The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

pitcher of water.
    He gulped down as much as he could, then hesitated in the doorway of his private chamber, longing to return to his bed. All traces of the water that had filled the room mere hours before had fled when the essence of the element rushed back to its place of origin.
    A few of Nimbulan’s books had been damaged. But everything had dried so quickly, so completely, the essence of Water might not have filled the room hours before.
    “There are plenty of people who can say the prayers for Haakon.” Lyman bowed his head in a moment of silence. “I will say a few for Amaranth, too. The purple-tipped dragon died trying to tell you where Myri is held captive. Will you waste his death in the endless talk that surrounds a government striving for peace?”
    Nimbulan recited a brief prayer remembered from his childhood.
    “I need my journal. I must record the events and the plots that threaten to disrupt Coronnan and the Commune,” he said, searching his desk for the little book filled with blank paper. He cast aside six books from earlier years. He couldn’t think straight. Where had he put the new one? He found it open on his desk, the ink from his entries two days ago smudged and blurred from Water’s presence. “I must stop the murders of my apprentices. They were like sons to me, Lyman.”
    “You have a son of your body now, Nimbulan. You must find him and save him from Televarn. But you must leave immediately, before the king and your suffocating sense of duty chain you here for all eternity.” Lyman handed him the pack.
    “I wish I knew how that man escaped in the woods. Even with fully active ley lines, a magician can’t transport a living being. Have an apprentice and a journeyman camp there if they must while they examine every grain of dirt for evidence of magic.” Nimbulan shouldered the pack and reached for his journal to tuck into his pocket. His staff jumped to his hand.
    “The answers lie at the end of his trail, not the beginning.” A far-off look came into Lyman’s eyes. He cocked his head as if listening to something beyond human understanding. “Go, quickly. The messenger from Quinnault crosses the bridge as we speak. You can’t delay even a moment. Myrilandel and the children are in terrible danger.”
    “Are you in communication with the dragons?” Nimbulan halted with his hand on the door latch. This revelation might take him on a direct course rather than chasing in circles after an assassin or running blindly to Hanassa to rescue Myri.
    “All I can say is that a dragon awaits you. A young one who wants to explore more than he wants to obey Shayla. But you must hurry or he will fly away with the rest of the nimbus. You can’t afford the delay of walking to Hanassa. If you do, you will lose Myrilandel forever.”
    “Be sure you give my letter to King Quinnault. He deserves an explanation.”
    Lyman pushed the Senior Magician out the door. “I’ll look after things here, in your absence, but keep in touch.”
    “I’m going with you.” Rollett, the oldest of the journeymen magicians stood in the doorway. He, too, carried a pack of provisions, and a journal poked out of his pocket. His eyes looked hollow and black, as if sleep had eluded him longer than it had Nimbulan.
    “No, Rollett. I can’t risk losing you as well. This trip is dangerous enough.” Nimbulan grasped the younger man’s shoulder affectionately, but firmly.
    “I’ll follow if you don’t take me with you. You need someone to watch your back, Nimbulan. There is treachery here as well as on the road. I am coming.”
    “Hurry, Nimbulan.” Lyman took both Nimbulan and Rollett by the arm and guided them toward a back staircase. “The dragon won’t wait long. Take the boy. He’s right about treachery. Lord Konnaught is with King Quinnault’s messenger. He’s planning something. Something dire for you and for the king. Now get out of here before someone else dies.”

Chapter 14
     
    P owwell opened his eyes and slammed them closed again in the bright glare. A sharp ache pounded in his right temple and spread to his neck and shoulders, down to his lower back.
    A bizarre noise pulsed around him in rhythm with the pain in his head. It sounded like a threshing machine, but louder and harsher. Much louder.
    Yeek, kush, kush. Yeek, kush, kush.
    Over and over the noise pushed aside rational thought and self-awareness. It smothered him, wrapping him tighter and tighter, until he was the heart of the