The Dragon's Doom

20

Dreams Bright and Dark

T he baron took another cautious step closer to the snoring woman, and the air flickered warningly again. Flickered, and then-another step-flared into a wall of raging flames. Phelinndar stepped back hastily from that crackling heat and studied the blistered edge of the hand he'd thrown up in front of his face.

The pain, as he flexed his fingers, told him the flames had been quite real. He stepped around a dusty, motionless Melted and tried to come at the seated sleeper from another direction. Again the flames came.

He stepped back and cried, "Oh, gods, Ambelter, they're here\ The King and all the Overdukes, come to slay us with Dwaerindim!"

His shout echoed around the cavern, but the fat, ragged woman the baron knew to be Ingryl Ambelter did not move. The snores became, if anything, a trifle louder.

Well, the wizard had certainly seemed exhausted by his spellweavings. That last spell he'd raised looked somewhat like the shieldings he customarily cast around himself when he wanted to sleep-though he'd never used a shielding that made him look like anyone else before.

Still, 'twas wise: someone spell-spying from afar would see some old woman, not the much-hated Spellmaster of Aglirta. Those flames would dissuade hungry beasts or lurking brigands-and no doubt the shielding would rouse Ingryl to full wakefulness if treacherous barons or anyone else hurled weapons at the slumbrous wizard, or spells, or tried to blast Ambelter with a Dwaer-Stone.

Phelinndar walked as far away from the sleeping mage as he could, the Dwaer cradled comfortably in his hand. Of course the Spellmaster dare not link his shieldings to this Stone; that would leave him defenseless against anyone using a Dwaer, such as-again-treacherous barons named Orlin Andamus Phelinndar.

Which in turn left Phelinndar free to use this Stone in his hand just as he liked. In truth, 'twas no wonder the Spellmaster was finally snoring in the hands of the gods. Most men would have fallen on their faces days earlier-but he'd not sleep forever, so…

Hunched into a corner that he was fairly sure-or at least hoped-held no stored magic items, the baron tried to ignore the stink of his ever more chafing armor, held the Dwaer up in front of his face, and tried to look into it.

The Stone grew warm almost immediately, and glowed, ever so slightly… and then white warmth was all around Phelinndar, and he was falling gently through it, through mists and drifts of cloud, toward some unseen place ahead where the light was brighter…

Brighter and more blue, a light that leaped with arcing, flowing energy, like lightning bolts sprayed from an invisible storm to stab all around him…

If only he knew how to use this lump of rock that wizards so lusted after, to hurl castle-shattering spells as they did!

A sword was a sword-oh, there were skills to learn to use it well, but any fool could pick one up and see which end was sharp and which end one gripped, and could swing and jab and slash empty air or some defenseless tree and in five breaths know how to use it to-clumsily, aye, but surely-slay!

But magic, now… magic was like swinging a snake instead of a sword, and wondering when it would turn and fang the hand that held it.

Baron Phelinndar was suddenly sweating so hard that drops were falling from the end of his nose. He snarled silently at those whirling lightnings. All he wanted was to speak with an old friend and arrange a place to run to, if he ever broke purpose with the Spellmaster snoring yonder-and somehow managed to live.

Hulgor was the man he needed. Good old Hulgor, who'd demand his price but be true to the bargain, once struck. They'd made many a coin together when Baron Orlin Andamus Phelinndar had been only Orlin Breselt, Tersept of Downdaggers. That first chance meeting in Sirl town had won him his only trustworthy trading partner-sharp when making deals, but true to every last coin and letter once they were sealed. That florid face was probably age-blotched by now, the sword-gray hair going white…

The Dwaer-mists grew suddenly darker, rolling to frame a gap or window of empty white light that grew larger, brighter, and then shot through with colors. Green, mosdy… yes, 'twas showing him someone clad in green: a man in a richly embroidered dark green doublet… a man now turning away, a golden flagon as large as a chamberpot in his hand.

Hulgor! Yes, 'twas Hulgor Delcamper to be sure-and by the looks of him, as large, florid, quick-tempered, brawling, and wine-loving as ever! Hulgor's hair was almost entirely white, and his skin was wrinkled, but there were no blotches or staggerings, nor anything about him that told the world "old" or "infirm" or "unsteady." His fierce brown eyes were still hawk-alert.

