The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

popped into view, much as he had disappeared moments before.
    “The healers come,” the old librarian announced breathlessly. “Now make yourself useful in the kitchen, Bessel. Kaariin is here to tend the baby. Stay out of sight, and keep your mutt quiet. Scarface is hot on the heels of the medical people. He’s angrier than a wet lumbird and looking for a victim.” Lyman transferred Princess Marilell to the arms of the breathless maid who dashed up the steps from the street.
    “Lyman, how did you do that?” Bessel asked, too amazed to obey. “Dragon magic only allows levitation, not transportation. And no one could transport a living being from place to place even when solitary magic was legal.” He dropped his voice as the thought formed into words. The royal couple and their guards were too occupied making Nimbulan comfortable to pay attention to his almost accusation.
    “Shhush, boy. The answer is in the timing. And if you ever figure it out, guard the secret with your life. You may need the spell in the days to come, but never use it carelessly. Now I must be off. The dragons call me.”
    Another whoosh of displaced air and he was gone, almost as if he’d never been there.
    “Maybe he only sent an illusion along with a powerful summons,” the queen whispered into Bessel’s ear.
    “Is there anything you don’t see or hear, Your Grace?” Bessel asked.
    “Very little. Now do as your master says, mull some wine or prepare snacks, or anything you can think of, in the kitchen and out of sight.”
    Bessel scuttled down the hall to the back of the house just as he heard Scarface’s roar of anger in the street.

Chapter 35
     
    The pit, near the dragongate, beneath the city of Hanassa
     
    Y aala whipped her belt knife upward and held it across Hanassa’s throat. With her free arm she pinned the consort’s arms. Beside her, Rollett drew his own blade and held it up in a fighting stance. Powwell whipped his staff around to fend off any attackers.
    “Kill them, kill them all!” Hanassa cried. She held her body tensely, poised for flight at the first sign of weakness in Yaala’s grip.
    “If I die, you die, too, Hanassa. I’ve waited a long time to avenge my father’s death.” Years of anger, frustration, and loneliness concentrated in Yaala’s hand, making the knife blade waver up and down across the great vein of life in Hanassa’s throat.
    Rollett shot her a strange look.
    Her determination wavered a moment. If she killed Hanassa, then she condemned Kalen to a ghostly existence as a wraith. Powwell would never forgive her.
    If she killed Hanassa solely to exact vengeance, then she succumbed to the renegade dragon’s violence. Rollett would never forgive her.
    She’d never forgive herself.
    But she couldn’t let Hanassa go free either. The tyranny had to end.
    The Rover guards lowered their sword tips but did not drop their weapons.
    “Tell them to throw their swords and clubs into the pool of water beside Old Bertha,” Yaala commanded her prisoner, loud enough for the Rovers to hear.
    “Never. You must die!”
    Yaala nicked Kalen’s skin. Three drops of blood trickled onto the blade.
    A screech of fear and pain echoed around the caverns. Hanassa hadn’t uttered a sound. The wraith had.
    The Rovers threw their weapons away. All except Piedro.
    Cautiously, Yaala edged forward toward the mouth of the tunnel, keeping her prisoner in front of her, the knife still dangerously close to drawing blood.
    Piedro took one step forward, raising his sword. “You haven’t the guts to take a life,” he sneered.
    “Perhaps not. But I do,” a solemn voice announced from the main cavern.
    All the Rovers fell silent, backing away from the frail old man who stood beside Old Bertha. He wore an old-fashioned blue tunic that hung nearly to his knees, belted with a silk sash. The tunic and trews had been dyed Commune blue. He carried a long staff nearly twice his height. The length of wood was so twisted and gnarled from a lifetime of channeling magic, Yaala couldn’t see a pattern in the grain that mimicked the man’s magical signature.
    “Lyman!” Powwell breathed in relief.
    “Iianthe! You cannot still live. I felt you die decades ago.” Hanassa struggled in Yaala’s arms, ready to break free. She looked right and left, up and down, disregarding the knife at her throat.
    “Iianthe, the purple-tipped dragon born your twin, died more than twenty years ago, Hanassa,” Lyman replied. He swung his