The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

Varn-handed.”
    “Have you ever noticed that a dominant left hand usually accompanies magic talent in a person—even the little talent required of a priest?” Nimbulan mused. “I wonder if the mysterious Varns were also aided by the Stargods.”
    “Varns are probably myths,” Quinnault reminded him. “Wishing for Varn diamonds in return for grain surplus is just that, wishing. But then, we used to believe dragons and flywackets were myths, too.”
    Both men shrugged at the mystery and turned their attention back to the trickle of water.
    “This little Water spell is probably the work of one of my more adventuresome apprentices.” Nimbulan rotated his shoulders again to ease the muscles in his back. He automatically checked his store of magic for a counterspell.
    Nothing. Until he ate and slept, his magic was as inert as the Water trickle he followed. The spell would have to be triggered by some direct action or word.
    Controlling the essence of an element—Kardia, Air, Fire, or Water—was usually a spell that required subtlety and deviousness. Elements didn’t willingly allow mortals to chain them. Who in the school had the time and knowledge to practice with an elemental?
    He paused in his progress toward the nearby building, picking out the figure of Stuuvart, steward for the school, standing on the front steps. Stuuvart’s scowl extended from his face into his posture. His cloak swished behind him with his restless movements, mimicking his attitude. The impatient administrator waved his arms as he shouted orders. Apprentices scurried in all directions at his bidding.
    Nimbulan scowled, too. Stuuvart loved his meticulous recordkeeping and full storerooms to the exclusion of his wife and family. But he couldn’t send the steward packing without dislodging the entire family—Kalen’s family—including Guillia, the cook.
    An apprentice ran past Nimbulan. He grabbed the boy’s arm to stop his pelting progress toward the unstable causeway to Palace Isle. “What’s the hurry, Haakkon?”
    “Master Stuuvart says we can’t afford to feed all the wounded and the peasants. He wants additional stores from the palace, sir. He’s madder than a penned lumbird ’cause you sent everyone here after your battle.” The boy gasped for breath as if he’d already run to the palace and back over the dangerous passage several times.
    “Have any of you boys slept since yesterday’s battle preparations?” Nimbulan studied Haakkon’s face for signs of fatigue. Gray tinged the edges of his flushed cheeks, and his eyes seemed overly bright.
    “No time, sir.” Haakon shifted his weight as if he needed to continue his errand.
    “Have you eaten?” Nimbulan held tight to the boy’s sleeve.
    “After I’ve fetched the palace steward, sir.”
    “It’s past midnight! Stuuvart can’t expect to refill the storeroom now.” Nimbulan suppressed his anger at the steward’s obsession. When he could control his words, he said, “All of these people worked very hard to defend this land. Feeding them and caring for the wounded is the least we can do. They have earned their meal and a rest, and so have you.”
    His mouth watered at the smell of savory bacon and fresh bread emanating from the kitchen wing. Stuuvart’s wife always provided just the food that Nimbulan craved most, right when he needed it. The two snacks she had sent him during the battle were all that kept him going now. Guillia mothered everyone at the school. Why couldn’t her husband give a little care for their daughter, Kalen? If Stuuvart hadn’t disowned her, the little girl might not have gone with Myri so readily.
    If Kalen had stayed, Powwell would have as well, her devoted friend and possibly her half-brother, and Myri would be alone now—wherever she was. Why did it seem as if what was best for the school, best for his wife, and best for himself were always in contradiction?
    The emptiness of his life rose up before him like one of the stone walls of his school. Only a day ago, he had seen a vision of Myri in the bowl of water. Yesterday morning, Amaranth had died, imparting a cryptic message that Myri had been kidnapped to Hanassa. Yesterday, Lyman had told him that Rover Maia had a baby—Nimbulan’s baby, the only child he was likely to sire.
    Nimbulan pounded his left fist into his right palm in frustration. He’d wasted a whole day that he might have been journeying toward his wife, his former lover, and his child.
    Not wasted.