The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

square room. Not even pillars to support the roof.
    His skin prickled as if someone looked over his shoulder. He looked in all directions. Something more than pews was missing from this church: crosses. No crucifix hung above the altar, no wings extended from the nave to make the building into a cross. The icons on the walls, too, were devoid of crosses. How could these people believe in an afterlife—which he knew they did—without the dominant symbol of faith?
    But then they didn’t believe their god had died for them and then resurrected to a new life. They knew only that their Stargods had cured a plague and given a select few psi powers—what they called magic.
    He shuddered and crossed himself again and again to make up for the lack of religious symbols and for the blasphemy of his ancestors.
    The sense of being watched increased. He needed to get out of here.
    “Are you looking for someone?” a woman asked quietly from behind him.
    Kinnsell whirled to confront her. A short woman looked up at him through liquid black eyes. Her thick black hair was bound into a neat bun at the back of her head. A delicate mole lay just to the right of her mouth, enticing him to kiss her.
    She looked so small and lonely he needed to enfold her in his arms, protect her, love her. . . .
    Kinnsell checked his lustful response to her. He’d met women like her before. They used their minor psi talent to entice men, mold them to their will. Once alerted to their mental entrapment, he knew how to build barriers against it.
    Then he noticed the olive tones of her skin and the bright red, purple, and black of her clothing. She wore large hoops in her ears and a dozen bangles on each arm. Just like the gypsies back home on Terra.
    “Are you Maia?” He spoke as quietly as she had. His heart beat double time in excitement. This task was proving easier than he expected. He hadn’t even had to rouse the woman from sleep. The bushie lord would have his captive and Kinnsell would have the entire planet at his disposal.
    He needed to cough and control his breathing.
    “Who are you?” She backed up, looking about for an avenue of escape, or to make certain he had brought no accomplices with him. She looked like a frightened deer he’d seen in pictures of old Terra. Another ruse.
    “I won’t hurt you, Maia. I’ve come to help. I’ll take you home if you want.” He held out a hand to her, inviting her to trust him. He used his own talent to persuade her.
    “Who are you?” she asked again. Her shoulders relaxed a little, but she did not take his hand.
    Kinnsell tried a light mind probe. She was as well armored as the bushie lord. No wonder she didn’t fall for her own tricks used against her.
    “I am an emissary from the Stargods come to rescue you.” He swallowed the lie as easily as every other lie he told in and out of church.

    * * * Before dawn, tower room reserved for Master Magicians, University of Magicians, Coronnan City
     
    Bessel clutched the wet dog against his chest, almost as a talisman. Nimbulan led the way down the three flights of stairs to the University courtyard.
    “What’s going to happen to me now, Master Nimbulan?” he asked as the other master magicians angled off toward the library.
    “Nothing, I hope,” Nimbulan replied, proceeding into the open air. He headed across the circle of the courtyard. His long stride seemed shorter than usual and his feet dragged a little. Was that a trace of puffiness in his fingers?
    Bessel had known the former magician for most of his life. They had survived together through years of hard living during the Great Wars of Disruption. Huge armies had protected them then, but only because Nimbulan had been the strongest, most cunning Battlemage of his generation. The tremendous effort of working great battle magic had depleted his energies and life force time and again.
    He deserved his retirement. But could Coronnan afford to let him retire as long as Scarface ran the Commune?
    A few clouds scudded away in the brisk wind. No other traces of the storm lingered.
    The dog licked his face and squirmed to be let down. Bessel placed him on the damp stones reluctantly. Already he missed the reassuring warmth of the dog.
    “Master Scarface entrusted me to you until the matter is settled,” Bessel reminded the older man. He petted the dog, trying to postpone separation as well as decision.
    “Then you will continue your studies from my home rather than here at the