The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

perfection—too perfectly—Kammeryl lounged against his chair of office, one ankle crossed over the opposite knee. His bare leg was revealed to his upper thigh. He wore no undergarments.
    A pretty boy of about twelve stood to Kammeryl’s right, his arm resting casually on the arm of the chair. His blond curls dangled delicately around his shoulders. He appeared to wear only an oversized shirt that hung below his knees and well past his wrists, as if he’d grabbed Kammeryl’s garment instead of his own. The lord caressed the smooth skin of the boy’s hand and arm as he waited for an explanation.
    Moncriith didn’t feel like explaining himself. Let the guards who had arrested him speak if they must. He needed all his energy to contain his shivers and the fiery ache on his left cheek that now spread from the top of his head to his collarbone. The first sharp intensity was gone. He couldn’t use this aching aftermath to fuel a spell of compulsion.
    “There were others in the grove, my lord,” the eldest of the guards, a man of no more than seventeen summers, said. “I believe they were demons in search of the Tambootie. They disappeared in a puff of smoke, as if they’d never been there.” The guard crossed and flapped his wrists. His smooth cheeks flared with heightened color.
    Moncriith hid a smile. The guard didn’t know the truth. No one, demon or magician, could transport a living being safely. Only inanimate objects survived the trauma of such a spell. Let the guard’s fears and superstitious awe work for Moncriith. He could feed their imaginations with horror stories of what demons really did to a man’s soul. Given a winter in their company, he’d have them organizing his followers for him next spring.
    Moncriith stared at Kammeryl until the lord’s gaze locked with his own. “I find it strange that your own Battlemage must steal Tambootie from you, sire.” He added the royal title as a bonus to the lord’s ambitions. “If you are not giving the weed to Nimbulan and his assistant, perhaps you, too, recognize the evil inherent in the tree that feeds only demons and their ilk.”
    Lord Kammeryl threw back his head and laughed long and loud. “So Nimbulan is reduced to theft of the Tambootie to feed his powers. I seem to have gotten rid of him at the right time. He is getting old. His abilities as a mage are declining. If the Tambootie kills him, I won’t have to have his replacement assassinate him.”
    “If I replace him as your chief mage, I can purge your army and your household of the same demons who infest Nimbulan. You cannot rule a united Coronnan until all the demons are removed.” Moncriith pitched his voice to soothe and calm. Given enough time, he’d have the lord believing a witchhunt for Myrilandel and her demon consorts was his own idea and had not come from Moncriith.
    “You may stay the winter and throw the few spells I need for communication and preventing plagues. Time enough to find a better magician in the spring. I intend to rule a united Coronnan with or without demons.” Kammeryl yawned and rose from his chair. He placed an affectionate hand on his companion’s feminine locks, then let it fall to the boy’s shoulder and hip, caressing at each stage of exploration. Kammeryl wandered out the back door of the audience room, preoccupied with the boy.
    “A meal and a bed would be welcome, brothers.” Moncriith slouched as the guards unlocked his chains. He allowed his fatigue and hunger to show in his face as he looked at the threadbare patches on his red robe—the same cut and color as a priest’s.
    His followers didn’t need to know that he had been exiled from the temple because he would only fuel his magic with blood. The respect people gave him upon first glance of his vestments opened their ears to his persuasions. His followers turned away from the temple as soon as they learned how the priests and magicians harbored demons like Myrilandel.
    “There’s always a pot of soup and bread in the kitchen.” The young soldier gestured toward the low doorway that led to the stone kitchen addition attached to the keep.
    These guards were no different from the peasants Moncriith usually dealt with. Tomorrow he’d ingratiate himself into the good graces of the steward who supervised the servants. Tonight he would meditate on how Nimbulan might be killed without casting blame on anyone Moncriith found valuable.

Chapter 14
     
    T imboor sang through Nimbulan’s