The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

talent.
    “Does he have the plague?” he whispered to Myri as the royal guards passed them bearing the litter.
    Bessel’s time sense rocked backward and forward, superimposing the image of Jorghe-Rosse’s corpse being carried on a litter before the king.
    He pushed aside the memory for more immediate concerns.
    “Does he have the plague?” he asked again, a little louder.
    Myri shook her head, never taking her eyes off her husband.
    “Then why couldn’t you cure him?” he asked. A note of desperation crept into his voice. He had nothing left if Nimbulan died. No family, no Commune, not even his friend the librarian . . .
    Mopsie pressed himself against Bessel’s legs and whimpered. The fishermen had given him more consideration than the Commune. He could build a new family with the hearty seamen and their dogs.
    King Quinnault rushed up beside his sister. He thrust the baby into Bessel’s arms for safekeeping then hugged Myrilandel’s shoulders in comfort. “He asks a valid question, Myri,” Quinnault said quietly. “The law against women using magic be damned. Please do not let this great man die if you can do anything to help him.”
    “Do you think I would willingly watch my beloved die if I could help, law or no law?” Myri shook off the king’s embrace angrily. “I am newly pregnant. I can’t use my talent lest I harm the baby. He stopped me earlier today when I would have corrected the problem. . . .” She broke into sobs, unable to finish her sentence.
    King Quinnault cradled her against his chest, rubbing her back helplessly.
    Bessel mimicked the motion with the little princess. He’d had enough practice taking care of his younger siblings back home.
    “Does he have the plague?” Bessel insisted, still tending the baby. The plague kills the old, the young, and pregnant women first, his aunt had said. He had to get Myrilandel and the princess away from here.
    “No, he does not have the plague,” Queen Maarie Kaathliin said, entering the room. Shorter than anyone else by at least a head, she still radiated authority and commanded respect simply by being there.
    “Are you certain?” King Quinnault asked. Even he, the most powerful man in the land deferred to her.
    “Yes, I am certain. The Tambootie smoke would have killed the virus if our brief exposure had infected him.”
    “His skin is waxy and blue like the dragon dream Powwell shared with me,” Bessel argued, desperately needing reassurance and not daring to hope for it. “His breathing is ragged just like my mother’s was before she died.”
    “Your mother had the plague?” King Quinnault swung Bessel around, shaking his shoulders as if he had to force the information from him. “Where? When?” Why wasn’t I told!”
    “Master Scarface said that only the privations of a long winter and the aftermath of so many generations of war ravaged Lord Balthazaan’s province, especially the mining villages where they grow very little of their own food. But I remembered the smell. Powwell shared the smell with me telepathically when he shared the dragon dream.”
    “Stargods, the plague is here for certain, not just a ‘perhaps’ pushed aside for other concerns. How? When?” Quinnault paced the reception hall. He clenched his hands behind his back and hunched his shoulders. With the afternoon sun pouring through the open doorway, he was outlined in red-gold light like the silhouette of a young dragon.
    Bessel stepped away from him. Surreptitiously, he crossed himself in a ward against the evils of the unknown.
    “My husband’s heart is weak from all those years of warfare that left this kingdom teetering on bankruptcy—a bankruptcy of people as well as money. He wore out his heart and himself weaving great magic in battle after battle. Now he pays the price. Where are the healers? Lyman promised to summon them.” Myri ran to the door, looking up and down the street anxiously. Then she rushed back to Nimbulan’s side. She knelt beside the litter. The guards had laid the aging man before the unlit hearth.
    Bessel forced his mind to light the fire. No other magicians stalked the room; he could use rogue magic for the task—so much easier than the increasingly elusive dragon magic. In a heartbeat the fire leaped high, warming the large room.
    A whoosh of displaced air erupted beside Bessel, nearly knocking him into the wall. He clutched the baby tighter to make sure he didn’t drop her. As he struggled for balance, Lyman