energy left after a full day of work and a full night of battle, and an injury, Your Grace.” Nimbulan surveyed his king. He smelled of salt spray and sweat, of tar and fish. The grin on his face rivaled the setting moon in brilliance.
    “I have won a battle on my terms, with weapons I know—the cunning of men and small boats. I respect myself much more tonight than I did when I ran my sword into Kammeryl d’Astrismos’ gut.” King Quinnault frowned slightly at the mention of that grisly battle. “Time to eat and rest, my friend. Then it’s back to work for both of us.” He slapped Nimbulan on the back in comradely affection.
    Friend, indeed, Nimbulan thought warmly. Surely Quinnault would recognize Nimbulan’s need to go in search of Myri and grant him permission to leave. The quest should be his own. No other man had the right—or the desperate need—to find Myrilandel no