The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

his attention was no longer divided between the cat and the flywacket, Rosie had nothing further to contribute.
    Jack almost panicked at the loss of Amaranth’s familiar presence in his mind. They’d been linked constantly since before the purple dragonet’s transformation. He took a deep breath and accepted the temporary separation. Temporary, he reminded himself and the cat.
    You know, if you had gone into Amaranth’s body as planned, you wouldn’t have anything to be jealous of, he reminded Rosie.
    The cat continued to purr without further comment, setting up an almost sexual satisfaction within Jack as the vibrations radiated out from his spine. His bottom stopped itching, as if his invisible tail curled around his hips in contentment.
    “What was that all about?” Katrina asked.
    “Did Baamin show you the view from above?”
    “I only caught bits and pieces through a thick fog. My contact with him is not as—as complete as it is with Shayla. But I sense his approval of me. He wants to deepen our contact. What is that strange building atop the hill that he seemed so concerned about?”
    “I’m guessing from the shape it’s an abandoned monastery from long ago. People who aren’t supposed to be there have recently taken up residence.”
    “What people?”
    “Rovers.” The bardos atop the sledges were distinctly Rover in construction and painted design. But why had the owners neglected the sledges and pack beasts? Rovers always attended to their animals very carefully before seeing to their own needs. Always. Steeds carried nearly as much value to them as the gold coins they wore on their sashes and caps. Only children represented more wealth than gold and steeds.
    The distinctive purple and red that dominated the colors of those bardos proclaimed them the possessions of Zolltarn, self-styled king of all Rovers, member of the Commune of Magicians, and Jack’s grandfather. That clan had an abundance of babies born in the last four years—to replace the men who had died quite suddenly the year before Zolltarn changed his loyalties from coven to Commune. The dragons had a hand in the loss of those men, and the Rovers had never quite trusted them as a source of magic or as a benign presence since.
    Zolltarn used dragon magic and his membership in the Commune to serve his own ends. Only he of all master magicians dared ignore a summons from Senior Magician Jaylor.
    “I might have known that Zolltarn would end up with the statue of Krej,” he muttered.
    “Amaranth. I need you to look again. Where are the children, where are the Rovers for that matter? They wouldn’t abandon their steeds and bardos.” He relinquished the moments of quiet single vision in favor of information.
    He saw again the bardos still harnessed to the steeds; the riding steeds wandering about the large courtyard, grazing on the overgrown herb garden; a woman he did not know sitting on the step beside the well, face buried in her hands, her shoulders heaving with sobs. Beside her stood a familiar and unwelcome figure. He sensed more than recognized the aura of his old enemy Lanciar from SeLenicca. What was he doing in Coronnan? And if Lanciar was about, Rejiia could not be far behind.
    Then the Rovers and several other figures emerged from inside the building. They looked nearly transparent, outlined in silver like a dragon. All of them had become ghosts!
    At that moment Katrina stopped their steed abruptly at the gate tower. Jack slid from its back, half planning to dismount, half falling from distorted balance and perception.
    “We’ve got some real problems here. Stay outside the walls, Katrina. Whatever happens, you and Margit stay outside the walls.” He walked quietly through the gate, keeping to the shadows.
    “Your problems are my problems, Jack.” Behind him, Katrina dismounted and followed closely on his heels.

    Vareena rose from her seat by the well and marched out into the courtyard. Steeds milled about, placing their burdensome sledges at odd angles. She stumbled over an abandoned pack, slipped in a fresh pile of dung and landed heavily against the sledge cabin. A tin weasel with flaking gilt paint grinned down at her as it teetered on its porch.
    “S’murghit!” she cursed in very unladylike tones. “I refuse to be responsible anymore. I’m leaving.” She righted herself and aimed for the gate.
    “Wait, you can’t abandon us. You’re the only one who knows what’s going on,” the blond man who