The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

and awareness. Heat drained out of her, back into the ley lines. Dimly she knew the web of magical power stopped abruptly at the new border wall, unable to restore the empty channels to the west.
    The spell, the dragons, her own safety ceased to have importance as Nimbulan collapsed in her arms.
    The very touch of the air against her skin sent waves of burning pain throughout her body. She was back in her own body with only vestigial traces of her dragon heritage. Nimbulan’s clothing seemed to rub her raw. His weight on her aching muscles and stressed bones sent her to her knees. She couldn’t let go. She had to hold him, keep him close. The silver cord connecting them faded to invisibility.
    His aura looked different, dimmer, smaller, less dominated by the blue of his magical signature. The blue pulsed within the glass table, adding a different luster to the black minerals and the combined magic of the Commune.
    She didn’t know how his magic had detached from him and merged with the table, accessible to all in the Commune except him. Desperately she grabbed for the blue. But the glass was impervious to even dragon talons. Her now human fingernails couldn’t scratch the glass.
    “Nimbulan, beloved, what have you done to yourself?” She held him under the arms, sobbing her fears into him. “Don’t you dare die on me. I’ve just found you again. I can’t let you leave me again!”
    She fought to keep him from sliding to the ground. If she could hold him long enough, the silver cord would come to life again. It had to. Neither one of them was fully alive without that bond.
    Other hands reached out to relieve her of the burden. Familiar hands. Powwell, Scarface, and her brother Quinnault. She stared at the table, blinking away tears as the men settled her husband on the ground. The spell must be complete, for the magicians stood and stretched, talking quietly. They rapidly shifted their gaze from Nimbulan to the table and back again. Amazement touched their expressions.
    “How did he separate himself from his talent?” one man asked.
    “I’ve never heard of such a thing,” replied another. He shuddered at the concept of life without his magic.
    How would Nimbulan survive without the talent that had defined his life for so long?
    “Such a waste.” Lyman shook his head sadly. “He didn’t have to sacrifice everything. You would have returned to your human body once the spell was complete.”
    “Are you sure, old man?” Myri knelt at Nimbulan’s side, checking his pulse and breathing, loosening his tunic and shirt around his throat and chest.
    “Shayla has mated again. The chances are good that she carries purple-tipped twins again. You could not have stayed a dragon once they are born, for there can only be one purple-tipped dragon at a time.”
    “How do we know that I would be able to come back? You had to find a new body when you left the nimbus. My human body would have been destroyed by the power I channeled and the transformation.”
    Nimbulan’s chest shuddered, and his breath came in ragged gasps.
    “You tried to leave me,” he whispered through cracked and weary lips. “You tried to join the dragons. I feared you might ever since I learned of your heritage. I dreaded the day you would leave me.” He turned his eyes up to hers briefly, before they sagged wearily shut again. The fire had gone out of the green orbs.
    “But you never came for me in the clearing. You didn’t communicate by magic or by message,” she sobbed.
    “I can never make up for that lapse. The bad habits of a bachelor interfered with my judgment. I need you, Myrilandel. I need you more than you can ever know.” He sagged against her again.
    Lacking the silver cord to tell her the state of his heart and pulse, Myri resorted to conventional checks. Nothing blocked his air passages. His heart fluttered and beat irregularly, but not so far off rhythm to endanger him. His skin looked gray but not waxy. Lumbird bumps rose up on his skin and he trembled as if very cold beneath his heavy formal robe and everyday tunic, shirt, and trews.
    “I think he needs sleep more than anything,” she said, sinking back on her heels. He’ll be in shock for a time.”
    “As are you, sister.” Quinnault rested a heavy hand on her shoulder. She couldn’t lean into his warmth, or accept the contact.
    “You have called me ‘sister?’ Are you ready to accept me as family, or must I be exiled again for being a female with magic?