The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

Scarface now, before he destroyed everything dear to the Commune, and to Coronnan.
    Yet he wished he could share the communion of magic with the other magicians one more time—with or without Scarface.
    A crowd had gathered in front of Myrilandel’s home, the dragon embassy, attracted by the presence of the royal couple and their entourage. Bessel slipped through their ranks, keeping his face averted.
    His best and safest route lay in anonymity.
    Bessel caught sight of Scarface forcing his way through the crowd like a ship plowing through heavy waves with the wind coming from a cross quarter. The anxious people made way for the Senior Magician with only nominal nods of their heads in respect for his rank, not for the man.
    Curious. Last year he had been hailed as a hero and welcomed in the city. Now the populace merely tolerated him.
    Scarface passed the Rossemeyerian Embassy. A black-clad mercenary still stood vigil on the front stoop. A blood-red banner drooped above his head, limp from the damp river air. Bessel held his breath as he followed the Senior Magician’s path. He willed Mopsie to make himself invisible in the crowd. The assassin had seen the dog with Bessel and might look beyond the common fisherman’s clothes to find the man blamed for the death of Ambassador Jorghe-Rosse.
    But the mercenary looked right past Bessel toward Nimbulan’s and Myrilandel’s house, keeping one hand on the hilt of his sword, the other hand fingering some unseen weapon beneath his voluminous robes.
    Bessel looked directly at the mercenary. No recognition flickered on the man’s face. Bessel smiled to himself. For once he faded into the background when he really wanted to. Had his ordeal in the river settled the skill in his bones as the trial by Tambootie smoke settled a magician’s talent?
    Once past Embassy Row, Scarface began weaving his hands in a complicated gesture. Bessel recognized the movement before he sensed the spell that followed. The Senior Magician summoned the Commune to attend him in the tower room. The order contained a subtle, but illegal, compulsion to obey. Only rogue magic could power a compulsion!
    In a flash of insight, Bessel knew that this was the spell Scarface had been working yesterday during the storm. The Senior Magician had to tap a ley line in order to compel people to obey him. That was why he’d noticed when Bessel also tapped a ley line.
    Bessel erected his armor before Scarface finished the spell. No sense in taking a chance it might work past his natural barriers. He intended to follow Scarface unseen and counter the Senior Magician’s plans with any magic available to him.
    They neared the open courtyard in front of the University. Bessel ducked into the shadows beneath the last bridge. In his mind he envisioned the dark depths blending with a river fog. He saw no differences in the patterns of light and shadow with his physical eyes, but the apprentices and masters who obeyed Scarface’s summons looked right at him without paying him any mind. Even the pesky newcomers who had more curiosity than sense ignored him.
    Only Wind-drift looked his way. But he did not linger and did not inform any of the others of Bessel’s presence.
    For a brief moment, as their eyes locked, Bessel knew the tremendous joy of communal magic at work. Bessel broke the contact, knowing he could not continue within the Commune. Wind-drift shook his head sadly and returned to the summons.
    Bessel’s heart ached at the separation.
    He reasserted the shadows that hid him. He didn’t question the source of the energy that fueled his trick. Scarface had exiled him from the Commune. His oath to use only dragon magic had lost validity with that exile. He still served his Commune, Coronnan, and King Quinnault, but he would do so by whatever means he found available against a man who intended to destroy the delicate balance of King, Commune, and Coronnan.
    How? What form would Scarface’s retaliation take?
    Witchlight glowed from the stained-glass windows in the tower room. Bridge traffic in and out of the University ceased. Bessel crept out of his hiding place, keeping the shadows and mist draped around him like a cloak.
    He entered through the library. The slightly musty smell of old books, ink, and parchment reached out to welcome him. He drew the comforting scent deep into his lungs, cherishing his return to the familiar sanctuary of learning.
    But he didn’t have time to linger here in the great room