The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

cleansing ritual.
    Margit whirled to face him, eyes huge, hands fishing within her scrip. “Did you feel that? You must have. It was stronger this time, more urgent.”
    Then Jack put aside his own horrible fears and opened his awareness. His glass thrummed, very lightly; almost as if he had already answered the summons that had brought it to life.
    “What?”
    “A distress call. From that direction.” She pointed. “West by southwest.”
    “I barely felt it before it was gone.”
    “That’s the nature of a distress call, sent out to any magician who might intercept it.”
    Jack looked at her quizzically.
    “That’s what Lyman says. And I’m betting it’s Marcus. I’m following it. Now.” She stooped to pick up her pack at her feet. “You two don’t need me anymore.”
    “Wait, Margit. You can’t go now. It’s dark. The road is uncertain, and we’re very near the border. Who knows what kinds of bandits lurk in the foothills.” Jack gritted his teeth and grabbed Margit’s arm to detain her. His insides coiled in mistrust and an urge to flee.
    The moment he touched her shoulder, Margit sneezed three more times in rapid succession.
    He whirled quickly and sought Amaranth’s aura, clearly outlined in the firelight. Only the pale purple signature color outlined his black body with energy. Jack sought Katrina’s single aura of crystal and white, like her lace. Margit shone three shades of yellow between sneezes that shifted all her energy to orange while she purged himself of some foreign humor in the air.
    Then Jack took a deep breath and sought the first stages of a trance. He stared at the silvery umbilical of life that trailed from his body.
    Very few master magicians could see their umbilical anywhere but in the void. Fewer still ever had a glimpse of their true signature colors in the umbilical.
    Along with Jack’s signature silver and purple—darker than Amaranth’s—he saw a strange coil of life entwined with his own. Red, black, yellow, brown, and a touch of white.
    The same colors he’d sensed around Queen Mikka. The same colors as the cat she had lost when she absorbed her pet’s spirit.
    “Ladies, I think I have a problem.”

Chapter 27
     
    L anciar shifted the bundle of kindling under his arm for better balance. Satisfied that he’d not drop the load of small sticks and dried grasses, he swung his free arm jauntily and whistled a gay tune as he strolled through the line of trees bordering a chuckling creek. This simple life of trekking across the countryside with the Rovers appealed to him. Almost like being back in the army without the worry and responsibility of seeing to the discipline and well-being of a thousand men under his command.
    Indeed, discipline never seemed to be a problem with the Rovers. Their mind-to-mind links with Zolltarn gave them a sense of unity and purpose he’d never achieved in the army.
    For a moment he felt very alone and left out of the clan. The whistling tune died in his throat. Alone. As he had always been alone except for those few brief hours when he and Jack had sat on a cold mountain trail while they traversed the void together seeking a way to center and awaken Lanciar’s magical talent. Linked to Jack by mind and magic, he had known a short time of belonging with the universe at large and with one other person.
    The next morning he and Jack had parted with hostility. And then, because of his misguided loyalty to the coven, Lanciar had betrayed Jack. Lanciar had never heard if the young magician had survived. He hoped so, even though they belonged to opposing forces on both the magic and mundane planes. Jack’s honesty and unwavering loyalty deserved better than Rejiia had given him.
    Guilt made him long for a tall mug of Maija’s ale.
    “What troubles you, spy?” Maija asked from directly behind him.
    Lanciar gasped and whirled, ready to defend himself with his staff and magic. He’d never get used to the Rover’s ability to creep up on him unannounced. Inanely, he was still clutching the kindling, recognizing its importance to the camp as a whole.
    “What do you want?” he asked rather curtly. His irritation at his own failings suddenly became her fault.
    “I thought you might like to meet your son, spy.”
    “I am not a spy. I have a s’murghin’ name.” He couldn’t allow hope to overshadow his caution.
    “Watch your language,” she replied curtly. “Until you are one of us, we do not acknowledge your name. When you