The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

was in charge of Hanassa by then. He is dead, isn’t he, Maia?” He whirled to face the Rover woman who cowered near the door.
    She nodded mutely, too frightened to do more.
    “Who is in your mind now, Maia? Which Rover has picked up Televarn’s reins of manipulation?” Nimbulan pressed her for an answer.
    “I don’t know,” Maia wailed. “A voice, a control. The same as always. It could be Televarn. It might not be. We are all so closely related, many times over-related, its hard to tell one slave master from another.”
    “If not Televarn, then who? Lyman insisted the magician who opened the cell door and resealed it had to have Rover blood. You are the only magician I know who has a trace of Rover blood in his heritage,” Quinnault accused.
    Nimbulan’s face went hot, then cold. His frustrations returned and he wanted to plant his fist into someone’s face. Right now, his king looked to be a fine target.
    He took a very deep breath in an effort to control himself. “Your Grace, every one of my relatives carries the same remote trace of Rover blood. That makes them vulnerable to mind manipulation by a Rover mage. I think I know this Piedro from my days in the Rover camp. He had the makings of a powerful mage if he ever broke free of Televarn’s control. He could easily have used the dragongate a number of times to subvert my cousins or brothers, or a number of others with a tiny trace of Rover heritage. He could have been working in Coronnan for moons, or years.”
    “The same way Televarn subverted Kalen,” Powwell whispered.
    Myri shifted her attention from her brother to Powwell, taking the boy into her arms and his grief into her heart. They would both heal in time.
    Time they might not have.
    “You have not explained this ‘dragongate,’ Nimbulan,” Quinnault reminded him.
    Nimbulan briefly explained the strange vortex created by the combination of heat and pressure within the volcano. Their escape from Hanassa, the vision through the partially open dragongate, and their encounter with Moncriith took only a few more sentences. He didn’t consult his journal. The events were embedded deeply in his memory now.
    “All these refugees risked much to help me rescue Myrilandel. I only wish I had had time to fetch Rollett, too. I’ll have to go back for him. Soon.”
    “We have nothing to fear from them, Scarecrow,” the queen said proudly. She continued to tap the device with her right index finger.
    “Scarecrow?” Nimbulan lifted one eyebrow.
    Quinnault met him stare for stare with no further explanation. But his gaze kept flicking to the black box held by the queen.
    “For the Stargods’ sake, allow the man some dignity.” Myri rolled her eyes and finally tossed the king a silken robe from the chair near the bed. Her cheeks worked in and out, but she couldn’t suppress the grin on her face.
    Nimbulan was glad to see her sense of humor returning after the dramatic events of the past few weeks.
    “It’s nice to see that your legs are nearly as long and shapely as mine, brother,” she said around her smile.
    Quinnault gave her a brief smile of thanks and returned his attention to the false princess from Terrania. His mouth clamped shut on a question. He was probably waiting for privacy before questioning her. Nimbulan had to shatter the man’s illusions now, in front of witnesses, before the royal bride subverted the king’s mind further.
    “Your wife is probably a foreign agent planted here in order to precipitate an invasion,” Nimbulan reminded Quinnault. “I have learned that King Lorriin leads an invasion of Sambol as we speak. He’s been poised for weeks, waiting for an excuse to seize valuable farm land to feed his people.”
    “I know about Lorriin. The marriage treaty with his sister would not have kept the peace between us beyond spring planting.” Quinnault shrugged into the robe. He turned his back briefly as he stood and belted the garment. “I knew it when I agreed to marry Maarie Kaathliin and give her people half a ton of new Tambootie leaves in exchange for a port city and jetties built on the Bay islands.”
    “A half ton of Tambootie? What strange magic requires that much of the weed?” Nimbulan’s mind spun with the possibilities. His entire Commune wouldn’t use that much of the fresh leaves bursting with essential oils—if they used Tambootie any more, which they didn’t. The trees were reserved for the dragons. “A half ton will strip many trees