Hulgor strode through a doorway and was gone. Phelinndar furiously desired to keep Hulgor in sight, glaring down at the mists and blue lightnings and shifting windows of light. There was a brief whirling of Dwaer-mists, and then he was seeing Hulgor in another room, large and richly paneled and lit with many candles.

Those flames flickered in many-spired silver candelabra fashioned like castles with many turrets-castles that looked to be about three feet high, as they rose up from long, mirror-smooth wooden tables. Hulgor looked restless, and stumped down this dining hall glaring at portraits of women who looked just as irritated to be up on the walls as he did to be looking at them. This must be Varandaur, the great Delcamper family castle that faced the stone city of Ragalar across a bay. Wasn't a Delcamper a friend to the boy king? A bard?

Flaeros, that was his name. He must be nephew to Hulgor. Hmm. Perhaps Varandaur would not prove so safe a bolt-hole after all…

Well, 'twasn't as if this particular baron had a great array of folk he could trust, to call on. Phelinndar sighed. In fact, 'twas Hulgor or no one, if one spread blunt truth bare before the gods.

"Hulgor," he hissed, willing the old noble to hear him. "Hulgor!"

The man in green stiffened and then shot a dark, suspicious glance over his shoulder. Then he turned to follow it, and stalked down the room, peering in all directions.

"Hulgar!" Phelinndar whisper-shouted, trying to will himself into the old man's way. The Delcamper man came to an abrupt stop, as if he'd seen something in front of him, and stared at Phelinndar-or through him.

Hear me, the baron willed, and see me. Let me hear you. Hulgor's lips were moving-angrily, by the looks of them-but Phelinndar could hear nothing. Nothing but softly swirling mists, like distant waves lapping on a beach.

Three look down! Bebolt this grauling Stone, anyway, and all such things! Why should mages swagger around hurling doom with them, and all the rest of Asmarand have to bow and cringe or the? Why couldn't a baron-

"Downdaggers!" Hulgor Delcamper growled in astonishment, stealing a quick glance at his flagon as if drinking the wine might have brought him this vision.

"Yes!" Phelinndar shouted. "It works! It works!"

The old man in green winced. "Magic! I forgot you're a baron now, Downdaggers. I suppose some spell-bauble came with your keep and blazon and all. What's afoot?"

"Plenty, Hulgor, and I need your help. I've got something powerful that the Spellmaster of Silvertree-the worst of the Dark Three, remember?- very much wants. I'm living in his lair right now, wondering how much longer he'll put up with me."

"Run," Hulgor suggested, taking a quick swig of wine.

"Not yet, but soon-and I need somewhere to run to."

Old Delcamper eyes narrowed. "So you want me to imperil the ancestral seat of my family for you, hey, and court Spellmasters as foes? You'd be thinking of coins and gems and the like to make such colossal idiocy worth my while, now, wouldn't you?"

The baron winced. "I'm a poor man, Hulgor…"

"The old gambits are the good ones, hey?" The old noble grinned. "Well, so am I. As my teeth fall from my head and my body hunches and my skin sags, young lasses no longer leap lustfully upon me as they once did, and I've heard of a spell that'll fix all that. I'll need a Sirl thou-sandweight in gold to get it, mind you…"

Phelinndar gave a little crow of laughter. "Hulgor, what're you drinking?"

"Something my sisters brought back from their last shopping voyage, south," the noble growled. "The one we're all still paying for. Better make that two thousandweights…"

"Two Sirl thousands? Hulgor, you must be mad!"

They were both grinning, now, and Hulgor almost rubbed his hands as he sampled his flagon again, sighed in pleasure, and said, "Pity you can't taste this, old friend. But of course in decadent Aglirta every last baron must have cellars of stuff almost as good, just lying there to be sold to passing barge traders for, say, three Sirl thousandweights…"

"Four once more," Craer murmured, looking around the room. "Your turn in the Band of Four, my lady."

"I know." Tshamarra's voice was low. "I'll try not to fail you."

Embra shook her head. "Don't let your sly-tongued lord upset you, Tash; you earned your welcome long ago. My father's better placed guarding the King-and running Aglirta for all of us. We need your spells and your… ah, fire."

Tshamarra smiled. "Thanks. I think."

Craer put an arm around her-and for once, she didn't slap it away. Thus emboldened, he asked, ''Em, why exactly are we here? An empty chamber, quite secluded… is this another of your rend-the-sky-with-spells sessions?"

