For a moment, Rees simply stared. Then, with a look of horror, he dove at the fire.
The boot still in her hand, Mirianna pivoted, swinging it with all the force she could muster at Rees’s head. When he went down, she clobbered him twice more. Then, tossing the boot aside, she picked up the knife and dropped to her knees on Rees’s back. The air whooshed out of his mouth and he gurgled. “How do you like being climbed on for once?” she said, “Not much fun, is it?” Finding the disk under his hair, she cut it free of the thong.
She sat back and turned the slice of crystal in her palm. It shimmered in the fire’s glow, fluidly shifting colors like a spill of lamp oil in a puddle. The disk changed the surface, made it beautiful and alluring. But the illusion was as thin as the slice itself. She knew that, yet the crystal whispered to her, promised power. She needed power now, power to save Durren, her father, all of them. The crystal could help her—if she kept it. Used it. Let it use her.
While she rose to her feet, her father poked a stick into the fire and dragged the glowing bloodstone out between the stones of the fire ring. At once, the glow faded. Tolbert sat back on his heels and gasped with the effort. Beside him, Rees moaned. The other bloodstones lay where he’d dropped them, black clots in the powdered mortar dusting the paving stones. Mirianna slid the knife into her belt and one-by-one picked them up.
She’d touched bloodstone just once, in her father’s workshop, but only with her fingernail. Nothing had happened then. Now the stones on her palm tingled with little snaps of energy that zipped up her arm, across her shoulders, and down to the crystal disk pressed to her other palm. Everywhere the energy flowed, the fine hairs of her body responded, rising and falling in waves. In her hand, the disk shimmered as if lit from within. The colors shifted, merged, swirled, and she knew she should look away from the strangely hypnotic dance, but the vision was so beautiful and the energy zipping across her shoulders filled her with such a sense of power, she couldn’t. Instead, she brought her hands closer together and watched while the bloodstones hummed and the crystal disk pulsed and a red glow enveloped her.
“Mirianna…!” Tolbert gasped and shielded his eyes.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Syryk saw stars, orange and green and yellow stars, circling over his head. His brain told him they were not the night stars, and he was lying flat on his back atop paving stones sown with enough pebbles to dig a score of points painfully into his back. He wanted to listen to the rest of his brain’s message, but his body screamed for air and his left palm burned as if he’d planted it in hot coals. Beside him, someone groaned. His head wouldn’t turn, but he shifted his eyes enough to see Ayliss, her hair flung over her face in a wild frizz as if each strand had been separated by a jolt of some kind of power.
Power…
Syryk sucked in a breath and remembered the bloodstones. Rolling to his right, he saw the red glow he’d glimpsed an instant before…before what? Syryk blinked. One minute he and Ayliss had been holding the Dragon at bay, and he’d sensed Rees put his hand on the bloodstones. There had been a thrill of power in the crystal, and he’d turned a fraction, just a fraction of his attention in that direction. And then…something had laid them both flat. Rees didn’t have the power to set off the bloodstones. Rees didn’t have any power. But someone did.
The warrior woman and her strange red aura…
Syryk swore. He struggled to his hands and knees while his clothes smoked and his muscles trembled. Weeks ago he’d formulated a plan after emerging from the crystal, a beautiful, simple plan using the Master of Nolar’s resources to collect gems necessary to complete the Chant while enjoying bodily pleasures he’d previously foregone to pursue crystal craft and scroll lore. By the Demon Master, this was not how the plan was meant to go! First Ayliss had surprised him with the power of her blood, her heritage. Now this woman he’d hoped to use for the Chant had some sort of secret power.
He could barely move the fingers of his left hand, but enough sensation remained to tell him he still gripped his own crystal. Or else the skin had melted to it. Shaking off that thought, he cast around and saw Ayliss’s hand curled near her head. Between her blackened fingers he spotted the glint of crystal. He reached for it, hesitated, then pried it free of her hand. “Sorry,” he said when she moaned, “but I did what you asked, and now it’s my turn.” His conscience told him that wasn’t entirely true, but he would deal with his conscience later—if at all.
