The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

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    Ackerly, Nimbulan’s assistant and childhood friend, had died in battle opposing Nimbulan the following year, this time from his own spell, not Nimbulan’s.
    Now Haakkon had drowned because some unprincipled magician had chained an element. Water had only been rushing to return to its natural state. The apprentice had been caught in the trap and drowned.
    Trap?
    Haakkon had triggered a trap set for Nimbulan. Under normal circumstances, only Nimbulan would have gone into his private, locked workroom. Why hadn’t Stuuvart’s younger daughter gone in there earlier when Nimbulan requested the treatise on naval battles? Did Stuuvart know about the trap?
    Someone had put Water under a compulsion in order to kill the Senior Magician.
    Who? Who had the power to compel an element? He needed to think clearly, not let his grief turn him in circles. If only he had his journal to hand so he could sort his thoughts into a logical order. He didn’t have time to sit and ponder, writing ideas and crossing off the scattered thoughts. He needed answers now.
    Who? Not one of the apprentices. Dragon magic didn’t lend itself to compelling an element. Without the ley lines to power the spell, Water would not comply. No junior magician, dependent upon dragon magic, could have carelessly set the spell to see if it could be done.
    That left the master magicians or a rogue. He didn’t think any of the men he’d hired to teach at the school bore him a grudge worthy of such complex magic. Besides, they’d all been employed in the battle and its preparations yesterday.
    A rogue could have slipped into the school during yesterday’s chaos. A rogue who had a different source of magic. Perhaps Moncriith, a Bloodmage who found energy in pain and death, had returned to Coronnan and targeted Nimbulan. Moncriith’s body had never been found after the last battle. Could he still be lurking around Coronnan, seeking to destroy the demons he saw in anything he disagreed with? He had preached against Myrilandel as the source of all demons for many years.
    New chills raked Nimbulan’s spine at the thought of Moncriith pursuing Myri.
    Televarn and his Rovers had reasons to hold a grudge against Nimbulan as well. Devious traps were more Televarn’s style than Moncriith’s. The poison spell on Quinnault’s wine yesterday—was it only yesterday?—might not have been the only mischief they organized. Rovers tapped the energy of every living thing surrounding them, including the elements. Their intricate rituals usually required several members of the clan.
    Televarn had aspirations to be king of his people. He had tried to kill Nimbulan once before and failed because Myri intervened. Lyman had seen Televarn in the questing vision. Nimbulan had seen Myri.
    Myri had admitted to an affair with Televarn. She’d run away from him when she discovered his duplicity. Someone had kidnapped Myri and held her captive in Hanassa. Rovers often sought refuge in the city of outlaws, as did Bloodmages.
    “Send out search parties, quickly. Rovers hide in the region. Find them and bring them to the king’s hall for justice. Take soldiers with you,” he called to the men he sensed gathering around him. “Your murder will be the last, Haakkon. I swear it. If I have to follow Televarn all the way to Hanassa, I will stop these senseless deaths.” He clutched the limp body to his aching chest. Hot tears gathered in his eyes.
     
    Televarn fed sticks into his little fire, idly watching the green flames consume the wood. If only he dared burn some Tambootie branches, he could watch the progress of the sea battle in the flames with his FarSight. But the aromatic smoke of the tree of magic would alert Nimbulan’s people to his presence. This opening in the mainland forest west of Coronnan City was too close to the capital. He couldn’t afford to be found. Not until Nimbulan had triggered the trap and drowned in a wall of water. Water should have had time to fill the magician’s private chamber to the ceiling by now.
    Televarn shivered as a moist breeze rose up from the river. He smelled the richness of the lush forest and the chill ran deeper into his body. “ S’murghing damp,” he cursed the river, the mud, the islands, and the battle that kept Nimbulan from returning to his bed. Televarn needed to be back in Hanassa, breathing the clean desert air, letting the intense sun bake the damp from his bones.
    S’murghit! He needed to get back there, monitor