The Lady of Jewels smiled as she guided Hawkril to stand in a particular spot in the large, bare, and dusty hall. "Ah, so perceptive, Lord Longfingers. 'Tis time to try another Dwaer-tracing. We're back to one Stone, yes, but here, with the doors barred to keep out guards and the like, we can also use any spells Tash and I cast-and the Living Castle enchantments."

"Do yon locks and bars keep out Koglaur and bats?" Craer's voice was skeptical.

"Craer Delnbone, will you stop crying gloom for once? I can't think of any other way to avoid rambling around the Vale just waiting for trouble to find us, so…"

"Well said," Hawkril rumbled. "Raise your magic."

Embra nodded, laid a hand on his forehead, and carefully announced, "Lamarantha!"

Hawkril acquired a frown. "What're you doing, my lady? This feels… strange."

She stared into his eyes. "Did you hear the word I just spoke? Can you recall it? Don't say it aloud! You remember it?"

The mountainous armaragor nodded. "Aye."

"Can you hold it in your mind?"

He nodded again.

"Good. Say that word later, when I wave my hand at you thus, hey?"

"And doing so will-?"

"Unleash the spell I just stored in you. It's what you feel in your head right now."

" 'Tis moving… like a worm come up after rain, questing back and forth," the armaragor complained.

"Good. Mages know that feeling well."

"Hmmph. No wonder your tempers are often short."

Craer chuckled and shot a swift, warning look at Tshamarra. "Don't you be trying that on me, now!"

"No." The Lady Talasorn's smile was sweet. "We've something else in mind for you."

Craer took a swift, suspicious step back, away from them all. "And what would that be, precisely?"

Something curved and bright and familiar suddenly glowed in the air right in front of his nose-and then fell. Without thinking he caught it… and found himself staring down at the Dwaer, bright and slightly warm in his hands.

"Look into it, and feel its flows," Embra called from across the chamber.

The procurer gave her a wild look. "You tricked me!"

"And will again. Yet you'll wed yon Stone soon enough, and want to have it always in your hand; the hard task will be yielding it up to me again." The Lady of Jewels reached into her bodice and held up a small pendant. "See you this?"

Craer glanced and then grinned. "Closely seen already, Lady; 'tis a professional weakness we procurers have. A few tiny belzorels, the central stone some mountain rock or other, polished smooth-of no great worth, probably a family jewel."

"Indeed, and yet worn because it bears a minor enchantment against maggots and crawling worms and mites, to keep my hair free of such things-and to be drained in a moment for a spell, should I have need. Now look you into the Dwaer, and try to feel and see this pendant through it. Other magics here in this chamber will have their own glows, but try to find just this one."

Obediently, Craer stared into the Stone. Silence hung around him for some breaths ere he murmured, " Well, now. A procurer could get very used to having such as this. I see it."

"Good. I'm casting a spell that will make this pendant seem as a Dwaer to you, just for a moment. It won't be like a Dwaer, but 'twill have the right radiance to your scrutiny."

"Aha," Craer commented, a moment later. "Distinctive."

"Yes. Remember it; that's what you need to be seeking. Now I'll need to do something more to you. Sit on the floor, cradle the Stone in your lap with one hand, and sit on your other hand, fingers spread on the floor. Don't move it when you start to feel power flowing up into it."

"Magic?"

"Yes, from Flowfoam itself: my Living Castle enchantments."

"Impressive," Tshamarra remarked, as Craer setded himself. "And my part?"

"When I wave to Hawkril and he unleashes his spell, ensnare it with one of your own. Both magics will lose their original effects and become raw, entwined power. Will that force into me, and I'll feed it to Craer. He won't have long to seek, but will have quite an impressive thrust of magic behind him-which may cause him some discomfort. As long as he holds the link together, all should be well."

Embra gave Craer a wry smile, and added, "Until we find another Dwaer, that is. When that happens, try to picture-in your mind-your eyes flying to it, and then look down as you speed straight toward it; you'll see the countryside where you're headed. Don't try to see who's holding the Dwaer and what's right around them, for that will surely alert them. We'll need you to hold the link to that other Dwaer, unless you see more than one, or anyone strikes at you with their Dwaer. In both cases, turn away, and throw mists between you and them."

Craer raised skeptical eyebrows. " 'Throw mists'? I do that… how?"

Embra smiled. "Try 'flying' your eyes toward me now-and when you reach me, veer away and mentally throw up some mist, by plucking at the mists that will seem to be all around you. Try it."