Staggering to his feet, a crystal shard in each hand, he spoke to the disk, to Rees.
But it was the warrior woman who turned, and the disk, now in her hand, shone blood red. She faced him, feet set, head erect, hair a cloud of curls about her face. The scarlet aura threw into relief cheekbones, jawline, and eyes that must have been blue before the glow turned them purple. There was a sword at her feet and a knife stuck in her belt.
Once more she held him mesmerized, but he couldn’t afford to stay that way. Even if she were as unskilled as he suspected, she had to realize being able to activate the bloodstones without sunlight was a gift nothing in the scrolls had predicted. He shuddered to think what else she could do with the stones if he gave her time to experiment. Drawing on the crystal, he spoke. “I paid for those bloodstones. Yield them to me. The Dragon is mine to command. You can’t hope to control it with that tiny piece of crystal.”
“Control it?” Her laughter—not at all the reaction he’d expected—broke his concentration. “I need to set it free and save Durren.”
The message his brain had been trying to deliver finally arrived. The Dragonkeeper! How could he have overlooked the Dragonkeeper in this already nightmarish scenario? That Krad rock was to blame. Clearly, it had done more than merely rattle his thinking processes. While his mind worked to catch up, Syryk’s stomach responded to the news, roiling acid into his throat, and his mouth spat out, “Oh, that’s just bloody perfect, isn’t it? Don’t tell me—let me guess. Drakkonwehr is riding that damned Beast of Beggeth, isn’t he?”
“No. He’s in the Dragon. He and the Dragon are one.”
Syryk reeled. Could this get any worse? How in the Demon Master’s Name had his plan gone so awry?
Wait a minute, I can use this! An idea flashed into his brain, and his consciousness latched onto it like a man tumbling over a cliff grabs a root or vine. He had no clear idea what power the warrior woman had, but she seemed to have even less of a notion. If he kept her off balance long enough, he might be able to find an opening.
From the crystal he drew a slowly increasing flow of power that shifted his features, cleaned up the tatters and focused attention on his soothing, reasonable voice. “So, he’s trapped in the Dragon, and you want to save him? You can’t do it yourself, you know. Not with that tiny crystal. You need more power. I can help. Just join your crystal with mine, and together we’ll add the bloodstones.”
When her eyes narrowed, he made himself smaller, his pose non-threatening. “You can even hang onto them if you want. After all, that’s a woman’s power source. I wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
He was blathering now, but what he said didn’t matter. Everything depended on his voice. Watching her face, he studied his illusion of helpfulness, of safety reflected in her eyes. Even though his hand throbbed and his body ached, the spell was perfect, as usual, and first doubt, then indecision flickered in her eyes. Her hand moved a fraction, and his mouth watered. If he could just get his fingers on one bloodstone…
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Durren and the Dragon flew up and up into the night sky while the fire in the courtyard diminished to a spark. They were soaring in a tight circle, and stars whipped by, no longer sparks of light but streaks in the black void. The Dragon’s heart raced and Durren’s raced in sync with it. So this was what freedom felt like, this exuberant sensation of breathlessness and speed as earthly bonds fell away and the sky wrapped its velvet blanket around them. When they leveled out, Durren laughed with the pure joy of the moment.
You can’t fly away from here, can you?
I have been raised, but only blood can free me. One of your kind has brought into this place drops of my blood, and the little mage would lay his hands upon them.
Your blood? You mean bloodstones, don’t you? A prickle raised phantom hairs on Durren’s nonexistent neck as his memory flashed over events since he’d found the gems. Mirianna’s father bought the stones Durren had traded to Ulerroth, but the old man wanted—needed—more. According to the fat man, Rees had taken them, but perhaps not if Rees came all the way to Drakkonwehr and brought Syryk with him. Then we’ll get the bloodstones before Syryk can get his hands on him. Where are they?
