The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

the four cardinal directions and four elements. In his mind he saw them bound in harmony with all humanity, mage and mundane alike. His staff returned to his hand, passing through the guardian.
    The wind slackened. (How can I believe you?) The spirit drifted and reformed directly in front of Nimbulan. Some of the shadows lightened, no longer carrying the menace of darkness. (You directed this honorable lord to clear a path by magic when he need only look with his eyes for an existing path.)
    “I sought only to test his powers, as I must test many things before I find a way to end the wars that destroy Coronnan.”
    (You seek peace when all around you know nothing but war?)
    “We seek peace. We mean no harm to you or the power you guard so diligently. We ask only for time to experiment with the power—to find a way for magicians to band together in neutrality. Only then can we make honor, ethics, and education our priority rather than war.”
    “Mewlppp! Mewlppp!” A winged form circled their heads.
    “What a strange cry. Too large and bulky to be a bird. So black it seems to absorb light.” Quinnault shaded his eyes with one hand as he looked up. “What creature have you sent to us, Spirit?”
    (You will be tested first. Only those found worthy may use the beginning place.)
    The beast and the mist collided and burst into a column of fire. The flames spun in place, then sped directly toward Nimbulan.

Chapter 8
     
    T he column of flame engulfed Nimbulan in an explosion of magical energy. Blue sparks invaded his eyes. Each one carried a memory of minor misdeeds, lies, and careless words that had wounded another.
    He remembered a time when he and Ackerly had ventured into a village marketplace. Druulin had forbidden them to leave the tower until they had finished a long and boring series of chores. But they had slipped away early anyway.
    A band of Rovers was reputed to be entertaining the farmers and shepherds. The Rovers had brought their racing steeds as well. Every man with a steed had met the challenge of a series of races. Betting ran heavily on the local steeds, known winners.
    “We can make some money, Lan. Then we can buy some real food at the market,” Ackerly urged his friend.
    “I don’t know, Acker. Betting an illusory coin on a race that we fix . . .” Nimbulan hesitated.
    “What’s the harm in making a plow steed feel heavy and weary so he won’t run? I tell you it’s a sure thing.”
    Just then, Nimbulan’s stomach had growled, reminding them both that Druulin had forgotten to buy flour for bread. None of the apprentices had had breakfast.
    “We might make enough to buy a warm cloak or an extra blanket, too,” Ackerly said. “It will be easy, Lan. No one will know.”
    “If it’s so easy, why don’t you do it, Acker?” Nimbulan wanted the reassurance of his friend’s participation. He was only ten and Ackerly was two years older, two years wiser and more experienced, though they were both new to Druulin’s tower. Ackerly should be able to carry out his own plans and take the consequences if anything went awry. “What if we get caught?”
    “We won’t be caught. Who can tell that you used magic? None of these mundanes have enough imagination to think we’d interfere.”
    In the middle of the race, the plow steed suddenly lifted his tail and relieved the heaviness in his gut. The smelly addition to the smooth meadow brought laughter and jeers from the onlookers. The farmer beat on his steed with fists and boot heels to no avail. The steed added a long hot stream of urine to the growing pile of manure.
    The farmer spotted the two magician apprentices cheering on the Rover steed as it crossed the finish line, barely winded. He also saw the large number of coins the boys collected from disgruntled locals. He grabbed a whip from a drover and ran after the two boys. Men who had lost good money on the bet took up the hue and cry. Ackerly pocketed the coins and dodged into the brothel tent where a series of semi-outraged squeals followed the passage of intruders.
    Nimbulan didn’t have the courage to peek into the tent let alone lead a parade of angry farmers through it. He ducked behind a huge pile of jacko squash. A little orange tint to a delusion disguised him as just another ball in the display. Until the vendor tried to lift his head off his shoulders and sell him to Druulin. . . .
    He cringed inwardly with the remembrance. Other misdeeds flashed through his memory. Guilt