The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

fresh in the morning, when the storm passes.”
    “If it passes. Let’s just hope that unnatural light isn’t marsh gas or a ghost,” Robb said. As they pushed up the hill, he checked his dagger and shifted his grip on his staff for better defense.
    “We’ve traveled the length and breadth of Coronnan for three years now while the Commune has remained in exile, and you always look for the worst to happen,” Marcus said lightly. “And it never does.”
    “I don’t have your luck. I have found that preparation and forethought work better than waiting to see what happens. Besides, we’re too close to the border with SeLenicca. No guarantees that your luck will continue once we cross the border and run out of ley lines to fuel our magic.”
    “Ah, but over the border we will find dragons. What better luck than to find a dragon and return with it to Coronnan so that the University of Magicians and the Commune of Magicians can gain credibility once more?”
    “This isn’t dragon weather. It’s foul and unpleasant and s’murghin’ cold. There aren’t any dragons nearby. I’ll believe we’ve found dragons when we actually return to Coronnan with them. I’ll believe that magicians will regain honor and integrity from dragon magic when the Council of Provinces reinstates the Commune into the University buildings and Council Chamber and not before.”
    Robb trudged beside Marcus uphill along an overgrown and narrow game trail.
    “Look, Robb, there’s a building with nice stout walls. The light is coming from a window niche. We’ll have you warm and dry and cheerfully lecturing me with a nice cup of something hot to take the chill out of your innards and your mood.” Marcus grabbed Robb’s sleeve and pulled him forward at a brisk pace.
    Trees crowded their path, sheltering them from the wind if not the rain. Robb looked up to scan the walls that towered above them. “I only sense one life,” he said through chattering teeth. “I can’t smell any magic, but that is definitely witchlight.” He gnawed his lip in puzzlement.
    “Witchfire won’t throw out much heat. Let’s hope there’s some dry fuel about to turn it into green flame.” Marcus lifted each foot carefully in the slick mud on the upward path. His staff kept him balanced, but he leaned on it heavily.
    “How tired are you?” Robb asked, concerned. “Don’t try to hide it just because I’m in a foul humor.”
    “One of us has to keep moving. Otherwise you’d crawl into a badger hole and call it shelter. A hot infusion of Brevelan’s special blend of spices will taste very good once we get inside and light a real fire.”
    They hadn’t much left of the tasty treat and had agreed to ration it. Robb agreed they really needed it today.
    Soon enough, stone buttresses jutted out from the walls, making their path as crooked as Old Baamin’s magical staff.— S’murghit! He wished the old Senior Magician hadn’t passed on to his next existence. Robb would welcome the old man’s cranky wisdom now.
    The neatly dressed stones fit together snugly.
    “I wonder how old this place is?” Marcus reached out a hand to caress the stones. “I can’t sense any residual energy embedded in the stone by the mason who shaped it.”
    “All I feel is the deep cold of many winters,” Robb added, mimicking his friend in trying to read the wall. The old cold burned through to his bones. “Old enough to harbor ghosts,” he said. He touched his head, heart, and both shoulders in the cross of the Stargods. “I’m not sure . . .”
    “Oh, come on. We need shelter and a fire. Let’s find the gate.” Marcus clumped around the perimeter of the wall. Only an occasional window slit broke the smooth surface between buttresses. The rain eased, but the cloud cover lowered.
    “Almost a mile around,” Robb stated. His breath made small chill clouds in front of his face. “Wonder if this is an old monastery. There were a number of them during the Great Wars of Disruption. But we only know of one left standing after peace came to Coronnan. Many of them disappeared as people made use of their building stones for other purposes. A few may have been converted into palaces or summer retreats for the nobility.” Talking—lecturing as Marcus claimed—kept him from thinking about the thickness of the haze they nearly swam through. All of his senses were distorted, untrustworthy. He felt . . . inadequate.
    “Wonder if anyone has lived here in the last three