The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

on definite lines, still black on gray, but with outlines and texture.
    A single journey pack sat in the center of the middle wall of shelves. He approached the bundle with care.
    “What do you see?” De Tanos moved into the room, one hand extended into the gloom to find obstacles before he tripped over them.
    “A trap perhaps. I don’t know. I am suspicious of something so conspicuous in an otherwise empty building.” Nimbulan spread his hand above the pack. Tendrils of magic shot from his fingertips into the heavy leather seeking answers.
    He shifted his vision to InterSight. Radiant shades of green surrounded the pack, indicating heat. The temperature beneath his fingertips did not change.
    Something within the pack quivered in answer to his magic probe. Nimbulan traced the outline of the minute vibrations. A thin “string” of power drifted away from the core. When he touched it, an image of a closed door rose in his mind. A door very like the one in the center of the abandoned monastery.
    “A trap or a clue, I’m not sure.” He followed the now-glowing, green “string” around the pantry to the door, one finger extended just above it, maintaining the sensation of a long-dormant being rousing from sleep.
    Quinnault walked behind him, two paces back. The lord kept one hand on the hilt of his short sword.
    The magic led them through the kitchen, up the three steps to the corridor, and along the passageway to the intersection of the main hall. The image of a locked door grew stronger, more vivid.
    “Curious. I’ve never seen a spell constructed so subtly.”
    “Is the guardian present in the spell?” Quinnault asked, looking around for the column of fire or mist.
    “I can’t determine the signature in the weaving. Only the presence of something that has waited a long time.” Nimbulan paused at the locked door. The magic led through the keyhole. He touched the lock with his questing finger.
    Again the pack flashed through his mind. This time the image hovered beside the lock.
    The metal latch grew warm under Nimbulan’s finger. “If I’m following the clues properly, we need to bring the pack here.”
    “It could be a trap.”
    “It could, but I don’t think so. There is no hint of malice in this magic.”
    “But you said it was a subtle spell. The violent intent could be buried beneath layers of innuendo and diverting spells.”
    “You learned your magic theory well, Quinnault de Tanos,” Nimbulan said. “But I am a Battlemage. I am well-versed in all forms of destructive magic. No. This spell has the feel of curiosity, intelligence, and a quest for knowledge.”
    “Why don’t we leave this for another day when you have the backup of your assistants and apprentices?” de Tanos asked. “The day grows late. If we are to get off the island, we should start now.”
    “How? Our boat sank.”
    “The causeway is clear at low tide. There are farms and the family keep on the next island. I have other boats to take you back to camp.”
    “Why didn’t you say so? Here I’ve been thinking we were stranded and would have to signal a fisherman with a fire after dark.”
    “Like as not, the fisherman would see the signal as evidence of haunting spirits and stay away.”
    “How long will the causeway be clear? I want to investigate this puzzle while we’re here.”
    “Several hours. When the moon is full in spring and autumn and the tides run high, the passage can be dangerous, but not today.”
    “Good. Come with me. We need to bring the pack to the door. But it must not stray from the path of the magic I followed here.”
    Moments later, Nimbulan held the slight bulk of the pack beside the lock. Slowly, testing for undue warmth or stabs of light, he pressed the old leather to the latch. A faint hum filled the corridor.
    “What? Where?” Quinnault spun, belt dagger extended, seeking the source of the increasing noise.
    Bouncing balls of green, blue, and unholy red witchfire joined the hum reverberating around the passageway.
    Nimbulan dropped the pack, pressing his hands against his ears. He didn’t quite dare close his eyes against the bright witchfire. He had the sense that while he watched them dart around, they wouldn’t attack him.
    Quinnault ducked a buzzing blue ball, slashing at it with the flat of his blade. The noise grew to an intolerable level. He dropped the dagger to press his hands against his ears. The clatter of metal against stone barely registered against the