The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

swallowed whole by your family’s selfishness. You’ve given them twenty years since your mama died. Ten of those years ago, you should have married and started a family of your own.”
    This time she could not avoid his stern gaze. His brown eyes seemed to blaze through the ghostly mist like two dark coals, lit by his fervor. Or his fever.
    She sighed a moment in regret. She’d like a family of her own. But none of the men in this village trusted her or honored her because she could see the ghosts and was destined to care for them. None of them had offered for her hand despite her handsome dowry of two cows and three chickens.
    “I promise, Farrell. When you pass fully into the void, I will take your amulet and claim the three acres of land in the province of Nunio.”
    “Good. Now another game, perhaps. With different stakes. I have won your dowry too many times to make it worth anything. Why don’t we play for the pile of gold in the library of this place?”
    Vareena shuffled the stack of wooden cartes, each one lovingly engraved with a different image and then painted red, black, green, or yellow. “The trick to winning that particular pot is the courage to enter the library to claim the gold. Neither of us will be lucky enough to lose this pot.”
    “Ah, but what need have I of gold? I am dying, and you will need much money to buy more land in Nunio. Three acres is a fine dowry but not enough to support you.”
    “Then I will bet a chicken stew, made with the pickled beets that you love so well.”
    “Not made from your three chickens. Those you must preserve as part of your dowry.”
    “Those three chickens are sacrosanct. They know it. Even my brothers know it. They refuse to gather eggs lest those haughty ladies peck their eyes out.”
    “From what I know of your brothers, they deserve whatever fate your chickens hand out.”
    “Why do you think I always send Yeenos to the coop when his temper is particularly vile?” They both laughed at the image of her tall and lanky brother fighting off the aggressive hens, feathers flying in all directions, squawks and squeals setting the entire coop aflurry.
    “I hope Yeenos takes the younger three boys with him as well. They deserve some lessons in humility,” Farrell finally said, breaking off his weakening laughter.
    In the distance a temple bell tolled twice, long and loud.
    “That is the priest calling the shepherds in from the hills for supper. I must go now, Farrell. I’ll return in the morning with your breakfast.”
    “Don’t bother, Vareena. There is more than enough stew left. Rest yourself and do something that you never allow yourself the time for.”
    “I could wash my hair.” She smiled, anticipating the luxury of a private bath beneath the waterfall half a league below the village. The cold mountain stream was warmed slightly at the base of the fall by hot springs. All the women of the village went there for bathing and laundry, but never first thing in the morning.
    “Use the violet-scented soap. I love the smell of violets on you.” Farrell lay back on his cot, one arm thrown across his eyes. “I remember the scent of violets in the spring, how the cows would trample them and the smell would fill the valley.” He drifted off into a light doze.
    Vareena packed up her mother’s precious cartes and tiptoed out of her ghost’s cell. He had chosen one in the middle of the southern wing of the old monastery. The rooms were larger here, originally intended for retired magicians and priests rather than novices and journeymen. The south-facing exterior wall warmed the room better than the small rooms of the chill north wing. As she threw her shawl about her shoulders against the spring chill of early evening, something heavy and awkward tangled in her hair.
    She batted at the offending thing and danced about, first on one foot then the other, half panicked. Her heart raced in fear of the giant spiders that hid in the dark recesses of this ancient building.
    “S’murghit!” she let loose with an unladylike curse as sharp metal stabbed at her fingers. She examined the offended digit for any trace of a spider bite. Satisfied that one of the critters hadn’t landed on her, she sucked the tiny cut until the worst of the sting eased.
    Only then did she take the time to comb her fingers through the mass of tight blond coils that never stayed in place long, no matter how many pins she used or how tightly she braided it.
    At last she