The Dragon Nimbus Novels: Volume III: Volume III

of the renegade dragon, where the seeds of the plague lay dormant, waiting for a catalyst to bring them to life.

Chapter 1
     
    Early afternoon of Saawheen, outside the meeting chamber of the Council of Provinces, Palace Reveta Tristile, Coronnan City
     
    J ourneyman Magician Bessel skidded to a halt outside the door to the chamber where the Council of Provinces met in urgent session. He took a moment to steady his ragged breath and straighten his hastily donned formal blue robes. A gravy stain in the middle of his chest refused to stay hidden among the folds. He hadn’t worn the robe in moons. Master Scarface, head of the Commune of Magicians, usually excluded his Senior Journeyman from every meeting.
    “ S’murghit! I have the right to stand behind Master Magician Scarface’s left shoulder, observing, advising,” he muttered angrily. Master Nimbulan had never treated his assistants and students as if they did not exist.
    Then Bessel straightened his shoulders. “I have to make a good impression on the master today. I can’t give him reason to exclude me anymore,” he stated firmly as he adjusted the folds one more time, trying to cover the stain. It defied concealment.
    He grounded his staff and channeled a touch of magic through it to the stain. His eyes blurred as he found the greasy molecules and loosened their hold on the fabric. In a moment brown flecks dropped to the stone floor.
    “While I’m at it, might as well get rid of the wrinkles.” A little more magic added crispness to the folds and straightened the line of the robe. But he didn’t have time to add fibers to the shoulder seams and neckline to cover the weight he’d gained since he’d worn the robe last. He looked as respectable as possible on such short notice.
    Taking one last deep breath that sounded more like a sigh, Bessel calmly opened the door of the large chamber to find all twelve lords, their magician advisers, King Quinnault and Queen Maarie Kaathliin with Scarface as their adviser, seated at the round table in the center of the chamber.
    Bessel looked at the forest of magician’s staffs standing at regular intervals throughout the room. My staff will never have those distinguishing twists and whorls within the wood grain, he moaned to himself. No matter how much magic he channeled through his tool, it remained straight and smooth. How can I ever fit in, truly belong, if I can’t make my own staff behave? Maybe if I search the library again, I can find a trick to get the twisting started. He sighed longingly as he looked at Scarface’s elaborately knotted staff.
    Nimbulan and his wife Myrilandel stood against the wall adjacent to the door with Powwell, their adopted son. Those three looked grim, almost frightened. So did the king and queen. Myrilandel, ambassador from the dragon nimbus, should be seated next to her brother, King Quinnault, not standing in near exile against the wall.
    But she was the only ambassador present. Whatever had triggered this urgent meeting involved internal matters.
    All of the most powerful people in the kingdom had gathered in one room at the same time. That didn’t happen often. Bessell couldn’t remember it happening since King Quinnault’s coronation nearly two years ago, not even his wedding a little over a year ago had brought every lord and magician to the capital city. For both events every ambassador had been present. Now only Myrilandel. Why?
    The late afternoon sunlight streamed through the rare glass windows in the chamber. In a few hours, when the last of the light left this bright autumn day of Saawheen, the Holy Day of Remembrance would begin. All of these people should be at home with their families or preparing for solemn religious rituals. Instead, they crowded into this room, whispering quietly among themselves.
    Bessel strained his listening senses to pick up the conversations, but he could not catch more than an occasional word unless he dipped into the speakers’ minds. He’d wait for official announcements rather than violate another’s privacy.
    He took one step to the right, toward Master Scarface. Powwell snagged his sleeve and shook his head slightly. So slightly, Bessel doubted anyone else in the room noticed.
    Then Bessel took one look at the Senior Magician’s scowl and decided to stand next to Powwell, well away from Scarface. The Senior Magician looked furious even before he noticed Bessel’s late entrance. The scar that gave him his nickname stretched