The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

reeling back into the void.
    “Light the lantern. It’s too dark in here to see if he’s injured.”
    Light filtered around the edges of his perception.
    The voice sounded familiar. He didn’t dare open his eyes again. He should know the speaker. Youthful, peasant tones. Ah. Haakkon.
    A giggle followed the onslaught of light. Two more young people. Powwell and Zane. None of the new apprentices’ voices had changed yet.
    “Whisst your nonsense,” Haakkon ordered his classmates!
    What was so funny about the master passed out cold on the floor of his room? Why were they laughing at all of the aches and pains left over from his astral flight with the aid of Timboor?
    Ah, the flight! He’d found a way to merge his thoughts and aura with another’s. But at a terrible cost. No magician would willingly endure this aftermath for the sake of joining magic with another.
    All the aches centered in his groin. He needed to empty his bladder. Desperately. A bigger itch plagued him. He needed a woman. Any woman. Camp follower, noble-woman, or peasant. He didn’t care. Just so the pressure in his groin found an outlet.
    No women resided on the island. The only women on the island were Quinnault’s servants, most of them married. Even in this anxious state he wouldn’t stoop to forcing another man’s mate.
    An image of Myrilandel’s fair skin and pale hair flashed before him. He longed to reach out and caress the lavender shadows around her eyes, to feel her gentle, healing touch on the most intimate part of his body.
    Myrilandel had run away. She’d never be his mistress or his apprentice.
    Nimbulan tried opening his eyes again. Three concerned adolescent faces stared at him.
    “Uuughhh,” he groaned again.
    “Quick get the chamber pot. He’s going to heave.” Haakkon lifted his master’s head and shoulders so he wouldn’t gag on his own vomit.
    “Cold,” Nimbulan ground out between clenched teeth.
    “I know you’re cold, sir. You’ll feel better as soon as you get rid of whatever’s making you sick.”
    “Cold water. Towels. Need cold.” What he really needed was to get rid of the aching pressure in his groin. Lacking a woman, a cold plunge in the river might work.
    Powwell scuttled out of the room and returned in moments with several thick towels. He left a trail of small puddles in his wake.
    Blessed chill engulfed Nimbulan’s face. The throbbing in his head subsided. He held a second soggy cloth against his chest and neck. His hands felt as if he’d plunged them into a snowbank. The cold crept down his body, reducing the swelling.
    He sighed in partial relief and turned his gaze to his cold hands. More than just his penis had become engorged by the overdose of Timboor. His fingers were double their normal size. Red splotches ran up his arms, and he guessed they ran onto his chest and face.
    “Thank you, boys,” Nimbulan said as he pressed the cold towel over his eyes again. “Your quick thinking may have saved my life. I ask two easy chores of you, then leave me to rest and recover on my own.” And get rid of the last of the uncomfortable swelling without their curious eyes watching his every move.
    “Anything, sir,” Zane said. The other two nodded their agreement.
    “First, ask cook to prepare a sweet yampion pie for our supper. The sugar in the root restores much of what magic depletes. Remember that as you progress with your magic lessons. Candied coneroot for dessert will help too.”
    “And the second chore, Master?” Powwell asked, licking his lips with an eager tongue.
    “The second lesson is much more important. The basket in the corner is filled with berries. Green-and-yellow-striped, oily berries of the Tambootie tree. Study them carefully so you will know them in any form. Then throw them into the river and never ever touch one again.” The essence of Tambootie was too strong in berry form. Too alien in its affects on the body. Power lay within the oils. Power so strong it couldn’t be managed by mortals. He had to find a different method for joining thoughts and powers. At least he now knew the first steps toward joining magic.
    “But Tambootie is supposed to help magic,” Powwell protested, rolling one of the berries between his fingertips.
    “When I was a little boy, younger than you three, my father’s great-aunt told me that only dragons can eat Timboor and survive.”
    “Then you must be part dragon, Nimbulan, if you ate the berries and lived to warn the boys