The Dragon angled its head down, and Durren saw with hawk-like clarity an array of figures bathed in a red glow he knew all too well. Three sprawled on the ground. His heart lurched when he recognized Ayliss, but despite the great height, the Dragon’s vision showed him she still breathed. Rees lay face-down in the pose of someone unconscious, and the fat man had started toward him while the old man huddled near the fire pit. The boy was nowhere to be seen, and for that Durren gave thanks even as he spat out a bitter oath because that left Syryk and the woman he loved face to face and altogether too close.
Go! Now! Down! Mirianna was alone, facing a master of illusion who must have doubled his crystal supply with Ayliss’s, and only Kiros knew how Syryk had gained that advantage. Go! Stop him! Damn you, Beast! She needs me!
Yes, but not now. The Dragon continued circling. Your chosen mate is finding her own power, and you must trust her to use it wisely.
Her own power? What in Beggeth—? Then he saw. That all-too-familiar glow centered on Mirianna, shooting out not just from the bloodstones on her palm but arising from her, all of her. He understood, at last, what he’d always known in the deepest way of knowing where the mind cannot comprehend how the heart can know a truth with absolute certainty—she had saved him. She would save them all, if he would just let her.
Good, said the Dragon. Now send me your warrior skills, for we must face the abomination that would be human if the Demon Master of Beggeth had not turned them to his own needs, and I know little of fighting them.
The Dragon’s gaze shifted, and Durren saw dark shapes, hundreds of them, swarming up the rubble piles near the fortress gates. Dear Koronolan! He knew there would be Krad. There was too much blood in the air to hope the beast-men hadn’t noticed. But he’d never imagined there would be so many. The last time he had Rees’s arrows to back him up and Ghost to ride, but there were fewer Krad. This time he had no body, no horse, no arrows, and no knife—but he had a Dragon and command of the heights.
Are there any limits to your flame, Beast?
My body has just awakened. Until my core is fully warmed, I can make no predictions.
Well, he would just have to make every shot count. But that was nothing new for a warrior who’d trained all his life for the moment to defend everything he lived to protect. Everything he would die for.
There are two things to remember, he told the Dragon. Krad fear fire, but their weapons are poisoned, so you have to stay out of reach. Now, let me see the wider field.
****
Gareth moved down the tunnel as quickly as he could despite his burden. The body was surprisingly light, and he’d managed to balance it over one shoulder, but even though he was glad to be carrying it downhill instead of up, he’d already sweated through both tunic and undertunic. His hair, plastered to his face, dripped stinging beads of sweat into his eyes, so he shut them. He maneuvered best by memory and touch anyway, and the increasing temperature and slight leveling of the floor told him he’d nearly reached the pool.
A sensation of airiness, as if the tunnel had widened, stopped him. He secured his burden and felt with the toes of one foot for the edge of the pool. Finding it, Gareth backed a step and turned left. He paced off nine steps and knelt in a flat area he knew had been cleared of rubble. Puffing with effort, he lowered his burden, making sure no part of the body banged into the rock floor. Then, hands on his knees, he paused. He had another task to perform back up at the surface, and the groaning of the bedrock surrounding him meant there must be a battle going on above. He sensed he would be needed there soon, but he couldn’t bring himself to leave just yet.
The she-lion—Ayliss—believed she and Mirianna could save his master, and he trusted her—trusted both of them—but just in case this was to be his master’s last resting place, Gareth couldn’t leave his body as it was. Durren Drakkonwehr had lived in darkness much longer than Gareth had. It was the bond they shared. But in death his master could at least rest uncovered. Reaching out, Gareth removed his master’s face covering, folded it, and laid it alongside his master’s head.
The Shadow Man—Gareth still thought of him that way—had told him never to try to touch his body. Gareth understood his reasons. Still, someone ought to remember his master for what he was rather than what everyone feared he’d become. After all, Gareth had sponged that face. He knew there was a face there, and it hadn’t seemed horrible, but he hadn’t been focused on discovery then. Now, however, he wanted to say good-bye, and he wanted to remember. Tentatively, Gareth touched his fingertips to his master’s still face.
