The Schemes of Dragons

XVII

HIEPHORA AND A DOZEN of her minor queens, hidden in the trees near Lord Puriel's fortress, watched Omril's cohort of men ride out through the barbican. The little people remained motionless, quiet as the flutter of butterfly wings. It was said that a rythni could stand on a man's shoulder and the man would be unaware of it. The riders crossed the moat, turned down the fork of the road leading along the shore of Rock Lake, and vanished into their own dust. If all went well, the wizard would not realize he had been tricked until it was too late. The rythni waited until the horizon concealed first the light of little Urthey, and, soon after, the bright glow of the Sister. Motherworld hung low in the sky, preparing to follow, displaying only half her face. The shadows grew long and dark.

"Now," Hiephora sang in her lilting, melodic mother tongue. Her queens darted off on gossamer wings, leaving her with her handmaiden, Cyfee. After exchanging a nervous glance they, too, launched into the air.

They circled three times, and in response, the leaves shook and fluttered. Hundreds upon hundreds of rythni women flooded out of the trees, a queen leading each wave. Carrying coils of rope, they sped into the open air above the moat, the twilight obscuring them to human eyes. They staggered their formations so that their flitting shapes would resemble the bats that dwelled among the corbels and rafters of the fortress.

The castle loomed, high and intimidating, full of stone and tile and mortar, emanating none of the sweet, nurturing music of the forest's living wood. Hiephora pierced the structure's sphere of influence and faltered, suddenly weak, pitched from straight flight. Many of her subjects, unable to endure the bitter kiss of the air, turned back, terror-stricken, including one of her queens.

"Courage!" she cried. "It fades!" Already the initial shock was lessening, as with the waters of a pond-cold on impact, but increasingly tolerable as one continued to swim. The edifice would do no permanent harm to her people, as long as they did not linger within it. The queens echoed her words of encouragement.

Two-thirds of her women, though they veered and emitted tiny cries, continued gallantly on.

Hiephora and Cyfee landed on a battlement, slipping into an embrasure in order to hide from the sentries. They commanded a view of the entire landward side of the fortress: the moat below, the desolate swath of land beyond that, the trees in the near distance. The last of those who had been daunted vanished into the foliage. She couldn't blame them. They had not been present when she had prophesied this battle a quarter century ago; they could not directly feel, as she did, why it was necessary to risk taboo, and aid Alemar and Elenya.

As Motherworld dipped sedately out of sight, reducing the night to as near darkness as Tanagaran ever saw other than on Dark Night, the cadres of rythni took their ropes and began looping the nooses around the merlons of the battlements, draping the free ends into the moat.

It was a dry moat, lined at the bottom with shattered rock and sharpened stakes, designed to thwart war mounts and siege engines, but negotiable by foot soldiers. One by one, men snaked across the swatch of cleared land, darkly clothed, faces smeared with black grease, their weapons tightly bound and padded, to join a handful of scouts who had come earlier. They rappelled down the embankment at preselected locations, crossed the moat, and fanned out to seize the ropes the rythni had just planted. Soon there were dozens of men scaling the stone walls.

The majority of the rythni vanished from the battlements, for violence was imminent, and the emanations from that would be far harsher than the kind they had already endured. Hiephora, Cyfee, and the queens remained, along with a few of the very brave, whispering guidance to the climbers, letting them know the exact position and number of the guards. The fastest scaler was over half way up when one of Puriel's men noticed a rope. He shouted and drew his sword to hack at the noose.

Cyfee cringed as the blade struck stone, casting sparks, biting into the thick, resin-hardened fiber. Hiephora called for her flyers to warn the climbers. By the time the guard's chops severed the line completely, the men had shifted to other ropes. They continued to ascend.

Someone reached the alarm bell. Lantern glow beamed out of the barracks and from the windows of the keep. The fortress awakened.

The guards on the battlements, badly outnumbered, seeing death rising up at them, cut at the ropes with frantic haste. Two climbers did not shift quickly enough and fell, breaking legs on the jagged rock of the moat. A third landed on one of the sharpened stakes. Then the leaders vaulted the top and drew their swords. The courtyard rang with the sound of steel meeting steel. The first dribbles of reinforcements issued out of the buildings.

Hiephora darted toward the barbican, leaving Cyfee to assist with the high battle. Those rythni who could tolerate the psychic onslaught of men dying continued to replace ropes. As she glided, she saw the main mass of the rebel army bolt from the forest onto the roadway.

So many of them! The houses and farms of the region around Old Stump must have completely emptied, the residents rising to the cause of the Elandri prince and princess. Hiephora herself would have doubted it possible to gather so many, had she not foretold it.

She wished that she could determine the outcome of the battle, but the leaves of meditation, as with all oracles, had sung a twisted tale. She knew only what would happen if Gloroc were not stopped. He would rule for five thousand years. The land would be raped, the forests cut down within a few human generations. The rythni as a race would fade into history. Alemar and Elenya might be the only hope. That was why she had tipped over Lerina's cup of amethery twenty-five years earlier, and why she had committed her people this night.

But at the moment, the screams of men and swords tore at her determination, making her want to fly far away.

