Then they pulled, slowly and steadily, while Embra wriggled and contorted and reached, slipping between strands and under strands and through gaps in the tangle. Once they had to let the line slack so she could climb back up two strands that met in a trench no one could have passed, but she made her wincing, struggling way through the bars of her own cage until at last she touched the floor.
There she drew in a deep breath, looked up, and cried, "Let go, and get you back!"
The three overdukes scrambled hastily to the door-and behind them, the strands of magic writhed and flared into flames, in a humming inferno that became too bright to look at in half a breath.
Heat blistered the three as they huddled against the door, and Craer murmured, "So, Hawk, how does it feel to sleep with enough fury to do that?"
The armaragor gave his old friend a look. "Probably the same as you feel, abed with as much bright magic."
The Lady Talasorn managed a smile. "My, you've the tongue of a courting bard in you, Hawk!"
"Oh? I'll make him take it back out right quickly, when I find it," was the growled reply-and Tash had to look twice before she was sure that he was joking, and dared to laugh.
The fire fied away as swiftly as it had flared. Craer spun around and grabbed Hawkril to stop him charging to Embra-but failed. As the armaragor's determined progress towed him across still-hot, creaking flagstones, he called, "So what was all that, Lady Em?"
All traces of the cage were gone. Embra Silvertree stood tall, all signs of pain fallen away. She held out her arms for Hawkril, but gave Craer a look of distaste. " 'Lady Em'? Procurer, how much longer d'you want to live?"
"Sorry," Craer replied. His voice was contrite without a trace of mockery, startling all of his companions into looking at him. "What did you do just now-the fire, and all?"
Embra smiled at him from the depths of Hawkril's embrace. "When I can touch any stone of the palace, I can call on the Living Castle enchantments. I used them to drink the magic of the cage." Her smile faded. "So now we must rob a few rooms of enchanted things to power the spells Tash and I will need-to fight without a Dwaer, and bring us back home if need be. Oh, and I must get boots and a sash, at least, for this nightrobe. Then the castle enchantments will serve again to source the best seeking spell we can manage-and we must hope by the Three that my father's crazed enough to keep his Dwaer in use, and our magic finds him. We fling ourselves to him, and…"
"Risk our necks again," Craer concluded mockingly. "My, what a change!"
In a dark, deep stone chamber, fingers longer and more sinuous than a human's slid around the edges of a stone block, and tugged.
The stone grated out, and the owner of those wormlike fingers reached into the revealed cavity behind it and drew forth a small sack. The sinuous fingers grasped four objects through the rough canvas, carefully holding them apart from each other, as if they were as fragile as eggs.
The sack was set down with great care, and the fingers lengthened and curved like snakes into its open end.
Four times they slid inside, each time emerging with something spherical and setting it gently on the floor. When the snakelike fingers withdrew for the last time, four rock crystal spheres glowed faintly on the floor. Each had one flat side, graven with a rune. Those symbols were the sources of the glows.
The wormlike fingers touched one rune as a long, convoluted, and harsh word was uttered-and from that sphere sprang a whirling, shimmering cloud of colors. The fingers turned the orb over onto its flat side-and the shimmerings instantly became a sharp, bright, three-dimensional image of a young, imperious-looking man in robes.
The owner of the fingers bent its head to regard the image-though its face was a featureless mask of flesh, without visible eyes. Yet it walked very slowly around the image as if studying it, stopped, and then started to move again, more slowly, almost creeping around the seeming of the robed man.
As the faceless creature moved, its body shifted and flowed, becoming more and more like the robed image. When the likeness was exact, a robed man slowly circled a bright, stationary duplicate of himself, making sure of every last detail. Then he straightened to match the pose of the image, walked a few experimental steps in a stride very unlike the sinuous, padding gait of his earlier, faceless form, and announced: "I Jhavarr Bowdragon."
The dark chamber seemed unimpressed. The Koglaur chuckled, collected the four spheres-the image promptly vanished, restoring complete darkness to the room-and returned them to their hiding place, putting the block of stone back into position.
Then the false Jhavarr Bowdragon went a little way along the wall and drew out another stone block, with appreciably more difficulty this time. Behind it was a little wooden box, from which the transformed Koglaur drew forth a lump of stone that glowed, just for a moment, at his touch.
"Everyone bent on conquering all Darsar should have a Dwaer," the false Jhavarr Bowdragon murmured, cradling the Stone almost lovingly as he carefully restored the box and its concealing wall-block.
Then he held up the Dwaer, made it flash in earnest, and left that secret place.
The man who was not Jhavarr took his next step on the cold stone floor of a different dark cavern. Only one step, ere he stopped, let the Dwaer illuminate his face, and asked the darkness calmly, "Father? Uncle Dolmur?"
His words fell into silence, but it seemed to the Koglaur that it was an intently listening silence rather than a lonely, empty one, so he announced,
"I am Jhavarr Bowdragon, son of Ithim, much changed from what I was… and I seek my kin. Father? Dolmur? Are you there?"
"You do not sound like Jhavarr," said a deep voice from directly behind the Koglaur. Despite himself, he flinched and spun around.
Dolmur Bowdragon stood facing him-or rather, floated upright, dusty-booted feet planted on empty air a few inches clear of the ground.
The false Jhavarr sighed. "I know. Much of my remembrances are gone forever. I was caught in a Dwaer spell-blast while fighting Blackgult, the Regent of Aglirta, and… it took me months to recall my own name, let alone my lineage and that I could work sorcery at all. Uncle, does my father yet live?"
"He does," Dolmur replied gravely, and lifted a hand. As it swept up, weeping could be heard: a storm of helpless sobs coming from a man behind the Bowdragon patriarch, that the darkness was yielding up at the same pace as Dolmur's rising hand.
"My son!" Ithim whispered, when he could manage words.
"Father!" Jhavarr stepped forward eagerly-but came to a swift halt when Dolmur raised his other hand in warning.
"You've sought your kin and found them," the senior Bowdragon said calmly. "What now?"
Jhavarr met Dolmur's eyes, looked away, and swallowed. "I-I need your aid, your sorcery, your wisdom. Both of you." His voice shook with sudden fury. "I crave vengeance for what was done to me, on Blackgult and all Aglirta, whoever kings it there and every last mage of power of that land. Let them all be scoured from Darsar."
"Yes, yes!" Ithim cried. "Of course!" He struggled against Dolmur's restraining magic, seeking to reach and embrace his son, until the patriarch let his hand fall and freed his brother to rush forward.
As Jhavarr rocked in his father's embrace, Dolmur smiled grimly. "I suspect this undertaking will be the death of us all. Yet let us do it. If the Bowdragons are to fall, we should take at least one kingdom with us."
He floated forward. "If our refuge is so easily found, our sorcery may be less puissant than you hope… so let us set to work crafting battle plans, and spells to go with them. I refuse to rush into my death fray unprepared to deal the worst I am capable of. I suppose one might call this Bowdragon pride."