Chapter Thirty
If they survived this night, Mirianna would have to thank Pumble. He’d shrieked, nothing a man would ever admit to, but his vocal expression of horror penetrated her brain just enough she remembered where she was and with whom. She was in Drakkonwehr fortress, fighting for her life—for all of their lives—and facing the master of the crystal disk she held. Pumble’s shriek had made her blink, and in that blink she’d seen through the cotton wool of illusion to the tattered man with the quicksilver eyes who’d spun the fantasy.
She stared, and he stared back as his mask slipped and the disk scorched her palm. Mirianna knew it now for the snake it was, and she flung the crystal to the paving stones. Her heel came down on it with a satisfying crunch. For good measure, she stomped twice more and ground the remnants to powder. It was a lie, that promise of power. All the power she needed was already hers to command. She’d called on it before when she’d gone to Durren in the tunnels. She’d followed her heart then, and she would follow it again.
The mage blanched. He dropped to his knees and gurgled as though she’d stabbed him through the heart. For a moment, Mirianna wondered if breaking the disk had done that much damage, but Pumble shrieked “Krad!” again, and this time she understood what he said.
She ought to have been afraid. Days ago she would’ve stood paralyzed as dark shapes separated from the deeper darkness of fallen stones and broken walls. She would’ve watched in open-mouthed horror as more and more of them swarmed through gaps and over rocks. But even as she acknowledged that, she was already bending in one fluid motion to grasp the sword at her feet while turning toward Rees. She recognized her own power now, and it impelled her to act, to tuck the bloodstones she still held into her remaining pocket, shutting off their glow. Or maybe the crushing of the crystal had dimmed them. She would consider that later—if there was a later.
Dropping to one knee, she shoved Rees over onto his back. If she was right, taking the disk freed him from the mage’s power. If she was wrong—
“Mirianna…” He blinked up at her, and she knew she’d guessed correctly. “I don’t know what in Beggeth made me…”
“You were entranced.” She seized his tunic and pulled him up while the beast-men’s yips and yowls reverberated from the walls. “I need to know—can I depend on you?”
His gaze followed the noise, and comprehension spread across his face. “To fight Krad? Always!” Climbing to his feet, Rees wobbled. He touched the bac
k of his head, winced, and shot her a glance. “You…hit me…more than once!”
“You deserved it. Now get your bow from Pumble and make him stop screaming, will you?”
He looked at the sword in her hand, his sword, and she wondered if he would demand it back, but when his gaze returned to her face, he said, “Don’t let the filthy beasts inside your reach. Use a torch like a shield.”
“Thanks…for the advice.” He turned and ran to Pumble while she mulled the change in him. Had releasing him from the crystal made him see her that much differently he would trust his life to the sword in her hand? Or had she truly changed? Either, or both, could be true, but she had no time to think because the Krad were so close she could smell their stench. She grabbed a burning brand from the fire pit and turned to her father. “Keep the fire going, Papa. We need more flame. Can you do that?”
Tolbert nodded. Planting both fists on the ground, he pushed himself to his feet while sweat popped out on his forehead. “You can count on me, lamb,” he said as he stood, white-faced and swaying, before her.
Mirianna’s chest ached. Her heart had swelled so, it pressed painfully against her ribs, but she had no time now to tell her father how much she loved him, to apologize for underestimating him all these years, or even to tell Durren how grateful she was for the miracle of the water. Her hands were full of weapons, and she had to go into battle. Somehow, that prospect no longer terrified her. With the bloodstones lying close to her skin, barely weighting down her pocket, she charged the nearest group of Krad.
****
Durren fell. Head over heels and spinning, he tumbled down and down into an inky pit, into a deep black hole darker than absolute darkness. One moment he and the Dragon had lit up the walls with blasts of flame, and Krad shrieks still rang in his ears. He could yet see in his mind’s eye the seared-in-place images of beast-men, alight like torches as scores of them fell—or jumped—from walls and debris piles. He and the Dragon had done this, together, and the masses of furry bodies had ebbed away into the darkness outside the walls. Durren had shouted for the sheer joy of routing that threat.
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