She propelled herself into the barbican just as the guard released the lever that would lower the portcullis and seal it off from the rest of the castle. His brow furrowed when the iron failed to drop. He strode to the portal, gazing up in perplexity, and cursed. The top of the portcullis had been bound into its bracket by hundreds of tiny, rythni-sized cords. He cast a worried look at the fighting on the battlements, then rolled a barrel under the archway, seized a pike, climbed onto the barrel, and began slashing at the cords with the pike tip.

Hiephora whistled, and dozens of her women appeared from their hiding places. They swarmed around the spindle at the center of the chamber. Their combined weight and the rapid beating of their wings were enough to spin the gears. The drawbridge began to lower, just as the first of the main throng of invaders reached the far side of the moat.

The guard shouted and leaped off the barrel. The rythni melted away to the far corners of the room. The man reversed the spindle's action. Meanwhile, some of Hiephora's minions tipped over the barrel and sent it rolling out the archway.

The last of the sentries on the battlements screamed as they were run through or flung from the heights. Dozens of the invaders were already rushing down the stairs. Not enough soldiers had emerged from the barracks yet to foil them from charging the barbican. The guard hissed and ran for the barrel, replaced it, and hacked at the cords again.

The rythni streaked to the spindle and began lowering the drawbridge.

The guard screamed and flung the pike. The rythni darted away, quick as wasps, avoiding injury. The guard abandoned the portcullis and returned to the spindle-permanently, since he knew that allowing the drawbridge to lower would mean at least ten times as many people to fight.

Hiephora ordered her women into hiding, ready to harass further if necessary. To her dismay, another guard arrived, then a third. The first yelled an explanation and the newcomers attacked the portcullis bindings. The rythni held back, unable to attack the men directly.

The portcullis creaked and began to wobble. Just then four rebels burst into the passageway. The lead man caught a pike in the shoulder. The other three mowed down the pair of guards and surrounded the man at the spindle. The scent of blood sent the rythni streaming out of the chamber. Hiephora, blessing mother forest that her people's role was ending, swiftly followed, closing her ears and refusing to look back. Three more invaders arrived at the barbican as she sped away.

Elenya leaped onto the drawbridge even before it was down, at the head of the first wave of invaders. They raced through the archway and into the great courtyard. A throng of guards poured out of the barracks to meet them.

The two sides clashed and blended. Elenya stood out in her white leather armor and greaves, her gauntlet a beacon to the opposition. She wanted it that way. Her preternatural speed made her the invaders' most effective weapon. It was imperative that she and the lead phalanx-all trained fighters in proper gear-break through to the interior of the barracks before their enemies could outfit themselves. Then the great mass of poorly equipped villagers in the rear ranks would have a reasonable chance.

A thick-shouldered mercenary with long, dark hair bore down on her. She twisted around him, found a gap in his unlaced chest armor, and sank the point of her rapier through his arm pit into his heart. Before he could fall she stabbed the man behind him. As allies closed in on either side, she used their protection to dance to a new area.

To her left an enemy soldier cut down a villager. He used his sword well, and kept his shield up. Two other dying invaders already lay at his feet. She bolted forward before more victims fell. He lasted through three exchanges, more than she liked, before she pinked him on the arm, and, with the opening created, drove a follow-up thrust into his chest.

They had already pushed the defenders half the distance to the barracks. She dared a glance at the battlements. They were secure, though an archer was causing grief from one of the keep windows. She dived back into the fray, praying that there were few guards of the mettle she had just encountered.

Beside her a companion took a battle ax in the side of his head, spraying her with blood. She killed the wielder, even as she blocked a thrust from another opponent with the ward around her gauntlet. Iregg came to her rescue, though she was not in great difficulty, and together they surged forward another few steps. They stepped over a body-another fallen ally. Too many dead, Elenya cursed to herself. So far Puriel's men had taken the worst of it, but the men of the garrison were professionals. They would recover if given enough time.

"Elandri tu!" she cried, dodging a pike. The hilt of her weapon burned like a hot coal, sliding in her grip as if greased. She feinted, thrust, twisted, blocked, letting her sword lead and adapting her body as needed. In one of those brief, clear moments that sometimes occur in the midst of battle, she saw a young soldier, third in line to confront her, freeze at the sight of her skill, as she dealt with the intervening foes. He was unable to raise his shield or blade; she harvested him like wheat.

Only then did she realize she stood at the threshold of one of the entrances to the barracks. A sudden rush of guards propelled her backwards, but she grinned. The tide was shifting. The barracks would be theirs, and after it, the keep.

Outside the castle, at a safe distance, waited the women, juveniles, and elders of Old Stump and the surrounding estates, ready to support the invasion as best they could. Owl the tavernmaster sat on a wagon, trying to calm his jittery pair of oeikani. The trees hid the castle, but the sounds of armed conflict rang clear, violating the ears of the assemblage.

Owl felt a drop of sweat trickle down his face and into his collar, to further drench his inner shirt. His nephew was among those who had scaled the walls. He had not even known the boy was a rebel until a few hours earlier, when he, like so many other residents, had suddenly swarmed to the support of the Elandri twins.

The signal came. Owl cracked the whip lightly, guiding his vehicle into its place in the line. A total of ten wagons rolled down the road to the castle, clattering across the drawbridge with the women and youths jogging along beside them. Most were empty, their beds covered with straw, intended for transporting the wounded out of the battle zone. Owl's own was loaded with tarps and sacks of sand with which to snuff fires, for the battle would surely see lamps shattered and torches knocked from their sconces. An unchecked blaze in the main part of the fortress would create havoc for both sides.