After a moment, the procurer grinned. "Easily done. I've just smoothed the mists away again."

Embra nodded. "I felt you do so. We're ready. So here's my scheme: If we find one Stone, we jump to it and do battle. When we get there, Craer, I'll need you to get our Dwaer to where Tash or I can touch it as fast as you know how. If we see multiple Stones, we trace where they are and then stop to decide whither we go. In all cases, of course, ignore the Dwaer my father's holding."

She looked at Hawkril, who nodded, and glanced at Craer. The procurer also nodded, wiped sweat from his brow that hadn't been there a few breaths before, and turned his head to look at Tshamarra, mouthing some silent words that might have been "I love you." She gave him a fond smile, and then turned to Embra and inclined her head once.

Four overdukes drew in deep breaths together, and Embra closed her eyes and flung up her hand in a wave to Hawkril. He said his remembered word, Tshamarra hissed a swift incantation, Embra quivered-and the Stone in Craer's hands suddenly glowed like an evening star.

Craer found himself hanging in glowing mists, lit from behind him by a growing radiance that was cradled in Blackgult's reassuring presence. He turned his attention away from it, looking out into the endless mists elsewhere, and-therel Over there!

He could feel Hawkril's ragged wonder, Tshamarra's cool calm, and Embra's strength and slight pain at the power roiling through her. They were with him, were aware of what he'd found, were flying with him…

… to a cavern, in damp Aglirtan earth and stone nigh the Silverflow, where a Dwaer was awake and alive in the hands of someone unaware of them, someone whose attention was bent elsewhere, someone against a wall far from a glowing web of magic, a shielding around a lazily turning cage of force-lines…

Craer forced himself to stop looking at those fascinating flows of power!-Three Above, no wonder mages grew so hungry for power; 'twas the greatest ecstasy imaginable!-and back at the Dwaer. It was in the hands of an armored man, no mage… Phelinndar!

He was conscious of Embra taking power from him now, of the flow that had been racing up through the numbed hand he was sitting on now reversing to drain back the other way. Even as he wavered in confusion, not wanting to lose any of that thrilling force, he felt her mind-voice: Hold to him, Craer. Hold to him!

Determinedly he did so, clawing his attention away from the fascinating beginnings of Embra's weaving of a magic that would snatch them all from Flowfoam to the cavern he was seeing. He thrust his attention at the renegade baron, clinging to the edges of the awakened power of that other Dwaer. Something bright arose behind him as Embra did her work, caught him up as it surged forward in a mighty wave, and then threw them all through the mists, Darsar brightening and sharpening around them as they were suddenly-

– elsewhere, crashing into the midst of that glowing cage of magic, the shielding vanishing around them in a howl of flame. Embra had flung the Four together, breast to breast, and she slapped Craer's Stone and clawed at the humming cage of magic around them at the same time, shattering it in an instant.

Craer staggered in the thrall of magic clashing and roiling around him, pain and glory and savage fire all grappling in and through him, and cried with mocking enthusiasm: "For Aglirta! For glory! The Four are upon you! Obligingly surrender, or die!"

The snoring woman shot bolt upright with a shriek of surprise and dismay. The shielding that should have seared intruders to bones was gone, the Sword of Spells collapsed into whirling sparks around her, and!-a Dwaer glowed not a dozen paces away, in the hands of Embra Silvertreel

The Band of Four, all of them, here in his lair!

Ingryl Ambelter lashed out with his mind in a fury, goading the Melted into the best lurching, shuffling semblance of a charge they could muster. Clumsy clay they might be, but in this crowded room they were so numerous that they'd hamper his attackers as if the walls themselves were reaching out to grasp and bludgeon and blunder into the way. And that should give him time to-

The Dwaer flashed, and a Melted in front of him, along with most of the table he'd been seated at, vanished in a roar of flame and a shrieking spray of splinters that lanced out in all directions like deadly arrows. Snarling, the old woman that was Ingryl Ambelter threw himself to the floor behind the ruin of the table!-and into a drifting, flickering cloud of dying magic that had been his Sword of Spells ere the Dwaer had shattered it and drained much of its power.

He hissed a few swift words, and what was left flowed back into him, filling the disguised Spellmaster with more power than his body had ever held before. Like cool fire it flooded him, setting his fingers and teeth to tingling.

Gasping, he spent some of it on a shielding that would drain the next Dwaer-blast to come his way, and a mere trifle more on unseen eyes that soared to the ceiling of the cavern and showed him every cranny of it.

