The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

again, Myri. Ever.”
    “Not even in death, beloved,” she vowed, kissing him softly.
    “What if I can’t spare you, Nimbulan?” Quinnault asked under his breath. “Will you break your oath of loyalty to me?”
     
    Powwell watched Scarface solemnly approach King Quinnault in the little reception room. Soon it would be Powwell’s turn to face his king and the Commune. Quick tests, moments before, had proven Scarface’s ability to gather dragon magic.
    “I, Aadler, do solemnly swear to abide by the laws of the Commune, and to defend the Commune against solitary magicians. I promise to use my magic, gathered only from dragons, for the benefit of all Coronnan as directed by the lawful king, anointed by the people and blessed by the dragons. And if I should stray from this oath, may my staff break, and the dragons desert me,” Scarface recited the oath of the Commune, holding his new staff horizontally in front of him with both hands. Beneath the staff rested the softly glowing Coraurlia, the dragon crown. It sat upon its velvet pillow at the king’s feet on the dais of the throne room. Its soothing all color/no color light engulfed the staff and the magician in an aura of truth that could not be broken.
    As the last words fell from Scarface’s lips, the new staff began to twist a little, three strands beginning to braid.
    Powwell gulped back his fears and tried to fade into the walls.
    “Now it is your turn, Powwell. You left Coronnan before we could determine the necessity of this oath for all those who gather dragon magic,” Nimbulan said. He placed a hand on his shoulder, urging him toward the dais.
    “I’m only an apprentice, and poorly trained at that. Shouldn’t I wait to see if I have the ability to become a full magician?” Powwell protested.
    “No, Powwell, we can’t wait. We need every magician available for this spell. They must all be confirmed members of the Commune,” King Quinnault said from the throne. He and the queen had taken a few moments to dress before presiding over this brief ceremony.
    None of the refugees had had a chance to rest or eat since arriving in the capital. Now they would plunge headlong into the defense of Coronnan. Powwell needed time to think.
    He looked at the assembly of sleepy-eyed master magicians crowding near the throne. They all stared at him, needing the oath-taking complete so they could get on with the business of creating a massive defense spell. No help there. He had to take the oath.
    Once taken, never broken.
    Taking a deep breath he stepped forward to face the king and the glass dragon crown. The queen sat beside Quinnault, avidly curious, not missing a single detail that might slip past the weary magicians.
    Someone handed him a staff, as newly cut as Nimbulan’s and Scarface’s. He opened his mouth to recite the words. Nothing came out but a cough, dry as the dust of Hanassa.
    He swallowed deeply, thinking hard, and finally croaked out the words.
    “I, Powwell, do solemnly swear to abide by the laws of the Commune, and to defend the Commune against solitary magicians. I promise to use my magic gathered only from dragons, while in Coronnan, for the benefit of all Coronnan . . .” He continued with the oath as prescribed. Only the queen, with her avid curiosity and attention to detail raised an eyebrow at his insertion. Once he left the borders of Coronnan, he would be free to follow Kalen with whatever magic tools presented themselves.
    “Good. Now we must get to work. Is the map table ready?” Nimbulan asked, easily assuming authority over the Commune and Powwell.

    “I don’t think we will have enough power,” Nimbulan said, resigned to the fact that the border of Coronnan was just too long.
    “Can we leave gaps over the impassable parts of the mountains?” Quinnault paced around and around the three-dimensional map built into a sand table. The map of Coronnan measured as long on each side as two tall men—large enough for details of rivers and hills, towns and forests.
    Nimbulan rubbed his eyes wearily. The women had gone to bed. Most of the magicians as well. Once the strategy and details of the spell were worked out by Nimbulan the Battlemage, and his king, the others would rise to support them.
    He wished Myri could be a part of the spell. Her subtle healing touch just might finish off the rough edges, make it a wall to preserve peace rather than a mere deterrent to war. Life versus death. Love of Coronnan rather than hatred of