The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

can’t think of anything else but Vareena. This place twists everything back to her.” Marcus clutched Robb’s hand in a painful grip that bordered on desperation.
    “Perhaps this place does cloud our thinking.” Robb had kept visions of Margit in his heart and his dreams for a long, long time. He focused hard on her each night before sleeping to stave off the recurring nightmares of attack and fruitless defense. But she obviously had strong feelings for Marcus. He did not want to come between his two best friends if their affection was genuine.
    Now?
    “What a tangled mess.” He slumped down beside Marcus and draped an arm around his friend’s shoulders.
    Marcus rested his head on Robb’s shoulders and sobbed.
    “Vareena loves me,” Robb mused. “I love Margit, Margit loves you, you love Vareena . . .”
    “I love you, too, Robb,” Marcus sobbed. “You are right. My feelings for women are temporary. Illusions. My love for you will last forever.”
    Horror shuddered through Robb. He stood up jerkily, putting as much physical distance as he could between them.
    “Snap out of your adolescent hero worship, Marcus. I’m going to climb the tower, see if a summons spell works from there—above the level of the walls.”

Chapter 23
     
    U nlike my son, those who seek to capture me are bumbling beginners. My son would have known how to break my spells and leave this cursed place. My daughter, too. They did not need this paltry dragon magic to bring them anything they wished. Nor did they need the convoluted and time-consuming rituals of the Rovers.
    And yet these amateurs do not panic easily. They have been trained to think a problem through—as Nimbulan did. I could have trained them better.
    Let us see how they handle my next little trick. Their own fear will force them to leave me alone long before I finish with them. They shall die in another ninety-seven days if they remain here. Soon I will be alone again with my power.

    The nameless woman surveyed the long line of pack steeds, sledges, merchants, and other travelers who had banded together to cross the pass safely into Coronnan. Every traveler had to be wary of bandits, out-of-work mercenaries, and rogue magicians. They were too close to the border of Hanassa for comfort.
    A flash of memory lanced her mind right between her eyes. Images of battles, war, displaced families, hungry people, noble and peasant alike, fire, flood, kardiaquakes without end.
    She clutched the mane of Zebbiah’s beast for balance as the world spun around and around, taking her with it.
    “M’ma!” Jaranda screamed.
    She fought her way through the maze of images to find the coarse, mottled brown-and-gray hide of the pack beast. It brayed loudly, threatening to sit again in protest of her fierce clutch on its mane.
    Her memory flashed again to another steed, one she rode, a docile little mare that was greatly intimidated by the mighty war stallion beside her. Her husband sat atop that horse, surveying the battle below. She had eyes only for the red-haired man who commanded the troops. “I was too young to see beyond the glamour of being in love with the notion of love,” she whispered. “I worshiped him.” He was a powerful general with tangled political connections, a strong and handsome man: what more could an idealistic young girl ask for in a man? He took care of her, protected her from . . . she couldn’t remember from what, only that she cherished his domineering presence.
    And she thanked him daily for the child he had given her.
    “Jaranda,” she whispered.
    “M’ma!” Jaranda tugged on her gown. “Wake up, M’ma. I’m scared,” the little girl implored.
    “Jaranda,” she said again, louder, firmly. “Jaranda, my love. Do you remember your father?”
    Strange, she felt no sense of loss at the man’s absence. No regret. She focused entirely on her daughter, stooping to put herself on the same level as the child.
    Jaranda shook her head. Her thumb crept toward her mouth.
    The woman gently restrained her from the baby habit of insecurity. “This is important, Jaranda. If I know your P’pa’s name, I might remember my own.”
    “You’re M’ma. You don’t need ’nother name.” Jaranda thrust out her lower lip. A tear trembled in the corner of her eye.
    “I am your M’ma, little one. But these other people need to call my by another name. I’m not their M’ma, after all.” She touched the edge of her hem to her daughter’s eyes,