The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume II

rock cuts on your feet.” The speaker lifted her free of the rocks.
    Myri’s hood folded over her eyes, preventing her from seeing who carried her away from the waves.
    Or aided Televarn’s betrayal?
    She batted the cloak away from her face to see who laid hands upon her. An older man with Televarn’s intense dark gaze and thin straight nose smiled at her. She squirmed to be set free. His grasp on her tightened and his stride across the sand lengthened.
    “Come, now. No need to be shy, pretty lady. We’ll take care of you.”
    His voice washed over her in soothing cadences. Her body relaxed in his grip. Her mind urged her to fight the compulsion to be still.
    “Never mind her,” Televarn shouted behind them. “Get the flywacket!”
    “The creature will come to her when it is ready. We have all winter to wait.”
    “Let go of me!” Myri struggled to be free of the man who carried her. “I’ll not stay with thieves and liars.”
    “I promised you a home and family, Myrilandel. You belong to us now, and we keep those we claim. Forever, cherbein. You and your flywacket belong to my clan of Rovers now.”

Chapter 16
     
    N imbulan listened to the rising wind as it whipped around his new School for Magicians. That’s what the locals called the old monastery now. The same locals were much more accepting of the school than the people he remembered living around Druulin’s tower. But then Nimbulan and his students aided the locals in building and repairing homes. They also helped with minor healing. None of his boys would consider setting fire to fields and homes as part of a lesson or experiment.
    His shivers were as much part of his memories as the chill air. Each gust found new cracks and crevices to invade the shelter. Old cold had deeply penetrated the stone walls over generations of abandonment and now dominated every corner of the ancient building. Fires in the large hearths did little to dissipate the frigid air.
    “I think it’s colder in here than in a campaign tent in midwinter,” Nimbulan said to the assembled apprentices without expecting an answer. They were all huddled in the kitchen area, cradling mugs of hot cider between their palms and wrapped in whatever quilts and blankets they had scrounged from the farmers who hid out among the islands. More refugees moved to Lord Quinnault’s lands every day, seeking relief from the famine and plague left behind by generations of war.
    The islands had a reputation for being sheltered and relatively untouched by the wars. Lord Quinnault de Tanos had earned a reputation for dealing fairly with his people and not conscripting them to serve in any army.
    A lot of the settlers had served in one lord’s army or another. They were prepared to defend their new homes. Nimbulan wondered if the influx of settlers wasn’t really part of Quinnault’s plans to unite the lords in a mutual defense pact against the aggressions of the warlords.
    Whatever Quinnault’s plans, Nimbulan and his boys were part of the island community now. They were as much a family as any of the more traditional hearth groupings. Old Druulin had never sat with his apprentices around a warm fire with an extra mug of cider before bedtime. Nimbulan cherished these gatherings. The boys shared their little triumphs and frustrating defeats with him. They shared their hopes and dreams as well. He talked of peace and his own dreams of a community of magicians.
    If he should die tomorrow, one or more of his apprentices—probably led by Rollett—would pick up that dream and carry it forward. He couldn’t wish for more if they were sons of his body.
    Lyman had chosen to remain in the library tonight, gaining warmth from his own love of the myriad books still uncataloged. The other war-weary magicians who had come here to teach had retired to their rooms early. They were more than tired of war, they were tired of life and slept away much of their remaining years. The sense of community Nimbulan built with his boys was as alien to these Master Magicians as it would have been to Druulin.
    Nimbulan blew steam from the top of his mug, as interested in keeping chilblains from his fingers as drinking the spicy brew.
    He’d laced the batch of cider with the last of the dried Tambootie leaves he’d scraped from the folds of a pouch. The boys needed to become used to the effects the tree of magic had on their bodies and minds before they began taking concentrated doses to increase their magic.
    He