The clamor of shouting men and the dull thump of a battering ram pounding somewhere in the bowels of the keep swept over Owl. He strove to keep his composure as he guided his team between the bodies of the fallen to an open space by the outer wall, away from the fighting. He climbed down immediately and freed his animals, for the latter could help in the effort to evacuate the injured. Some of his companions loaded stricken combatants onto the other wagons, in order to rush them back to the aid stations that had been set up beneath the trees. Others tended men still lying where they had fallen.

The courtyard was clear of Puriel's men, except the dead. A small fire snapped and spat in the barracks. Several men and women rushed to Owl's wagon and grabbed material. Those not occupied with saving the living were dragging the slain out of the way, stripping Puriel's guards of armor and weapons which might be used inside by those still fighting. Owl swallowed hard and told himself to relax. The battle was finished here. He was safe. A cadre of townsmen emerged from the main keep, urging a group of a dozen women along ahead of them. They collected the captives in a corner of the yard and put them under guard. The women's nightgowns showed no soil or rents to indicate that they had been touched. Owl nodded in satisfaction. Battle or no battle, the rebels and villagers of Old Stump would not stoop to the sort of abuses indulged in by the governor and his soldiers.

Owl surrendered his oeikani and went to the assistance of two women who were moving bodies. One was his neighbor, Nalicia, with whom he had grown up. The sight of her, shaking and pale, momentarily quieted his own faint heart. He met her eyes, and his own relative calm bolstered her courage. Together the three of them hauled the burden to the side of the yard.

Nalicia sighed, bit back tears, straightened her spine, and started toward the next one. Only then did Owl realize that the corpse was that of Yenni, the silversmith's son. They both knew his father well. But then, most of the casualties would be people with whom they were acquainted. The next, in fact, was a man who had swept the floor of his tavern as a boy. Fearing that the next victim might be his nephew or a close friend, he diverted Nalicia toward a fallen castle guard.

As he and Nalicia each grabbed an arm and lifted, the supposedly dead man awoke, despite the evil-looking gash across his pate, and with a sudden jerk of his elbow sent the unprepared Owl tumbling into the dirt. The latter inhaled a mouthful of grit, coughed, and scrambled to his feet. Too late. The guard plunged his knife into Nalicia's chest.

Owl cried out.

The guard let Nalicia fall, and stared about, dazed and unsteady on his feet. At Owl's outburst, he turned, widened his eyes, and charged. Owl gasped and, without consciously meaning to, kicked his attacker's knee. The man crashed forward, knocking the wind out of the tavernmaster, taking them both down. The knife spun away, kicking up dust an arm's length from their heads. Owl, for lack of a better strategy, seized the guard in a bear hug.

Had the guard not been disoriented and weakened from blood loss, he would have broken free in short order, but as it was, Owl held him just long enough that a teenage boy reached them and, using a mace salvaged from another fallen member of the garrison, caved in the man's head.

"Are you hurt, sir?" asked the boy, as he stared dumbfounded at the man he had just killed.

Owl wiped a fleck of blood from his eyelid. "No. My thanks." His stomach heaved. Next to him, Nalicia stared sightlessly up at the stars.

Hiephora took wing, abandoning the security of the forest. Once more, she endured the jolt as she broached the aura around the castle. This time she cried out, stabbed to the core. The energies roiled and snapped, fed by the fear of the dying, the cold dispassion of the dead, and the hatred of foe for foe. She flew high, where the impact was less severe, and hovered over the great courtyard. She could not bring herself to look downward.

"Cyfee!" she called out.

No response. She quailed to think that her protegee lay embroiled in the carnage, yet Cyfee and three other rythni had not returned to the woods. They could not be dead. Her prophecy had been clear in that regard; no rythni would die in this fight. Otherwise she could not have asked a single one of her subjects to participate. She called again, flying a circuit of the fortress walls.

Over the governor's keep, away from the worst of the din, she heard a faint, urgent, keening cry, unmistakably a rythni song of distress. Yet, strangely, she thought she could detect an alluring whisper beneath it. Both emanated from the northwest tower of the keep.

The wizard's sanctum.

She circled warily before she dared land on the balcony. The room within was dim, foreboding, tinged with the mephitis of sorcery. The distress cry flowed from it clearly, mournfully. She ventured nearer the opening. A strange music, very unlike the harmonics of the forest, reached out and murmured to her.

"My queen!" cried a familiar voice.

Hiephora peered inside. Four rythni lay on the table in the center of the room, under a faintly luminescent net, beside a crystal vase containing a sprig of herb thick with white flowers.

"Cyfee!" At last Hiephora identified the odd undertone that she had heard above the castle. It came from the herb-a whisper promising love, dancing, dreams, and song, the perfect lure for a rythni. It was subtle, almost subliminal at first, drawing in the unsuspecting listener until the trap was woven too tightly for escape. She herself wanted desperately to venture inside, though clearly she, like her subjects, would be snagged like a fly in a web.

"Are you hurt?" Hiephora called.

