The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

there as to how we can separate him from the gold.”
    “Look in the library for early references to exorcism of ghosts and blood magic,” Jack added. He began his deep breathing in preparation for a trance. “Just think about the courtyard of the University. There’s a big everblue tree with a bank of calubra ferns at the base on the north end.”
    “I know the place.” Marcus breathed deeply on his own, fixing the memory of the University firmly in his mind as he’d seen it only a moon or so ago. “I always pictured Margit nestled in among the lower branches for a shady study place.”
    “How did you know?” Margit asked.
    The sense-robbing blackness of the void closed around him before he could answer.
    Before he could register the mind-numbing cold and the tangle of colored umbilicals that entwined with his own life force, a sharp jolt through his feet brought him into the exact spot he had visualized.
    “Merawk!” Amaranth protested in the branch above with a flutter of wings and scraping of talons on bark. Then the creature flapped his wings and flew up the cliff face behind the library toward Shayla’s lair. He had his own errands to run.
    Marcus took a deep breath that smelled of home.
    “Marcus, you are the last person I expected to invade our meditation session,” Master Slippy exclaimed. The lanky magician gestured to the silent students sitting cross-legged all around the compound. The leaves on the trees around them had faded and begun to change color and the sun angled quite low.
    “How—how long have I been gone?” He had meticulously counted the days in the monastery—difficult because of the perpetual twilight the gloaming had imposed upon him. High Summer should still brighten the courtyard.
    “Many moons. Since early last spring.” Slippy looked puzzled.
    “The ghost was right. Time does move differently in his domain.”
    “Time cannot be distorted, boy,” Slippy reprimanded him. “I thought I taught you better than that.”
    “Maybe time isn’t distorted, but our perceptions are. I need to report to Jaylor, right away.”
    “Not today, young man. Our Senior Magician is sorely troubled at home. I could have told him that families interfere with magic. But he wouldn’t listen. No one listens to me anymore.”
    Marcus noted the increased amount of white hair in Slippy’s faded strawberry-blond queue. The hairline on his forehead had receded another finger-length since Marcus had last seen him as well.
    “This will not wait, Master Slippy.” Marcus kept his voice down in deference to the apprentices hard at work within their own minds. “There is great trouble brewing in Laislac near one of the minor passes.”
    “Another invasion? I thought SeLenicca broken and beyond organizing anything.”
    “That is probably true since their queen has taken herself into exile at an abandoned monastery. No, the trouble involves the coven, and the Rovers, and a ghost, and . . . it’s too complex to relate all at once.”
    “Then come into the library. These pesky students can survive without supervision for a while. In the absence of Jaylor and Lyman—he’s truly ill—I guess I am the most senior of the masters and the one you should report to.”
    “Is . . . is Master Lyman truly so ill?” Marcus had difficulty imagining the University without the elderly librarian. But then everyone grew old and died eventually, even Old Baamin, Jaylor’s predecessor as Senior Magician.
    Everyone died eventually and passed on to the next existence. So why hadn’t Ackerly passed on? What chained him other than his lust for gold?
    A sense of urgency drove him to ask one last question before diving into his research.
    “Master Slippy, have you heard any rumors from the capital about the priests or Gnuls breaking the sanctuary of that abandoned monastery?”
    Slippy stopped his slow steps toward the library abruptly. “How did you know that Hanic’s successor is mounting an armed force to guard a party of engineers that are supposed to tear the place apart stone by stone and kill anything that lives within?”
    Marcus had to stop and breathe deeply.
    “What ails you, boy? You are as pale as a ghost.” Slippy clutched his arm.
    “An apt description,” Marcus mumbled. He welcomed the extra support while he fought for balance. “When are the engineers leaving the capital?”
    “Two days ago, riding with all haste, guided by a local. A young man petitioned to destroy the place, the