The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

rhythm with their steps—or had they started marching in time with the music? A few people began an impromptu dance, others lifted their voices in songs.
    “I’ve never known a people so ready to turn any event into a party.” Katie gazed at them in amazement. Her foot tapped the dancing rhythm. Was that her brother kicking up his heels with a local woman on the fringes of the crowd?
    “After three generations of civil war, the common people have learned to grab enjoyment whenever they can, despite the feuds and jockeying for power at court,” Quinnault replied. “I want to give my people reasons to rejoice every day. They deserve it.”
    “Do you suppose it would be beneath our royal dignity to join the dancing?” She would love to maneuver close to Liam Francis and exchange a few words, maybe dance a few steps with him, just like at parties back home.
    “Considering that I would tread on your feet and likely slip and fall on my bum, yes, this free-spirited dancing is definitely beneath my dignity.” Quinnault chuckled openly.
    Much of the daily strain of ruling slid from his face, replacing worry lines with youthful humor.
    Katie hid a laugh behind her hand. The image of her tall husband sprawling in the mud, long legs tangled in the hem of her skirts presented a decided contrast to his normal public demeanor.
    Quinnault’s mind tickled hers with silent laughter. He, too, enjoyed the image of himself as the gangling scarecrow of his youth. He still thought of himself as that awkward young man yanked from his quiet life of study in a monastery to govern his family’s lands, out of place and bewildered by the enormity of his duty.
    “You’ve never quite grown into your feet, have you?” she asked quietly.
    “I’m not familiar with that expression.” He continued smiling and nodding his head in time with the music.
    “Children and dogs tend to have feet out of proportion to their bodies. They are awkward until their bodies grow to match the feet. Once their proportions match, they become as graceful in mind as in body.”
    “Ah, yes, they do. Frankly, Katie, I’ve grown into my feet.” He looked down at the monstrous boots that covered them. “But I haven’t grown into my role as king.”
    “Yes, you have, my dear. The people adore you.”
    “My very minimal magical talent as an empath qualified me for my chosen life path as a priest. I understand what the people endure, and sometimes I can help them heal. But the politicians who make the government work talk circles around me. They lie and hide the truth behind rivers of words. I get lost in the words that mean too many things at the same time.”
    “Most people are mystified by those wordstorms.” Katie gazed lovingly into his eyes, wondering how her alien education might help him deal with the professional word-smiths.
    Shouting in the middle of the crowd disrupted her thoughts. An argument grew around a knot of younger men. She checked to make sure her brother was not one of them. Back home he would be the first to wade into a brawl, fists and feet flying, loving the game of breaking heads to break up the fight. Liam Francis had vanished again. No sign of Sean Michael or Jamie Patrick either.
    One of the disputants, clothed in a gaudy orange shirt with purple piping, threw an overripe pear at his neighbor. The fruit splattered the more sober unbleached linen shirt of a dark-haired man who stood a little taller than most of the crowd. He responded by throwing the remains of his ale into Orange-shirt’s face.
    Both followed through with fists. Their neighbors joined the spreading brawl.
    “Guards, go and break this up. Disperse the people before this spreads even further,” Quinnault ordered.
    Half of the armed escort dispersed through the crowd.
    Katie clutched her husband’s arm, frightened, as the anger spread and engulfed the people standing closest to the bridge. Angry thoughts blasted through her mental armor. The emotions behind the fight made her toes curl and brought lumbird bumps to her spine.
    She’d experienced this sensation only once before, when an assassin had crept into her room the night before her wedding. He’d used magic to instill fear in her, a terror so great she lay immobile, defenseless against his attack.
    “Come, Your Grace,” the sergeant-at-arms suggested. “I’ll escort you to the royal stables. You’ll be safe there.”
    “Take Her Grace back to the palace by whatever back routes you can