"No," Cyfee replied. "But it won't let us go." She lifted an arm. The strands kept her from extending it. The other three companions, though awake, seemed unable to move at all.

"Stay still, then. I will bring help as soon as I can."

The wind over the lake licked at Alemar's hair, twisting it into his face. He blew it clear, since his arms, like the rest of him, were propped up by dozens of rythni. They were getting tired, these little ones. They had carried him non-stop from the site where he had been maintaining the camouflage spell around Claric until Omril's arrival. Their strength was fading rapidly, or perhaps it was the essence of the castle, sapping them of their resolve as they drew near.

"Just a little farther," he murmured. "You've done well."

A flutter of movement ahead of them pulled his gaze away from the battlements. "Prince Alemar!" called a small voice.

"My queen?" Alemar frowned at the sight of Hiephora. "What's wrong?"

"Treachery from the wizard," she declared. "Fly with me to his tower."

Following their monarch's lead, the weary carriers deposited Alemar on the balcony. "Stay," she commanded. "The prince will need you to take him off; the stairs are not safe." They gathered obediently upon the balustrade, though they shivered, stared nervously to either side, and occasionally flitted an inch or two into the air.

Alemar stared into the wizard's den, a furrow gathering in his forehead. He glanced back at the serene waters of Rock Lake, watching the ripples gleam from the light of Serpent Moon. Omril and his men would scarcely have reached the shore. It would take them until dawn to return to the fortress. His fingers abstractly stroked the pommel of his sword, unaccustomed to the weapon's presence on his belt.

From down in the guts of the keep came the sound of furniture breaking and doors being rammed open, and the shriek of metal on metal. Alemar disregarded it, focussing on the threshold between the balcony and the room. He saw a glow, hanging like a veil across the opening.

"There is a guard spell here," he told the queen, and suddenly thrust his gauntlet forward. The veil parted, falling into shreds on the floor and slipping like water into the cracks of the masonry. "Not a potent one. Just one to put strangers asleep should they intrude. Rythni must be too small to activate it."

He entered, found an oil lamp, and gingerly set it on the table. "Touch nothing," he warned as he lit it. The yellow glow spilled across shelves of thaumaturgical volumes, bottles of rare minerals, and complex equipment. The cage of pigeons caught his attention. The birds cooed, bobbing their heads, as graceless as only pigeons could be.

Cyfee and the three rythni waited quietly, their eyes full of doelike apprehension. Alemar examined the vase, the herb, and the net that confined them. "It's a moly-see the black roots? You'll have to warn your people. Omril may have planted others in the forest in order to snare you."

He plucked at the net with his gauntlet hand. The fibers clung to the gold mail like cobweb, and would not let go. It did nothing to free the rythni, merely mired himself.

"Hmmm," he muttered. He traced the strands to their source, a series of minuscule holes in the stems, just beneath the seductively fragrant blooms. He moved the flame of the lamp beneath the latter. The petals shrivelled and blackened, giving off an acrid smoke. A portion of the web loosened, allowing one of Cyfee's companions to sit up.

"It's working," Hiephora said.

Alemar nodded, and moved the lamp to the next stem. Suddenly the flame leaped sideways, igniting the entire net, enveloping the captives in a conflagration. Alemar gasped, flinging aside the lamp. The rythni shrieked.

He dived for the curtains, tore one from its rod and cast it over the table, snuffing the flame. At the same time, in the far corner, a new fire sprang from the spilled oil and licked its way up a bookcase. He ignored it, pulling back the fabric.

The four rythni writhed in agony, coughing, their skin baked deep red. Seared stumps twitched where their delicate, membrane-thin wings had been. Alemar choked.

It was instinct alone that made him duck. A massive tome on alchemy sailed through the space where his head had been. From another direction, a bottle launched itself from a rack. He twisted sideways. The glass shattered against the wall, releasing an acid that sizzled and ate into the marble floor. A drop struck his wrist, dissolving a patch of his skin the size of a small coin.

Hiephora landed on the table, wilting over Cyfee as if unable to believe what had just occurred. "Out!" Alemar cried. He raised his gauntlet to fend off more books. The queen acted as if she did not hear.

Alemar's sword tried to draw itself from its scabbard. He slammed it back into place. Then, with a flash of insight, he drew it on purpose and whirled toward the cage of pigeons.

One of the birds was staring straight at him, unperturbed by the fire, the moans of the little people, or the cyclone of flying objects.

Alemar lunged, thrusting, and drilled his sword through its avian chest. It died without a flutter.

Immediately one of the two remaining birds ceased its panicked squawking and beating of wings, and settled onto a perch. Alemar's weapon twisted in his grip, the tip slicing toward his throat. He seized the blade with his gauntlet, immobilizing it.

Before the barrage of objects, or some other magical attack, could begin again, he kicked the cage from its table. As soon as it struck the floor, he kicked it twice more. It bounced into the fire raging in the corner. The lacquered wooden bars sizzled and burst into flame.

"You're mine, Omril," Alemar snarled. "Beware the hour we meet!"

He jabbed his steel between the bars. The pigeon danced to the side, barely dodging the point. The blaze ignited its feathers. The spark of intelligence left its eyes, and like its surviving companion, it whirled madly around its confines, screeching in desperation.

