The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

locals called it School Isle.
    “I’ll guide you across the causeway. The tide and the river are low now. It’s not that dangerous,” Nimbulan said.
    “You’re still a total novice around boats, Nimbulan. You’d rather trust the causeway than a rowboat.” Quinnault accused with mock severity. They both smiled in recollection of their first misadventure together—the first in a series of events that had led Nimbulan to the dragons and a kind of magic that could be combined and controlled by the Commune.
    “I think we owe the dragons a large thank you for tonight’s victory,” Nimbulan mused. “We have to do everything in our power to bring them back,” he hinted as a prelude to leaving.
    “Don’t even think about deserting the Commune, or me, Nimbulan. You are much too valuable to retire. As soon as you have a direction to send them in, dispatch every journeyman in the school to search for Myrilandel and the dragons. But you have to stay here. Coronnan needs you too much to risk you on such a dangerous quest.” Quinnault cocked his head, listening for any glimmer of communication from the elusive dragons. Myri’s gesture.
    “Coronnan needs the dragons more than me. My wife is the key to the dragons. I must be the one to go in search of her.”
    “No, it’s too dangerous. I can’t afford to lose you.” Quinnault replied flatly.
    “Even if Shayla herself ordered me to search?”
    “Only if Shayla orders it. But none of the dragons have spoken to me since they broke the Covenant.” Quinnault turned and walked down the stairs toward the rivergate. Then, looking back over his shoulder, he smiled a brief apology. “I depend upon you for much more than magic, Nimbulan. I need your wisdom and your experience to guide me. I am, after all, only a priest at heart, and now I find myself a king trying to pull together a fractious rabble that calls itself a government. Don’t desert me, my friend. Please.”
    Nimbulan shrugged. He had no words to counter such an argument. Quinnault had reasons not to trust any of the lords or other magicians.
    In short order, Nimbulan stepped off the rotting causeway onto School Isle. Two guttering torches provided enough light to see six boats tied up to the adjacent dock. Six boat teams, at least, had returned from the Bay.
    “Come, join us for a meal, Your Grace,” Nimbulan invited. “I’m sure we’ll find a healer in the refectory. They, too, will be seeking rest and refreshment between sessions with the wounded,” Nimbulan said as he hauled his weary body toward the boat dock and the path back to the school. His knees protested the incline of the path, and his back didn’t want to straighten. He groaned, pressing his hands against his lower back. The stretch felt good. He rotated his shoulders and grimaced at the knots in his muscles. “I’m getting too old for this.”
    Quinnault whistled a merry tune as he joined him, pointedly ignoring the last comment.
    Nimbulan’s spine needed a longer stretch. He bent and grasped his knees, arching his back before the muscles could spasm.
    A thin trail of water caught his attention. No wider than three drops, but a solid flow. Strange, no rain had fallen for three or four days. Until three weeks ago, when the dragons left, the autumn had been unusually dry and bright. Why would the puddles and marshy pools overflow now with just this thin trickle when creeks drained the water through more normal routes?
    His orientation to the spin of the planet, the tides and the cycles of sun and moon told him something was terribly wrong with this stream of water.
    “It’s flowing uphill!” Nimbulan looked back toward the dock. The line of water ran beside the structure, down the embankment into the water. No clues that way.
    In the other direction, toward the school buildings, the water trickled beside the footpath, over hummocks and rocks. He placed his left foot gently on the path, leery of any magic that might spill over from the unnatural trickle. The water continued to move slowly uphill without disturbing his magic.
    Quinnault followed him, placing his feet in Nimbulan’s footprints. “This reminds me of the first time I rowed you to this island.” The king hefted an oar like a quarterstaff, ready to knock heads should anyone menace them. He couldn’t seem to grip it with his right hand. He put the oar back into the boat with a shrug of regret and drew his short sword with his left hand. “Good thing I’m