The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

A deep sigh heaved its way up through her chest. When it was gone, she felt lighter, more confident. She was in charge of her destiny for the first time in a very long time.
    “When did you get back?” she asked, keeping her tone neutral and polite.
    “Just now. I heard most of what Robb said so eloquently.” He looked at her longingly, then shook himself free of any lingering ties.
    “No! You can’t do this to me.” Ariiell’s eyes went wide. Her pupils contracted to mere dots. Her mouth pinched. White showed around her nostrils. “I am to be queen. The coven promised. I will have all of your heads.”
    No one answered her.
    “You will obey me this instant. I am to be queen. My son will be king. Darville will be put to death. The coven promised.” Her voice grew louder, more shrill.
    The crowd drifted away, tired of her tantrum.
    “Come back here,” she screeched, tearing at her red-blond hair. Crimson splotches showed on her neck and cheeks. The whites of her eyes dominated her face. “I am queen!” She lifted her hands in a classic gesture to throw a spell. Blue-and-yellow witchfire streamed from her fingertips toward Zolltarn’s retreating back. The flames fizzled and lost energy a mere arm’s length from her hands. Dull sparks flowed to the ground and winked out. “Where is my magic?” Ariiell fell to her knees moaning. “I have to have my magic. Oh, baby, lend me some magic.” She clutched her belly and rocked back and forth continuing her self-absorbed litany.
    “Come, Ariiell. I’ll take care of you.” Lord Laislac knelt beside her, lifting her gently to her feet. “I feared this might come to pass.” He looked around at the others in apology, especially Lord Andrall and Lady Lynnetta. “Her mother succumbed to insanity. She threw herself from the top of the tower of Castle Laislac, convinced she could fly. My daughter seems to have inherited the same weakness in her mind. Her use of the Tambootie in coven ritual may have hastened her infirmity.”
    Sadly, he led Ariiell back toward their second-story room in the opposite wing.
    “She is welcome to shelter in our home until the child comes. We will raise it, love it, as our only grandchild.” Lady Lynnetta reached an imploring hand toward them.
    “We are used to caring for . . . well, for our son.” Lord Andrall gestured toward Mardall who led the Rover children in a quiet game that involved drawing complex patterns in the dirt.
    “I have an idea that might help you with that, Lord Andrall.” Jack grinned from ear to ear. “I have a rather pesky, but intelligent cat who needs a good home.”
    “Before we do anything, I have to let you know that some very angry villagers are on their way here. They plan to dismantle this place stone by stone to end the tyranny of the ghost once and for all,” Robb said.
    “They will be aided by a troop of soldiers with a commission from the priests in the capital,” Marcus added. “They are led by Gnuls and employ three witch-sniffers. With or without permission, they intend to capture and burn any magicians they find here.”
    Jack and Lanciar nodded to each other in confirmation of that statement.
    Why hadn’t they told her? Margit fumed for a bit, wishing these men had more confidence in her. She could help. She knew she could, if they’d just let her.
    “We have work to do, folks,” Marcus continued. “That ghost has to be laid to rest and the curse removed from the gold before the others arrive.”
    “What can I do to help?” Margit leaped at the chance to finally do something. They wouldn’t think to ask her unless she volunteered.
    “That depends upon how friendly you are with dragons.” Marcus cocked his head and raised his eyebrows in an endearing gesture.
    Margit needed to run to him, hold him tight, kiss him one more time. Maybe they could work things out.
    But he turned his gaze elsewhere. No longer interested in her love.
    The joy at her sense of freedom battled with the heavy ache in her gut. “I’ll just have to improvise to get through this.”

Chapter 42
     
    “T he good news is that Jaylor’s daughter is gaining strength and vitality by the hour,” Marcus told his companions from the Commune as they closeted themselves in the large suite Zolltarn had appropriated for himself. “The bad news is that Master Lyman has gone to his next existence.”
    That statement felt quite strange. Marcus knew where Lyman had gone. He’d chosen a new existence but not