Alemar kept hacking at the cage, until he had decapitated one bird, and skewered the other three times. His boots smoldered as he retreated. He stamped his feet.

Except for the fire, the room was at last still, with no sorcerer looking on to guide an attack. Consumed with black anger, Alemar only gradually became aware that Hiephora was staring at him, horrified. She shrank back as he approached.

"Don't!" he pleaded, but even as he spoke, she darted out the archway and into the night sky, screaming a note he had never heard a rythni make before.

A cold hand clasped Alemar's heart. He steadied himself, keeping the shock in check. Cyfee and the three other injured rythni still moaned on the table, tucked into fetal positions.

He tugged off his gauntlet, held it under an armpit, and picked up the diminutive creatures as gently as he could. He carried them from the heat and the smoke, out to the balcony. The rythni who had transported him across the lake had vacated the balustrade, abandoning their comrades, abandoning him. He clenched his teeth, blaming himself. One could not make the little people into something they were not. They could not have stayed to watch the fight, any more than he could take these wingless ones down into the castle, into the battle. The atmosphere of combat would kill all four, just as surely as would the burning of the tower.

He laid the tiny bodies on the balustrade. They flopped into limp piles, unconscious, save for Cyfee, who opened her mouth as if to speak, but fainted before she could. They all still breathed.

Come back, Hiephora, he prayed.

He heard the clatter of boots on the staircase. The door appeared to be locked, but it would not hold against desperate men, as these must be to have climbed the tower in search of escape. He glanced down. From this height, a leap into the waters of the lake was foolhardy, even assuming he missed the rocks hidden just below the surface. The fire was reaching the main mass of scrolls, books, wood, and cloth; in a few moments Omril's sanctum would become an inferno. He slipped the gauntlet back on his hand.

Heavy blows landed against the door, making it vibrate. Men cursed. Abruptly Alemar plunged across the room, sleeve in front of his face to ward off cinders. Smoke stung his eyes, stealing breath. The door groaned on its hinges. Wood cracked. He drew his blade.

He released the latch. The door slammed open. The foremost of the men on the other side stumbled into the room. Alemar tripped him, propelling him into the worst of the blaze. The prince spitted the second man before the latter realized there was an enemy present.

There were four others crowded on the landing beyond the threshold, one of them holding a thick coil of climbing rope. Once they saw Alemar's expression, they stepped back.

The prince had not wielded a sword in actual combat since his sojourn in the Eastern Deserts, but at that moment nothing felt more natural in his palm than the hilt of his weapon. Even his former swordmaster, Troy of Calinin South, could not have intimidated him. As the burning man rolled out of the fire, screaming, Alemar dealt him a deathblow of almost casual expertise.

Alemar gathered his rage about him in a pulsating, almost tangible shroud. "Come in," he told the others.

Two of the soldiers were armed only with knives, including the one holding the rope, and all of them drooped, battle-worn. Only one, at the rear, wore enough armor to pose a problem. Alemar feinted and jabbed his point into the lead man's gut. As the man groaned and bent forward, clutching his wound, Alemar kicked him into the armored man. With two swift thrusts he mortally wounded the two knife men. He danced back, letting them fall.

Only the armored man was left. He gawked at the swift disposal of his comrades, but the blossoming conflagration seemed to worry him even more. In another few moments it would not be possible to cross the room. He charged forward, swinging his broadsword.

Alemar ducked and leaped sideways, narrowly avoiding the steel. The fire and the tangle of dying men on the floor left little room to dodge. The prince jabbed, but the point hit the mesh of his attacker's hauberk and bounced away ineffectually. Fortunately the man's haste made him clumsy. Alemar stepped into the next swing and grabbed the blade with his gauntlet, immobilizing it. The gauntlet's ward saved his palm. He kicked the man's knee. It gave way.

The man screamed and fell to the floor. Alemar bounded through the bodies of the wounded men at the threshold. One of them, snarling in pain, tried to grab his ankle, but he was too fast. Back in the room the heat reached an amphora of oil. It ignited with a sinister hiss.

A man with the broken knee howled as he caught fire. The other who could still move crawled frantically after the prince, leaving bloodstains as he went.

Alemar whispered a plea once more for the rythni on the balustrade and sped down the stone steps, his jacket hot against his shoulders, the cloth reeking with smoke. He coughed, unable to clear the sooty pungency from his breath.

He heard the sound of footsteps coming to meet him.

Around the curve of the wall came another guard, so worried about what was behind him that he was oblivious to the situation above. He turned just in time to see his death arriving.

Alemar pushed the body aside and continued on. At the bottom of the stairs he emerged into a corridor. To right and left he heard muffled sounds of clashing metal and screaming men. A tendril of smoke, from still another fire, undulated against the high ceiling.

Two of Puriel's soldiers, fleeing for their lives, rounded a corner and bore down on him. They spotted him and halted in their tracks.

He lifted his gauntlet, showing them a blazing jewel on the middle knuckle. Their expressions changed as they recognized him. One man stepped back, eyes wide. The other advanced, smiling.

"He's alone," he told his companion.

Alemar charged, his thrust bursting out the closest man's back. He abandoned the weapon without breaking stride, and took out the second man with a straight punch to the face with his gauntlet fist. It was not so much that he was as fast as Elenya, but that, once moving, he could not be deflected. He returned to the first victim, set his boot against the man's chest, and freed his sword on the third pull.

