The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

precipice, Nimbulan saw the city. The rising moon, just past full, illuminated the haphazard streets and jumbled huts. Even without the fence he’d not be able to climb down the cliff into the city. Too steep to climb, too far to jump.
    The barred gate was indeed the only entrance and exit to Hanaassa.

Chapter 18
     
    (W hen in doubt , stall!)
    The idea persisted in Quinnault’s mind. He dismounted slowly, thinking furiously. As he slid down Buan’s side, he was briefly out of sight of the Varns. He palmed his belt knife and loosened his short sword in its sheath. He’d never undergone the intense weapons training of a warrior. But he knew the business end of his blades.
    His years of studying to become a priest, before his entire family was wiped out by the wars and the plagues and famine that always followed in the aftermath of war, had trained him to negotiate.
    “Tambootie has become a valuable commodity since the advent of Communal magic.”
    The Varn leader turned his head region to the column of fluttering mist on his left. A moment of silence ensued. Quinnault wondered if they consulted telepathically, as magicians sometimes did.
    The Varn beside the leader reached up and removed a flowing headdress. Like breaking free of a cocoon, a red-haired woman shook herself free of the coverings. She dropped the elaborate veils to the ground.
    That’s all the cloaking mist proved to be—many layers of soft, translucent cloth. The woman concealed beneath the drifting draperies seemed to be human.
    Quinnault gasped. He’d never seen a more beautiful woman. Her small heart-shaped face was framed by a cap of short curls. A snub nose gave her a look of youth. Big green eyes seemed to sparkle with humor and mischief, another hint of youthfulness. Her full-lipped mouth twitched as if suppressing a smile.
    “Am I valuable enough?” Her voice lilted over him as if she sang a sweet love ballad. Her accent hinted of exotic lands.
    Fascinated, Quinnault stepped forward. He needed to be closer to her, make certain she was truly human and real. The heavy swathing veils still hid her figure. Below the neck she could be a many tentacled monster.
    He didn’t care.
    “The ladies of my court will frown at your hairstyle while they rush to mimic it. There will be an abundance of shorn locks for the gentlemen to collect as talismans of luck and favor.” He felt himself smiling and wanted to burst out laughing.
    “I . . . I am not used to dealing with court ladies.” She gnawed at her lower lip with small perfect teeth.
    A sense of panic invaded his mind like a telepathic probe from a dragon. He looked at the woman, stunned. No other human had ever been able to awaken his dormant talent.
    Are you reading my mind? he asked her.
    Not intentionally, she replied. Her eyes opened wide, startled.
    He nearly lost his balance gazing into their green depths.
    Many of the women in my family have green eyes. It is considered a sign of inherited intelligence. Her mental chuckle told him that she didn’t believe the family superstition.
    And suddenly he realized that with the lines of communication open in his mind this woman couldn’t lie to him. He relaxed a little.
    I don’t want to lie to you, ever, Your Grace. Please don’t lie to me. She gnawed her lip again in uncertainty.
    This crack in her composure struck Quinnault deeply. He needed to reach out and protect this woman. He didn’t even know her name, and yet he found himself dreaming of long years with her, of children and shared memories.
    Katie. The name came to him without a deliberate probe.
    The woman shifted her shoulders as if pushing aside her doubts. She extended her hand in a masculine gesture to shake his. “I am Mary Kathleen O’Hara. My friends call me Katie.”
    So her companions didn’t know that he had established a telepathic link, and she didn’t want them to know.
    “Quinnault Darville de Draconis at your service.” He lifted her hand to his lips and pressed a gentle kiss to her fingertips. When he lifted his head, he couldn’t let go of her hand. “My friends call me Scarecrow, but don’t tell anyone at court.”
    Scarecrow? The mischief returned to her eyes. “I can think of many names better suited to a handsome bachelor king.”
    “I haven’t been called Scarecrow since I was a teenager, actually, all arms and legs and clumsy as a newborn colt.”
    “Does that mean you haven’t had any friends since?” Concern touched her voice and her