The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

The men have the authority to order a burning of a witch in order to please their women.” Myri nearly spat on his shiny black boot to keep him away.
    Another man wished her death by burning. She knew that. Vague memories of a man in a faded red robe with a compelling gaze and charming voice flitted through her mind in ragged wisps. If that man happened to enter the district, the Rovers would sell him information. Rovers would sell anything. They’d also steal anything.
    She strengthened the magic protection around Amaranth and herself. A flywacket would fetch a high price in the right circles.
    Which circles? She had encountered someone who would pay a fortune for her flywacket. They had tried to capture Amaranth. Who? Fruitlessly she searched her faulty memory. No other images sprang to mind. Her feet and arms ached to run and climb as far and as fast as she could.
    She couldn’t run. Amaranth needed her protection. He couldn’t fly yet. Not with the bone-deep bruises he’d earned in his struggle with the net.
    “Rovers value witchwomen for all of their talents. You needn’t be jealous because you’ve heard I fathered a bastard or two in my wanderings. That just proves I could give you children as well. You look ripe for motherhood, witchwoman.” Televarn continued to assess her attributes with knowing eyes. He reached out a hand, palm upward in entreaty. His slightly curved fingers silently begged her to join him.
    She’d seen another man use a similar gesture to weave magic. A man in blue.
    “I do not value the company of people, especially Rovers. I claim this cove. Go back to your own camp at once and do not return.” She scooped up Amaranth and placed him on her shoulder. The need to stay in a place she knew would provide her with food and shelter for the winter vied with her need to keep people away from her.
    She was so tired of running.
    “The tide has turned, my exit around the headland is cut off.” Televarn stepped closer yet. His eyelids drooped in sultry speculation. “You’ve fascinated me and kept me talking beyond the time of safe return.”
    “Then climb the hill.” Myri strengthened her magical armor to repel him if he dared touch her.
    “A steep cliff. ’Twill be a dirty and treacherous climb. I will stay with you until the tide turns again. You really want me to stay. Only your jealousy wants to send me away.” He looked up, then flashed his dark eyes at her, delight and mischief glowing in their depths as if this were a familiar game with him.
    She longed to reach out and touch his beckoning fingers. What would the crisp curls peeking out from beneath his head scarf feel like as she ran her fingers through them?
    His eyes continued to hold her in place when she knew she should run. A curious numbness spread to her feet.
    A woman could get lost in his eyes, with their thick fringe of black lashes. His voice slid over her senses like warm honey. Why had he wished him gone? He was so beautiful.
    She’d been alone so long.
    She’d known a man’s touch. Four years now she’d danced the ritual around the Equinox Pylon at the beginning of spring. Each year she’d mated with a different man, three clumsy and hasty youths. One older, gentler widower seeking a new mate. But never had she conceived, so her Equinox partners hadn’t invited her to share their lives or their beds again.
    She might never know a man again if she sent Televarn away.
    Magretha scorned her for enjoying the Vernal Equinox festival and the men. The old witchwoman claimed a man’s loyalty was firmly rooted in scratching his itch, not in remaining faithful to any one woman. Magretha had been betrayed by a man before her face and back became scarred by a fire.
    Filling a few hours with this man’s company while exploring his beautiful body would result in no harm. She wouldn’t conceive. Witchwomen never did. Televarn wouldn’t own her despite his desire.
    There had been another man who desired to own her. Tall, slender, older, wearing a blue magician’s robe. He’d wanted her talent, not her body.
    The man in the red robe wanted to possess her soul while he cast her body in the fire. She shuddered away from that memory.
    This Rover wanted to possess her flywacket, and enjoy her body at the same time.
    Who wanted her or valued her for herself?
    She recognized the compulsion to love him for what it was, magic imposed by him rather than desire from within herself. Once she recognized it, she broke the