Footsteps.

He whirled. Three more men rounded the corner, stopped, and stared at the dead men.

"Well met, m'lord," one of them said. It was Tregay and two villagers.

Alemar inclined his head in solemn acknowledgment. "My sister?" he rasped.

"The audience chamber. That's where most of the garrison made their stand. We've won, my prince. They've surrendered. We've only to ferret out pockets of resistance."

"Carry on, then," he said gruffly. "Don't bother with the wizard's tower." As they passed him, he set out in the direction from which they had come.

He found the first body lying in an archway, blood congealing on its neck. He soon encountered more, both castle troops and villagers, often in contorted poses, some of them still managing a few final ragged breaths. With the heightened senses provided by the gauntlet, he saw their auras flicker and fade out of existence. The tragedy of their deaths made no inroad into the hard, frozen place inside him.

Hiephora had been right to flee.

He entered a foyer where the fighting had been especially intense. Blood pooled under five bodies. One man was still alive. As Alemar drew nearer, he saw that it was Iregg. The rebel's jerkin was crimson across the entire front, and his aura was faint. He held up a mangled hand, opening his mouth. He produced no words, but the entreaty was plain.

"I can't help you," Alemar said.

The tremulous quiver of hope disappeared from Iregg's eyes. He lowered his hand. Alemar winced as if pierced by a lance. "I'm sorry."

The prince heard a noise to his left, and spun. A soldier jumped out of a doorway, battle ax high. Alemar ducked the swipe, but was bowled over by the man's charge. They tumbled. Chain mail pressed against the prince's face. They both rolled free and reached their feet at the same time. The attacker had lost his ax. Alemar had lost his sword.

The man was fully armored. Perhaps he thought himself invulnerable to an unarmed opponent, since he waited, as if he expected Alemar to try to pick up his weapon. Instead, the prince stepped in and punched. The gauntlet augmented his power, driving the mesh of chain mail into the soldier's sternum. The latter wheezed, red flecks flying from his lips. Alemar pounded again, and a third time. Ribs splintered with both blows.

He hit the man in the face, bending in the chin guards of his helmet, splitting lips, knocking teeth loose. The man choked. He had died with the first terrible blow. Now at last he wobbled, and, no longer supported by the pounding, slammed heavily to the flagstones.

Alemar stared at the gore on his gauntlet, transfixed. He turned back to Iregg. His comrade had lost consciousness. His aura waned. Alemar bent down, cradled Iregg's limp, broken hand inside his.

The prince could not help himself. Though certain that he would fail, he nevertheless tried to summon his healing power. A dull throb, a shadow of former vigor, thrummed along his bones, but nothing flowed out.

Impotent, he waited until the end. It came swiftly.

His muscles had grown painfully stiff; it was a struggle to straighten up. He retrieved his sword and walked on.

He met no more enemies. Instead, allies grew thick about him. They hailed him raucously, but he acknowledged them only with a raised hand. They directed him to Puriel's great audience chamber.

The shattered table, scattered braziers, dropped weapons, and fallen men gave evidence of the viciousness of the fight here. Elenya stood at the hearth. She issued orders to three of her lieutenants and the men hurried away.

One could hardly tell that Elenya's tunic had once been white. Alemar stared at her matted, crusted hair.

"None of it's mine," she said, gesturing at the blood. "Except this." She displayed a superficial slice along her forearm.

"Puriel?" Alemar asked.

"Not found. He wasn't in his chambers." She frowned at the sight of his red gauntlet and drawn sword. Without realizing it, she slipped into mindspeech. "What happened?"

"I was just up in the wizard's tower."

She nodded slowly. "I'm told it's burning."

He did not answer with words, merely sent an image of the four rythni losing their wings, the death of the pigeons, and the abandonment of the little people on the balustrade.

She wiped some of the gore off her cheek. "Not much you can do for them now," she said gently. "There are people in the courtyard who need your help."

He raised his sword. The blood on it had dried and would harm the metal if it he left the blade uncleaned. He shoved it back in the scabbard without wiping it. "I pity them," he said, and stalked out between the shattered doors.

Omril knelt at the lake's edge, cupping water in his palms and running it over his face until his fine vest was soaked. He stared morosely across the water. His tower, tiny in the distance, burned like a commoner's candle. His scrolls, his talismans, his birds-all gone.

"My lord?" asked his senior lieutenant. "Are you well?"

Omril's cohort waited expectantly, still shocked that their citadel was under attack. Many chafed to ride on. When the wizard had first called a halt in order to send his eyes to his pigeons, the junior lieutenant had begged to split the group and ride ahead. Omril had refused.

The wizard stood. He would not play a losing game. By the time he returned to the keep, the rebels might be in control, if they were not already. He might still win the day, but it would be a struggle, perhaps even a risk of his life. Time to regroup. He would save his counterattack for a better day, when he had more men behind him, when he could shape the situation to his advantage.

The garrison at Yent was the nearest source of reinforcements. That was where he would go. He gave the order.

The lieutenant was startled. "What of Lord Puriel?"

"Time for a new governor," Omril replied.