The Band of Four were wrestling with the Melted, that beast of an armaragor hacking at unliving limbs like a woodcutter, and the procurer doing his usual dance of leaps, twirls, and magpie grabs at anything that glowed or looked valuable. Phelinndar was crumpled into the farthest corner, trying to do something with the Dwaer, his face twisted into the grimace of the unpracticed and nongifted mind-struggling with greater enchantments. He was… trying to communicate with someone afar!

The baron's look of horror told the Spellmaster that he hadn't been expecting the Overdukes of Aglirta to make an appearance here, but his blunderings could quite well have summoned them! Well, by the Dark One, Phelinndar would the in a few moments- Graul, but he should have been slain days ago!

Embra's Dwaer flashed, and a dozen advancing Melted were shredded by a ravening light that cleared quite a space in front of her, their bones bouncing and crumbling into dust. Dark One look down! If she were to do that thrice more, she'd be facing a certain Spellmaster directly, and-

Gods! The other one, the little she-sorceress, had just hurled a handful of conjured fire into Phelinndar's face, and was making a grab for his Dwaer!

Desperately, Ambelter hurled most of the magic he'd just drunk along the lingering threads of the mind-lock he'd cast on Phelinndar days ago, seeking only to flood the Dwaer with fire, and-yes!

The Stone burst into flames as the wench laid hands on it, searing her. She threw back her head and shrieked, falling away from the Dwaer with her hands and bodice ablaze. The baron whimpered, his own hands burned to stumps of ash-but the Stone fell into his armored lap.

Phelinndar shuddered in mewing agony as Ingryl Ambelter let fall his disguise and used the last of his borrowed magic to hurl himself across the chamber like a darting hawk.

The armaragor didn't even see Ingryl, but that great warsword flashed perilously close to the diving wizard as Hawkril reeled back from hewing down a Melted, and swung his steel around in a great arc to hurl himself forward into another. Craer was ducking under a lurching undead warrior, and darting toward a scattering of small, glowing trinkets that had fallen from a shattered shelf, and Tshamarra's scream was lost to the ears of everyone in the great roar of Embra's Dwaer hurling back rank after rank of Melted, as it built into a great lash of flaming force that would be turned on the Spellmaster next, unless he-

– touched the Dwaer, scooping it up heedless of the pain, twisting its hot blaze of fury into the magic he needed, a shield to do this, a Dwaer-maze ready to do that, and a lance of his own, to stab at!-

The Lady ofjewels was swifter. She spun away from the staggering horrors of twisted flesh confronting her, and lashed out with her Dwaer at the triumphantly blazing figure behind her, who held a still-flaming Stone in his hands. If she could smite him before he could raise the magics he sought…

Ingryl Ambelter grinned like a wolf as his shield did its work, thrusting aside all of the Embra's fury into!-the Baron Phelinndar.

Orlin Andamus Phelinndar's eyes snapped open. He stared despairingly into the Spellmaster's cruelly smiling gaze for one last, dying moment ere baronial eyeballs popped into sizzling ruin, fire raged around inside that skull, and armor surged and buckled from the force of the bubbling, smoking fury beneath. And then the bones that had been Baron Phelinndar slid in a tumbled, smoking heap down the wall, trailing blackened armor, and Ingryl Ambelter spun around to face Embra with the Dwaer in his hands!-and struck back.

In a chamber of gleaming tables and castle candelabras in distant Ragalar, Hulgor Delcamper blinked, growled, and stiffened, feeling a sharpness in the air and an echo of power bursting and surging, as all sight of oily Orlin Downdaggers was swept away, probably forever. The old noble brought his flagon up ready like a mace in one hand and snatched out his belt-knife with the other, tensing for a battle that… did not come, as the air fell silent, and breath after ragged, anxious breath passed.

The Spellmaster had no hope of blasting the lass down, Dwaer to Dwaer!-not with her alert and angry, and all her armed and ready friends close around her, but his lance of magic was ready, and all he had to do was… this.

Into the ragged fire of her Dwaer the fury of his own Stone crashed, and as the opposing powers of the Dwaerindim clawed and roiled, his lance leaped over, and through-and struck home.

"No!" Embra howled, recognizing him even as she wrestled his attack aside. "Ambelter, you snake, get you gone from my mind."

