Tshamarra smiled bitterly. "And those three foes all want us dead and Aglirta destroyed."
Craer grinned. "As usual."
"Do you want the Four dead and Aglirta destroyed?" the Master of Bats asked sharply, a glowing scepter raised menacingly in his hand.
Dolmur Blackdragon shook his head. Carefully holding empty hands where Huldaerus could see them, the tall, scorched wizard limped forward, wincing in pain, and turned to regard his brother.
Idiim was in worse shape, and moved more slowly. They traded grim glances and then looked at the Master of Bats again and shook their heads in unison.
"Good," Arkle Huldaerus told them, lowering his scepter. "Then you may stay."
His own walk held more than a hint of a limp as he turned and waved with the scepter for them to follow him through the archway ahead. "More damage has been done to Darsar by fools trying to lay waste to Aglirta than by all the other wars and mage duels I can recall, put together. If you promise not to strike at me or steal magic, I'll show you where I scry the Vale from-and we can sit and watch the fates of those at Flowfoam. Some wine, perhaps?"
Dolmur Blackdragon smiled. "Have you any Sarnen blackjewel?"
The trap-filled, dank, and yet dusty gloom of the Silent House terrified most folk of the Vale, yet it seemed as comforting a lair as any, just now.
For years the rogue Koglaur had used it, slaying fellow Faceless and ambitious Aglirtans beyond counting-but it had never walked these dark, familiar halls in such pain before.
Or staggered through them as it was doing now, a trail of dark blue blood spotting the stones behind it. It shifted shape every few steps in a vain, hissing attempt to leave pain behind.
The Dwaer glowed in its cradling hands, healing… but slowly, too slowly. The swift way would knit slashed flesh in ways that would leave forever stiff knots and joints, resistant to shifting shape… So, patience and pain.
Aye, patience and pain were its lot, this next while. There was a hidden
door just ahead, and then it could either lie still in the tunnel or shift to a wriggling shape and so ascend into the tall, riven turret called the Cracked Crown. There the only annoyances would be squawking, pecking, defecating birds, and-
The Dwaer suddenly flared up with bright, furious force. The Koglaur barely had time to be astonished before the Dwaer-fire was so strong that it was hurled away, roaring at the fresh pain of crisped hands.
The shapeshifter was wallowing on cold and dusty flagstones and staring at the smoke streaming from its blackened claws when a slender human female of dark hair and darker gown stepped from behind a crumbling hanging and plucked the Koglaur's floating, blazing Dwaer out of midair.
She smiled down at the twisting, shuddering Faceless with a Dwaer-Stone in either hand, and said sweetly, "You should have been dead centuries ago. You and all your ilk."
Two Dwaerindim kindled into humming brightness as one-and lashed out.
The Koglaur was old, cunning, and still deadly swift. It snarled an ancient incantation that made the sorceress frown and step back in wary alarm-and even as Dwaer-blasts bit into its shuddering, flowing flesh, spell-glows of a strange hue raced back along those twin bolts and washed over the Stones.
The Dwaer glowed and tingled strangely for a moment, causing Gadaster Mulkyn to murmur in wordless alarm… and then returned to their former state, their blasts steadying and gathering strength.
The slender sorceress showed no hint of carelessness or mercy, and soon the Koglaur ceased to shriek and shudder. Then Gadaster made a Dwaer raise a spiraling wind. That breeze snatched up the ashes that had been the Koglaur, moaned as it flung them at the ceiling-and then died away, leaving nothing at all on the flagstones where the shapeshifter had been.
"Three above," Hawkril gasped, staring at the bedchamber ceiling. "What was that?" He was naked and drenched with sweat, burning inside as if he was on fire. Embra was lying half atop him, down his left side, and she'd been raking him with her nails-causing the pain that had awakened him. And no wonder; her touch burned. Wherever their skin met, it felt like a searing Hawkril remembered from long, long ago… from the first time he'd curiously plucked a blazing brand out of a fire.
"Fire and flames," Embra whispered reluctantly, rolling away from him.
Her curves were as glistening-wet as his own, and she flung her limbs wide, gasping, "I was swimming in it! Flames, bursting up everywhere, consuming everything, yet burning on…"
The Dwaer at her throat glowed steadily, as if nothing was wrong. Its power was awake, of course, spinning the humming web of force that held the moaning, mumbling Blackgult on his bed across the room.
The Griffon stirred, writhing and kicking back his bed furs just as Embra and Hawk had done. Peering at him, they saw sweat glistening to match their own.
As her father started to roar, Embra put fingers to her Dwaer, licking sweat off her lips as it started to drip, and concentrated.
"Craer and Tash?" Hawkril rumbled.
She nodded and acquired the intent look that meant she was mind-speaking with someone. The armaragor could tell from her expression that she was soothing the person she was in contact with… Tshamarra, probably. Then Embra lifted her head to meet his gaze, smiling at the tenderness she saw there.
"They've shared the same dream. Warning from the gods, urgent sending, or break-sleep mischief, I know not-nor do I care overmuch. If any of us see snake- or dragon-heads in our dreams, of course…"
"It'll mean there's a Great Serpent again," Hawkril growled, "and a new Dragon's aborning."
Embra nodded grimly, and then touched her Dwaer again as Blackgult started to shout incoherently and struggle against the web that held him. As the magic brightened around her father, constraining and then quieting him, she sat back against the headboard with a sigh. "Well, this Lady of Jewels isn't going to get much sleep tonight, that's for sure."
Flaeros Delcamper came awake shouting, striking out with his fists into the night. "Fire!" he cried, seeing again those erupting flames, springing up out of the darkness all around him, to singe and then sear…
"Fire! Everything was burning up!"
"Easy, lad," Hulgor growled, laying a hand on his kinsman-and then snatching it back with an oath. "Ye gods, the lad's hot! A fever, belike!"
Anxious faces crowded around, lit by a lantern held in a royal hand. King Castlecloaks stared down at the twisting, sweating bard and then around at guards and servants. The two Delcamper maids were blushing as they surveyed all the bared male flesh around them, for only the guards wore anything-full armor, complete with the swords they'd now drawn.
"Put those away," Hulgor said disgustedly, though the swordpoints moved not an inch until the king nodded to support the old noble's order. "The lad needs a healer, not a sword through his guts!" He peered at Raulin. "Ye do have a healer?"
The king swallowed and then smiled weakly. "Ah, yes. Somewhere. I'm not quite sure just where in the palace anyone has their chambers, right now, actuall-"
"Never mind," Hulgor growled. "Kings, kings-what good are they? Lad!" This last bark was directed not at Raulin but rather at Flaeros Delcamper, now fully awake and staring up at the circle of faces in awe, fear, and-as he recognized some faces as female-mounting embarrassment. The bard snatched at the sweat-soaked linens beneath him.
"Ah, ye're awake-just like all the rest of us, thanks!" Hulgor growled. "Lad, where does Orele sleep? Hey?"
"You were purposely not told that, my lord," a palace servant said severely, "upon her instructions, and-"
"Take us there now," King Raulin snapped. The servant paled, stammered assent, and hurried off, taking up and unhooding a night lantern.