Owl lifted a blanket from a villager who had just died of his wounds, and carried it a short distance to another who still could make use of it. The wool weighed heavily in his grip. How could he be so tired that a single blanket would seem like such a burden? The man he tended shivered violently; the added covering seemed not to help. Owl had little doubt that soon he would be free to move the blanket again, as well as the one beneath it.

The tavernmaster stretched, popping his spine. The crowded barracks, where most of the wounded had been moved from the courtyard in the past few hours, had grown lighter. One of the nurses extinguished a lantern. Dawn.

The Elandri prince still worked, as he had done ever since he had emerged from the keep. He seemed to know which of the injured had a chance, and which did not, and concentrated on the former. He set bones, stanched bleeding that had thwarted the ministrations of others, relieved pain with powders, potions, and even the pressure of his fingers on certain places. Whenever not busy with their own efforts, Owl and the others watched in awe. And yet, for all his skill, Alemar did not seem to be using his legendary magic. The rumors must be true, Owl thought. The prince had lost his power. Fortunately, he was a fine physician even without it.

As if the new day were the cue he had been waiting for, Alemar abruptly left the barracks. Owl, seeing that there was nothing to be done for the patients at that moment, followed.

Alemar walked to the center of the courtyard, stopped, and gazed up at the wizard's tower. A faint wisp of smoke still spiraled from the gutted upper chamber. No one had tried to put the fire out, as it had not threatened the rest of the structure. Only now had it spent itself.

The castle had been secured, the drawbridge raised. The stronghold of the Dragon's forces had now become the stronghold of the rebels. Even those villagers who had not participated in any part of the battle now crowded within its walls. Anticipation and worry hovered in the air, palpitating Owl's skin with bony fingers. He followed Alemar up the stairs to the battlement to join the horde who waited above, nervously scanning the landscape outside the main walls. The princess stood there also, straight and intimidating in spite of her small stature.

"No sign yet?" Alemar asked his sister.

"None. Some of the scouts should be returning soon."

Owl was puzzled. What had happened to the little people, who had helped so much early in the fight? Surely they would keep track of Omril's position for the twins. Suddenly afraid, Owl realized that the wizard, with a full cohort, could be out there in complete concealment, waiting for the best moment to strike, able to raze the village while the residents hid behind the fortress walls.

Achird rose two handbreadths above the treeline. A scout jogged up to the moat and gave the password. In response the drawbridge lowered, and the man climbed up to report to the prince and princess.

"The wizard has taken the road to Yent!" the scout announced triumphantly. "He's running away!"

Owl expelled a breath he had not realized he had been holding. Wood spirits be blessed; they had won! A shout ran through the assemblage, down the stairs, into the keep. It took some time for the tavernmaster to notice that the twins, though relieved, were far from elated.

"He's going to rendezvous with the garrison there," Elenya said ominously.

Owl's smile faded. They could have held off a cohort of men, given the protection of the castle, but if the wizard gathered reinforcements…

"It will be a few days before he can mount an attack," Alemar said, to everyone within hearing range. "Spread the word to abandon the castle."

"My lord?" asked the man nearest him.

"The forest is a better hiding place."

The news spread, and suddenly the grounds crawled with movement. Those who had been repairing the damaged fortress defenses abandoned their work, and began systematic looting. They piled armor, weapons, gold, iron, and food in the central courtyard. Anything that could be moved was moved, until only bare stone walls and thick beams were left.

Owl started as the prince approached him and said, "These spoils will need to be distributed among the villagers. I propose an equal share for every man, woman, and child. Will you help see that this is done?"

Owl widened his eyes and stammered, "Of course, my lord. The elders and I will see to it. Aren't you taking any?"

"A little. But only what can be carried with us on the run. More would only hinder us. Better to let it go to the many, especially the armor, where it can be hidden until future need."

The tavernmaster nodded vigorously, but before he could engage the prince in further conversation, the latter marched off toward the keep.

The climb up Omril's tower seemed unusually long, at least three times as many steps as it had been coming down. Some of the men Alemar had killed still lay curled in postures of death. The stench of cooked flesh choked him as he reached the landing.

Little was left of Omril's sanctum save piles of charred wood and hardened pools of molten metal. His boot dislodged a piece of smoldering bone. He tested the floor, and tiptoed gingerly out to the balcony.

Cinders and fine soot coated the balustrade. He ran a finger across the stone, and held up the blackened tip. No trace remained of the four rythni, only ash, smoothly laid down.

At mid-morning, Owl was helping load a cart with sacks of goodroot from the castle larder when a pair of burly rebels dragged a gaunt, greybearded man into the courtyard. "Let me go!" the man growled imperiously, but his captors merely laughed. They led him before the twins.

"We found this hiding in the dungeons."

"My lord governor," Elenya said, affecting a bow. Puriel bit back another outburst. Elenya, though she had cleaned away some of the vestiges of the battle, was still a sight to stop hearts cold. His mouth fell into a palsy. Several people next to Owl called out for the governor's death.

"I don't think they like you," Elenya said.

"The Dragon will have your heads for this," he promised.

"Perhaps," Alemar replied. "But not in time to save you."

Puriel started to reply, then swallowed it.

Elenya drew her rapier. "Shall I be quick?" she asked her brother.

Alemar pursed his lips. "No, I think slow would be better. Like Milec."

