The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

doused the flames with a counterspell.
    “I’ll be a better Battlemage than you will. When I master the spell, I’ll master the whole spell, not just the fun part,” Ackerly retorted, not knowing what else to say.
    “Will not!” Boojlin launched a torch at Ackerly. He ducked that missile and the books that followed him as he ran away.
    Boojlin continued to pelt him with whatever objects came handy to his magic. Ackerly didn’t stop running until he reached the kitchen in the ground level of the tall tower. His tormentor pelted down the spiral stairs, laughing at Ackerly’s cowardice.
    Until he ran into a yampion pie hovering at face level just inside the door to the kitchen.
    “I might not be able to throw, but I can think ahead, Boojie.” Ackerly wiped a pile of sweet pie filling from Boojlin’s face with his index finger. He smiled as he licked his hand clean of the sweet treat. “Looks like no dessert for you tonight, Boojie. You ruined it for all of us. I’ll have to tell Druulin precisely why he won’t get his favorite pie tonight.”
    Caasser and Lan had laughed at the trick as Ackerly was forced by Druulin to clean the entire kitchen for wasting the pie. But Ackerly never forgot that he’d had to hold the pie in place with his hands until the last moment before Boojlin slammed into it because he didn’t have enough magic to levitate it for long. He never forgot how all the others had passed their tests eventually, leaving Ackerly to clean up the messes they made.
    “You don’t appreciate me anymore than Druulin did, Nimbulan. I’m still cleaning up your messes.”
     
    “Excuse me.” A short, wizened man of indeterminate years blocked Nimbulan’s exit from his pavilion. “I understand you are looking for colleagues to join you in a new venture.” The man bowed from the waist. A sign of respect for an equal.
    He wore ordinary black trews and tunic and carried a black cloak or robe over his arm. His skin had yellowed with age, was seamed by a million wrinkles, some of them smile lines around his mouth and laugh lines near his eyes. Even now a mischievous twinkle glistened in his pale blue eyes, so pale they seemed almost colorless.
    Like Myrilandel’s eyes and hair.
    The witchwoman was gone, fled of her own will. Nimbulan needed to go after her. . . .
    He didn’t have time to waste worrying about her.
    Or regretting her absence.
    “How did you know about this venture?” Nimbulan asked the old man warily.
    “News travels fast among magicians.” His smile quirked up enigmatically.
    “Excuse me, Master Nimbulan, I have errands to run and chores to perform.” Ackerly shouldered his way past the intruder. “I’ll meet you in Lord Kammeryl’s pavilion in a few moments.”
    “Yes, I’ll join you there, Ackerly.” Nimbulan didn’t take his eyes off the stranger. “News must travel very fast among some magicians. I didn’t decide to pursue this venture until a few hours ago and only announced it to my assistant now.”
    “Ah, but your delight in the project broadcast a psychic shout of glee across the heavens. I heard and sought you out.” The old man bowed again.
    “You must have been very close.”
    “Closer than you think.”
    “Do you have a name?”
    “Yes. I am called Lyman in this existence.”
    “A strange way of giving your name. Do you, perchance, possess the unique ability to remember your previous existences or know the future ones?” Suspicion crawled over Nimbulan’s skin. His need to scratch and worry at the itch was like his need for the Tambootie.
    “Anything can be found in the void if only you know where and how to look, Nimbulan. Would you take me there to see if I am what I seem?”
    “And what do you seem to be?” Maybe he should have asked what the old man pretended to be.
    “I am merely an old magician, tired of war, as you are. I would use my remaining years in this life to seek peace. I choose to join you in the same quest, for I believe you have the answers, though you do not know it yet.”
    Nimbulan’s suspicions dissolved, as if he’d poured water laced with oatmeal over his itchy skin. “Why do I trust you, Lyman?”
    “Because I tell the truth. Finish your errands. I will join you on your island tomorrow morning.” Lyman bowed again.
    Nimbulan felt compelled to give the same gesture of respect.
    Then Old Lyman backed up and dissolved into the mist.
    “That’s my trick, old man! Where’d you learn it?”
    A soft chuckle in the