In a fury she threw him out, and fought to shape the fire of her Dwaer into a blade to strike back at him!-but his own Dwaer was already flashing, whirling the Spellmaster away in a vanishing that left a singing, shimmering Dwaer-maze in his wake.

"Longfingers!" Hawkril roared, as he hacked down another Melted and all the rest suddenly froze where they stood like so many statues. "What magic's that?"

Craer found his feet, disgust on his face as the baubles he'd been snatching up crumbled into dust between his fingers, and said sourly, "A wildfield, or some such: it banishes you anywhere if you enter. I'd say that whatever mage just escaped us left it behind him so that we can't use a spell to trace him, even with a Dwaer."

He turned his head, and saw Tshamarra writhing in soundless agony, tendrils of smoke streaming from her. Embra Silvertree was on her knees not far away, clutching a wand and a flickering Dwaer to her breast as if they were wounded children. Her face was wet with tears, and she was trembling.

The armaragor and the procurer sprinted across the cavern like men possessed.

"Embra!" Craer howled, long before he reached his stricken lady. "I need your healing here!"

Lady Silvertree did not reply. Hawkril fell to his knees as he skidded to a halt, and put his arms around her as gently as a feather seeking the earth. "Lass," he rumbled, "how fare you?"

"He… touched my mind," the Lady of Jewels whispered. "Trying to enslave me through the old enchantments. Ingryl Ambelter, the Spellmaster of Silvertree Castle, lives yet!-and he's stronger than ever."

Arkle Huldaerus came awake out of a vengeful dream as magic thrummed through him, washing over him with only a hint of its full fury. He blinked up into a young, beautiful, and unfamiliar face bent close to his, and thus lit dearly in the spark-shot glow of the magic she was hurling at his chains, and shook his head. Surely he was still asleep, and dreaming?

No, Master of Bats, this is no dream.

The mind-voice was so strong and cold and cruel that Huldaerus was stunned, too awed to even breathe.

A chain parted, and he fell a few feet down the wall, fetching up at the end of the remaining chain with a jerk. Manacled and swaying helplessly, he dared not even cower. How could one so young have such power? Such fell wisdom?

Oh, of course, how foolish of him. 'Twas a spellspun disguise, it must be. Long, raven-dark hair falling in smooth splendor over a clinging black gown. Slender hips, great dark eyes-a semblance that would make more than one man swallow at the sight of her.

The Master of Bats swallowed now, as the last chain was severed in a burst of calmly wielded magical fire, and he fell to the floor of his prison cell. The landing was hard, but bats fluttered up from his boots and sleeves as he bounced and winced, and he smiled up at them.

The young sorceress waved a casual hand, and unseen magic snatched Huldaerus briskly to his feet, steadying him when his long-unused legs wobbled. He clung to the wall, drawing in deep, shuddering breaths, and when he trusted himself to stand, turned to face his unknown rescuer and gave her a smile. She'd freed him, and still stood here, so it followed that she wanted something of him.

"Arkle Huldaerus, at your service, Lady," he said, his voice starting out rough but sounding pleasant enough after a few words. "And you are-?"

The sorceress smiled, something dancing in her eyes that made the heart of the Master of Bats, lonely recluse that he was, leap in sudden hope. Wisps of magic stirred about her, cloaking her in a soft halo of spell-glow, and he dared to let his smile widen, and his hand extend in friendsh-

Magic slammed him back against the wall so hard that one shoulder shattered audibly, and a rib gave way below it. Huldaerus writhed, pinned helplessly, as that same thrusting force casually crushed one of his bats after another, as a bored vintner might squash grapes, plucking each out of the dark air and whisking it to within a handlength of his nose before slaying it.

As the small, brittle, and very dead lumps pattered wetly to the stones, each weakening and sickening him with its fall, he became aware through tears of pain that the darkly beautiful face looking into his had changed.

Framed by that long, magnificent hair now was a human skull, grinning at him with eyes that were two glittering lights of old and mighty mockery. They were the last thing to remain, as the lithe body and then the bone-face melted away from around them-and then one of them winked, and they vanished, too.

Arkle Huldaerus leaned against the wall in utter darkness, spitting blood onto the unseen stones at his feet, and felt his manacle-free wrists in slow disbelief. Any moment now he'd awaken properly, and find himself back on that cold and endlessly patient wall…

But when at last he stumbled away from where he'd been chained, letting his fingers trail along the stones, and felt his way to the cold, unseen metal of the cell door, the Master of Bats knew the visitation and his freeing had truly happened.

