The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

folds and pleats of her gown remained out of sight.
    “The child will be born away from court. If it survives and displays normal intelligence, I will acknowledge it in the line of succession. Bad enough I have to preside over this mockery of a marriage. I will not endure the constant reminder of events that should not have happened. All of you are dismissed.” He turned on his heel and exited through the private door behind the altar.
    A dozen guards appeared at the main door, as if summoned by the king’s departure. “Your sledges and steeds await you in the postern courtyard, my lords,” the sergeant said. “We will escort you beyond the city limits now.” His hand rested easily on his sword.

    Lanciar postponed his trip into the void in search of his son. As a military tactician, he knew that intelligence was more important than troop numbers and superior weapons.
    So he sat outside the tavern day after day, drinking the sour ale until it began to taste good and watching the Rover encampment. Then he drank some more, relishing the soft haze around his vision. For the first time since he’d left Queen’s City in SeLenicca, he did not thirst from his very pores and he did not need to shield his eyes from an overly bright sun.
    Day after day he memorized the movements within the Rover encampment. Day after day he learned the faces of the women and the children, which tent or bardo they inhabited, which man they waited for at the end of the day.
    Always, he counted more women than men in each dwelling. His heart beat faster at the thrill of two or three women in his bed. Then he clamped down on his emotions and returned to the task at hand.
    The dearth of men puzzled Lanciar. Fewer angry and armed men to pursue him when he chose to retrieve his son. But where had they all gone? Only old men and young boys, barely mature enough to mate remained. He saw nothing of men in their prime.
    He learned that laundry, cooking, and minding the children were communal chores shared by all of the women. Men and women alike hunted and foraged to feed the entire community.
    Visitors from the inn and nearby campground came to the Rover camp to have their fortunes told, their pots mended, or to buy unique silver jewelry and embroidery. Their few coins bought the things the Rovers could not find in the nearby forest or field.
    He guessed that the statue of Krej resided with Zolltarn in the largest tent, for it was guarded night and day. Zolltarn rarely emerged from the fabric shelter, and then only when a dispute disturbed the usual quiet of the camp. He did not linger with his clan, did not join in the singing or dancing or storytelling. But once disturbed he would flash his smile and his people settled into their chores without protest. Whatever had caused the noisy disagreement, it dispersed like mist in sunshine.
    “Which child are you, son?” Lanciar asked the air repeatedly. All of the children were treated equally with love and respect. All of the children were tended by at least three adults at all times.
    Even if he knew which child to snatch, he’d not travel more than three steps before encountering a vorpal dagger wielded by a very angry Rover. Both men and women carried the nasty rippled blades.
    Lanciar trusted his own ability to wield a weapon, but not while carrying a precious baby in one arm.
    He knew that Rejiia also watched the Rover enclave, but from the relative comfort of the upper window of the inn. She had commandeered their best and biggest room for herself.
    And then the day came when the Rovers broke camp.
    Lanciar had seen nothing unusual in their movement. One night they went to bed after singing and dancing around the campfires until nearly midnight—as was their custom—and the next morning they were gone at sunrise.
    But this time, they had not used the transport spell. Lanciar found their tracks easily. With an illusory coin, he hired a sturdy steed without much energy and only one speed—slow. But it would walk at that plodding pace all day and half the night without pause.
    “Saddle that steed for me, peasant,” Rejiia sneered right behind Lanciar. Rejiia gestured to a high-stepping black steed with a blaze of white on its nose and mane that matched her own raven locks streaked at one temple with white.
    “I’ll see the color of your coin first,” the hostler replied calmly.
    “You’ll see the color of my magic first.” Rejiia flung a ball of witchfire into his face.
    He screamed