The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

weave rogue magic. I will be condemned by the Council and Commune. I will be forced into exile with my daughter. The people will demand Quinnault marry another.” Tears threatened to choke her.
    Quinnault gathered her closer in a fierce embrace. “I will never give you up, Katie.”
    “If we have awakened magical powers within you, Katie, I will give you enough training to hide those powers,” Nimbulan said.
    Katie looked up at the sadness in his voice. The world spun a moment, then settled. Crystal continued to outline everything she saw. Her eyes focused in sharper detail than she ever thought possible.
    Nimbulan moved slowly, almost painfully. The crystal light around the edges of his life flared sharply in orange and black. Blue tinged his lips and spread to his pinched nostrils. He clutched his swollen left hand in the center of his chest. His right arm hung limply by his side.
    “Lan!” Myri jumped from her crouched position beside Katie to catch Nimbulan as he crumpled to the ground.
    Overhead, Kinnsell’s shuttle roared in a low and erratic trajectory.
    Katie spared a half glance at the wavering path of the shuttle. The metal/ceramic craft listed to the left and dragged its tail.
    “Don’t crash, Daddy. I’m not finished with you!” she screamed at him.
    Then quite suddenly the jet engines gave way to rockets and the shuttle rose in a new trajectory straight south toward a polar orbit. With the shuttle went her last hope of communicating with her brothers, her last hope of intervening before her father set loose the seeds of the plague on this planet.
    She turned her attention back to the people she could help. Nimbulan lay unmoving on the ground. Myri wept silently by his side, holding his limp hand with the blue-tinged fingernails. “I am so sorry, Lan. I dare not help you. The life within me has just begun. We agreed not to taint your son with magic.”
    Katie realized in that moment that her father also took with him access to all of the advanced medical equipment aboard the mother ship—equipment that might save Nimbulan’s life.

    Late afternoon, Coronnan City
     
    Bessel crept through the city, Mopsie at his heels. He crossed bridge after bridge, winding among the islands in a convoluted path that confused him as much as anyone who might follow him.
    The fishermen had given him dry, mostly clean clothing, but no boots. They usually went barefoot. The yellow tunic and white trews seemed overly bright to Bessel. But the fishermen assured him the clothes represented safety to them. The bright colors were easier to see underwater, should one of them fall overboard. And the colors held no resemblance to the sober blue of the Commune. He’d look like any other fisherman gone to market.
    He bypassed the University and its library twice. As long as Scarface ruled that enclave, he’d never be able to delve into the treasure trove of knowledge without help.
    As long as Scarface ruled the Commune of Magicians, Bessel would not return, even if invited. He knew the truth now. He was a rogue magician with a familiar. Nimbulan might overlook his crime, but Scarface never would.
    Finally, when both he and Mopsie knew that none of the assassins from Rossemeyer had spotted them, he turned toward Ambassador Row. Footsore and exhausted, he limped down several side streets to avoid passing in front of the Rossemeyerian Embassy.
    Myrilandel’s tall, narrow stone house looked blank and uninviting. The barest flicker of smoke emerged from the tall chimneys at either end of the building, as if all the fires had been banked. Bessel knew that Myrilandel and Nimbulan rarely used the formal rooms at the front of the dwelling. Life centered in the kitchen for them.
    Myrilandel should have stoked the kitchen fire by now to prepare the simple evening meal. Unless the family dined at the palace with her brother the king.
    Bessel and his familiar scooted down an alley to approach the house from the rear. Closed shutters and a firmly locked door greeted him. Fortunately, he remembered the sequence for opening the lock with magic. Nimbulan had given him that key last night. This was supposed to be his home until the issue of rogue magic and the death of Jorghe-Rosse had been settled.
    The settlement meant nothing now.
    A chill of unease and stale smoke rippled across Bessel’s senses as he stepped down into the kitchen. A mixing bowl and several baking ingredients lay neatly on the worktable, as if set out ahead of