Puriel sagged and would have hit the ground had his captors not held him by the scruff of his nightgown. Even Owl, who had nothing to fear, shuddered.

"I have just the thing for you," Elenya said, sheathing her blade. As if according to plan, one of her compatriots produced a harness, which she fitted around Puriel's torso. She tied a rope to it and fastened the other end to her saddle.

"Stay there a while," she told him. "Later this morning we'll go for a ride."

Puriel stood, surrounded by the hostile gazes of the villagers, until at length he began to moan. He stared at the ground, flinching whenever anyone stepped close. Alemar and Elenya ignored him. Owl was not sure what the twins had in mind, but he smiled to see Puriel so uncomfortable.

The looters divided the spoils and loaded it onto carts and pack animals. Several hefty villagers tethered the main group of prisoners together and led them away. Squads of men piled broken wood and straw against the structures and doused them with oil. Only then did the twins return to the governor.

Elenya climbed into the saddle. "Mind you keep up, now," she said, as if offering Puriel a dollop of sincere, friendly advice. She shook the reins.

Her mount trotted across the bridge at a pace that made Puriel run, fast enough to wind him, but not so fast that he would fall. The crowd surged behind, hooting, laughing, encouraging him to step lively, making jokes about his bony ankles.

They stopped at the edge of the forest, and waited there while the castle was evacuated. The men who brought out the last load lit fires as they departed. Puriel watched the flames lick at the bowels of his sanctuary. "The heat will weaken the mortar. Then we'll pull down the walls as well," Alemar told him. The governor licked his lips, wide-eyed and incredulous, clearly shocked, as Owl had been earlier, that the rebels were not keeping the castle as their own. But even the tavernmaster had quickly seen the logic: They did not have the strength to defend it against a concerted attack. It would only provide the Dragon with a target, and his retribution would be terrible enough without making it simple for him. Far better to dissolve into the forest and the towns, where they could not be easily found and/or identified. For the Dragon to reestablish his presence, his minions would have to spend long hours rebuilding the fortifications.

But much of that work would wait until the next day, when the bonfires had burnt out. Meanwhile, Elenya led the procession into Old Stump. Puriel jogged behind on unsteady legs. When she got too far ahead of the crowd, she turned and came back, starting again at the tail end. The governor began to pant, clutching his side, holding the rope with a death grip. She slackened the pace just enough that he could keep his feet, her toying glances always hinting that maybe, around the next bend, she would spur her mount and drag him. Puriel's eyes bulged. Spittle dotted his slate grey beard. Once, as he passed the line of prisoners, he called out to his men to aid him, but every one of them pretended he did not exist.

She rode him three times around the center of the town, gradually drawing the circle tighter around the remnant of the great father tree, where Milec had been pinioned. The people gathered around, jockeying for the best view. Small children, lacking the patience of their elders, pelted the governor with pebbles. One boy ran up close and flung a stone that struck Puriel hard on the bridge of his nose. Puriel snarled and kicked out at the child. Only then did Elenya jerk him forward, yanking him face first into the dust.

Three rebels picked him up, stripped him, and tied him to the tall stump. He panted so hard that Owl felt sure the man would faint. Once again the observers began to chant for his death.

"Be done with it," he moaned.

She rode back and forth, scanning him as a goat breeder would examine a prize buck. "I think not," she said.

His brows crept closer together. "Eh?"

"I think the folk of this town will be able to determine what sort of justice you deserve." As Puriel grew pallid, she, Alemar, and thirty or forty of the core group of rebels turned and rode away, leaving the governor in the care of the locals.

Owl solemnly watched them go. He had expected the sudden turn of events; the twins had told him and some of the other elders that the fate of the prisoners would be given into their hands. But he was surprised to see his own daughter, twelve years old with figure still delicate and uncurved, dance over to Alemar's oeikani and lift a flower to him. He took it. She smiled at her audacity, caught her father's eye, and scampered back into the throng.

Owl recognized the gift as a bough lily, the flower of Cilendrodel, a pale lavender, trumpet-shaped bloom with a faint, comforting aroma. The traditional victory flower.

Victory, thought Owl. It finally struck him just what the prince and princess had accomplished. For the first time since Gloroc had sent his minions out of the boundaries of the Dragon Sea, he had suffered a clear defeat. He had lost his single greatest weapon in Cilendrodel-the fear of the general population that no one could overcome his forces. If he had lost once, he might do so again. The people would not soon forget Alemar and Elenya's vengeance. Nor would Gloroc.

Owl and his companions turned to the former governor. Let them worry about reprisals another day. For the moment they would have satisfaction.

The twins and their party did not ride free of their audience until far past the outskirts of the hamlet. Alemar held up his hand in salute, but the motion was perfunctory, unconscious. As the trees closed over their heads, he stared up into the branches, looking for some hint of movement, for the sweet, melodic call of tiny voices. The wood mocked him with its silence.

Never in his life had rythni shunned him. Throughout boyhood, this fact had set him apart, given him one of the greatest joys of his life. He had never conceived of losing their trust.

The cost of victory had been too high.

"Come back," he sang in bittersweet rythni. Elenya, the only one of his companions who could understand him, closed her eyes in pain.

He gradually became aware of the object tickling his hand, and for the first time saw the bough lily. He let it fall into the dust.