An unknown, deadly beauty of a sorceress had freed him, made it clear she could casually slay him whenever she pleased, and departed. Someone who'd found him here, alone and enfeebled, and so could find him again whenever she desired.

Arkle Huldaerus shuddered, suddenly feeling the cold, and leaned against the door. He had to get far away from Aglirta, and stay there this time.

If he was even going to be allowed a "this time."

Tshamarra Talasorn drew in a sudden, shuddering breath. Her hands quivered as if she'd been about to snatch them away from Embra and the icy healing mists of the Dwaer. Yet she bit her lip, tears streaming down her cheeks, and kept on holding her hands out-just as steadfastly as Craer was holding her, his arms wrapped around her shoulders comfortingly, his cheek against hers. Her breath caught again, and Embra glanced up from her work.

"Almost done," the Lady of Jewels murmured. "Can you move them?"

Tshamarra wriggled her fingers cautiously, and nodded, trying to smile.

"How do they feel?"

"Tight-as if the skin doesn't fit. They're… Forgive me, Em, but they're too long and thin and graceful-like yours. I'm shorter, see?"

Embra studied Tshamarra's hands critically, put one of her own next to them, nodded, and did something that made the Lady Talasorn stiffen and sob-and then held their hands together for comparison again.

This time the smaller sorceress nodded in emphatic thanks, and Embra clapped her on the shoulder, rose to let Craer comfort her, and strode back to the embrace of her comforting man.

Hawkril was as large and reassuring as always, his strength enfolding her like a castle wall with a warm hearth in it, and Embra leaned against him and relaxed, just for a moment.

The grotesquely deformed zombies had begun to wander mindlessly around the cavern again, and after one of them lumbered slack-jawed toward them, Embra sighed, murmured, "Excuse me, love," into Hawk's chest, whirled away from him-and blasted the Melted to a smoldering heap of ashes.

Then she shrugged, the Dwaer shining in her hand like an eager full moon, and dealt the same fate to Melted after Melted. "These should have been destroyed with their maker," she muttered, "but I'll be grauled by corpse-worms before I'll let Ingryl Ambelter command them a day longer!"

Craer looked up. "Now there's an image."

Embra sighed, turned with hands on hips, and gave him a glare. "Could you leave me in peace to think just for once, Craer? If this was Ambelter's lair, there could be traps in plenty all around us-and useful magic, maps, all sorts of valuable things, too."

"Oh? What sort of valuable things?"

"No, not more baubles that'll fall to dust in your hands, Lord Delnbone. I was thinking of coins-wizards need to buy things occasionally just like other folk, you know-and gems, which can be used to store dozens of spells."

" Well, now," the procurer said eagerly, "why didn't you-?"

"Because I was busy putting Tash's hands back together, and didn't want to have to wipe spatters of pulverized Craer off my face and garments, that's why."

Hawkril took a few steps into the room, his warsword in his hand out of sheer habit. Ashes swirled and eddied around his boots with every step. "You blasted them all?" His voice held both hope and disappointment.

"I hope so," Embra replied, "but he's always liked to cage things; we may find beasts and half-crazed mages and the Three know what else. Please wait, love, until we can do this together."

"The Band of Four once more, hey?" Craer asked, helping Tshamarra to her feet. The Talasorn sorceress was still flexing her fingers in wonder, as if not quite able to believe they were hers. She looked up at her lord sharply.

"Never ridicule that term, or our fellowship," she said in a voice that was low, calm-and as firm as iron. "Never."

Maps proved to be few, written schemes nonexistent, spellbooks gone. There were a few half-finished spells whose natures were obvious to Embra and Tshamarra at a glance, a handful of old enchanted things recovered from tombs and caches (buckles and heraldic cloak-pins for the most part, loot that Craer and Hawkril examined rather dubiously, but that made Tshamarra ooh and aah), and no captives.

Embra used the Dwaer to twist the unfinished spells into traps of minor nastiness for Ingryl-or anyone else-who might come poking around the lair, and then called on it to whisk the Four back to Flowfoam.

A few breaths after their departure some of the ashes boiled up into the shape of a dark and ghostly figure-out of which stepped a slender, dark-gowned girl with a long fall of hair and a skull for a face. Gadaster grinned around at the cavern for a few moments, paused to be amused by the puling traps, and then made Maelra's body weave a soundless spell, and-vanish.

The ashes swirled, and then seemed almost relieved to settle down again.