The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

day he had died on the field of battle along with Boojlin and Caasser and two full armies. All of them reduced to ashes by magic gone awry. Nimbulan and Ackerly had fled the impending battle the night before in order to seek employment elsewhere. They’d finally managed to break Druulin’s binding spells upon Ackerly and had slipped away from the old man’s tyranny.
    “The floors must be swept every day, Powwell. We need to make certain they stay clean so that the dust from our shoes and clothes does not mar delicate instruments or interfere with our experiments,” he explained patiently.
    Experiments that couldn’t begin until the three new apprentices had enough training to guard magicians in deep trance and reawaken them if necessary. Sometimes the Tambootie drugs used to heighten magic awareness tempted a magician to remain in the void. Only a trained magician who had achieved at least the second level of apprenticeship could bring a lost master back from the void, body and soul intact. Jaanus and Rollett could almost do it. They were the most advanced and needed to be involved in the experiments. Gilby, Bessel, and Herremann weren’t far behind them in skill and control.
    The new boys had a long way to go before Nimbulan could begin to work on his grand scheme of combining magic for peace.
    Nimbulan sorely wished he could spend more time in the library, searching for magic clues with Lyman and his older boys instead of supervising the youngsters. Just last night he’d scanned a text on Rover culture with a tantalizing hint about rituals and joining magic. But he didn’t have time to read further. Libraries and Rover legends had to wait.
    “Water works better at keeping down dust,” Powwell said with careful thought. “We should douse the stones and then sweep. Everyone should brush their clothing each morning too. That way we’d only have to sweep every few days instead of every afternoon after lessons. If dust is your only concern.” He lifted his eyes to challenge his master.
    Nimbulan suppressed a chuckle. The boy was quick, if only to find ways to avoid working. Hopefully, his talent would catch up with his brain shortly. In his experience, the best magicians were also the most intelligent.
    “Then do it, Powwell. And inform your classmates.” Three boys. They’d only been able to recruit three boys on the short notice of the move to this island. No women. No pretty witchwoman with moonlight woven into her hair.
    Nimbulan wondered if Myrilandel’s eyes always wore deep violet shadows beneath the skin or if that lovely shading was a result of fatigue and an improperly worked talent.
    He gave himself a mental slap. He didn’t have time to dwell on Myrilandel and why she ran away from the opportunity to train with a senior Battlemage.
    “They’ll beat me up if I tell them to do more menial chores, sir!” Powwell sulked. His mouth turned down prettily. Too prettily for a boy verging on manhood.
    I’ll have to keep this one out of Kammeryl’s sight, he thought. Not that the lord had set foot on the island since Nimbulan had informed him of his winter plans. Kammeryl d’Astrismos had raged for two days when he heard the news. He’d dismissed the entire enclave of magicians, including healers, from his army, vowing to replace them all.
    Nimbulan wondered how soon Kammeryl would need to send emissaries requesting his return. Seasoned Battlemages were few and far between these days. Especially since Keegan’s death.
    Never again! he vowed. He clenched his fist in rage and grief.
    Powwell backed away from him, eyes wide with distrust.
    “I’ll not thrash you, Powwell. Nor will Zane and Haakkon if you figure out what the lesson is in your chores. Remember that every task I assign, no matter how trivial or distasteful, will teach you something. Now run along and finish sweeping.” He shooed the boy back to the dormitory wing, keeping his temper carefully under control. No need to frighten the boy with the master’s private demons.
    Briefly he peeked along the kitchen wing to check on Zane. The oldest of the new recruits, a few days shy of his fourteenth birthday, sat with his back against the outside wall, legs thrust out before him. A fierce scowl marred his freckled face. His broom stood propped against the wall.
    Nimbulan guessed Zane was trying to make the broom work for him. He quickly noted that the apprentice had instinctively placed himself against the wall closest to the pool of