The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

at the only ground floor entrance to the round structure at her back. More Rovers guarded the second-story and roof-top entrances. This lesser tower topped the exterior wall by only a few handspans and did not rise above the gloaming—the great towers on the western corners rose a full story above the defensive walls and pierced the constant haze. Inside the circular room at the base of the tower, Rejiia paced around and around her prison. Her footsteps and heavy sighs filtered through the stone to Margit’s extended senses. Sometimes she heard Rejiia climb the turret stairs and pound on the doors. Mostly she just paced.
    She’d done this all night long after waking screaming from some pain or nightmare. Margit had listened from the observation platform atop the northwest tower where she had attempted to sleep. Never one to remain indoors if the weather were anything but the most hostile, Margit had rejected the tiny cells available. Better to fall asleep under the stars than trapped by four walls.
    But sleep had eluded her. When she wasn’t crying over the loss of Marcus, a sense of airless dread had pursued her even to the open air. So she had listened with her magic to all of the inhabitants, looking for the source of her unease.
    Everyone within the compound seemed to have awakened screaming, in a cold sweat at one time or another. And yet, even with her senses wide open, Margit couldn’t isolate the cause.
    A loud thud within the lesser tower where Margit sat now sounded as if Rejiia had thrown her entire body as well as her magic at the door of her prison. The woman had a fierce temper if she still beat aimlessly at anything and everything that defied her.
    Margit withdrew any lingering magic from her mundane sense to avoid touching the witch or being touched by her.
    Yet she sympathized with Rejiia. Many times during her three years as Queen Rossemikka’s maid she had railed at the confinement of the palace. The only thing that kept her there for so long was the dream of advancing to journeywoman magician so she could wander the world at Marcus’ side.
    But Marcus had had his fill of wandering. He also, it seemed, had had his fill of Margit.
    She refused to be bound by his dream of hearth and home and dozens of children and apprentices. She had her own dreams.
    She’d accept whatever quest Jaylor chose to give her, alone or in the company of another, as long as she did not have walls confining her or cats fouling the scant air within a building.
    The ache in her heart spread to her head. Marcus had never considered her wishes in his plans. He’d never even asked what she wanted out of life. That betrayal hurt as much as the idea of spending the rest of her life indoors, cooking and cleaning for him and his brats. And he loved cats, frequently trying to arouse her sympathy for some stray whenever he visited the capital.
    Some subtle variation in the light caught her attention. She sensed more than saw the Rover at the doorway shifting restlessly from foot to foot. He’d been there since before dawn. Margit would be restless and tired by now, too. Something about the changes in light around his ghostly outline made her open her magical senses again, straining to see his posture and possibly an aura.
    At the same moment, she became aware of a subtle difference in the way Rejiia and her magic moved. The witch focused her beating against the magical and mundane chains that bound her. The wall at Margit’s back no longer vibrated from her assault. And yet a great deal of magic beat at her senses.
    A subtle voice in the back of her mind suggested that the lock was open. She needed to shift it. She needed . . .
    “Compulsions are illegal, Rejiia,” Margit chortled as she recognized the nature of the magic drifting around her. “The lock is in place. Shifting it will merely open it for you. Commune magicians are trained to be immune to magical coercion. But that Rover isn’t.”
    She stood up, alert to any other changes in the compound. No more time to feel sorry for herself or worry about sleep loss. The best cure for a broken heart was action. She smiled, anticipating a fight. She twirled her staff, seeking the best defensive grip.
    But if Rejiia relied on magic, Margit needed help. Marcus had not returned—probably wouldn’t for days. Robb had gone to the village with Vareena. That left Jack and the Rovers. By his own admission, Jack was half Rover, Zolltarn’s grandson. Her prejudices told her not