“What good is that?” Verdilith repeated, purposely spewing noxious breath into Auroch’s face.
“This stone will give you a window on the progeny of Flinn—on Squire Menhir, the bearer of Wyrmblight. You will know everywhere she goes, every word she speaks. You will learn every secret of the blade she bears, of its magnificent strengths, of its one, great weakness.”
Verdilith eyed the softly glowing gem. “What weakness? I clutched that sword between my own fingers and wrenched it against stone, but it would not break.”
“Every weapon has its weakness,” Auroch replied, “just as every man does. You found Flinn’s weakness in his glory and relentless pride … and his wife, Yvaughan.”
“Yes,” Verdilith mused, gently stroking his maimed arm. “But I could speak directly to the mind of Flinn, plant the seeds of destruction in him.”
“You can speak to the squire through this stone, too,” Auroch said, lifting the gem from the table and setting it gently in Verdilith’s hand. “You can take the form of Fain Flinn and appear to her in the stone.”
The gem felt hot in the dragon’s human hand. He peered into its bloody depths, a line of bilious drool sagging across his lip.
“You can poison her heart, like you poisoned the heart of Flinn,” Auroch continued, breathless. “You can twist her so she will happily give you the sword—even help you destroy it.”
Yes, Verdilith thought, gazing into the crystal. Yes, this gemstone could deliver the sword of Flinn and the squire of Flinn into my hands. In the glinting light of the stone’s facets Verdilith’s mania to smash the blade calmed and deepened, and he began to desire a more satisfying, more poetic vengeance. Certainly, Wyrmblight would be shattered and the squire destroyed, but only after Verdilith had insinuated himself into the heart of the girl.
Johauna was her name.
He would steal Johauna away from Flinn as he had stolen Yvaughan. With a clicking, whirring sound, the wheels within wheels had begun to spin in Verdilith’s dragon brain.
“How can I track the squire with this?” Verdilith asked, allowing his rumbling dragon voice to issue from the mouth of Maldrake. “How can I see her? Speak to her?”
“Simply give her the stone,” Auroch said. “Tell her she can use it to see Flinn. Tell her she must keep it secret, or the stone will shatter. Then, to see or speak through the stone, you need merely peer into a mirror and wish it so”
Verdilith raised his eyes from the gem, now clutched tightly in his palm. “Why would you give this to me?”
Auroch walked back to the table and leaned comfortably on it. He fixed his deep blue eyes on to the dragon’s green ones and said, “It serves my purposes, as do all things. In exchange for this priceless gift, I ask only a simple service from you. There is a boy named Dayin traveling along with the bearer of the sword. I want the boy returned to me.”
“Why don’t you retrieve him yourself?” Verdilith asked through Maldrake’s lips. He continued to stare at the gemstone.
Auroch’s eyes flashed angrily. “Do as I say, dragon, and I may let you work with me again.” His wizened features softened, and he said, “As a token of my friendship, I will tell you a secret. The wounds you suffer so mightily are incurable while Wyrmblight is whole. But, when you break the blade, your wounds will finally heal.” The mage leaned forward slightly, staring deeper into the great serpent’s eyes. “But, if you don’t bring me the boy, I shall make certain you are torn limb from limb, and nothing will heal you again.”
Without another word, the human returned to his bubbling flasks. This final mention of the accursed blade sent Verdilith into another paroxysm of pain, and he choked off his rising whimper. The pain was so great he almost believed what the magician had said. But the dragon knew that nothing could ever heal his wounds. Whether Wyrmblight remained whole or not, he would bear these wounds to his grave, of that Verdilith was sure.
But that didn’t matter to the dragon as he rose from his seat, the acid from his human mouth having destroyed the chair and some of the floor. He slowly walked toward the table and lifted his arm to pocket the gem. The pain flared again and for once Verdilith found he could ignore some small part of it. The stone felt delicate in his hand. Fragile. But from this fragile gem, he knew he might finally have the vengeance he sought.
Or his own death.
It truly did not matter. Once the blade and the bitch were destroyed, he would betray Auroch for spite and let himself be torn limb from limb.
Jo’s weary step grew a little faster as she recognized the Hap’n Inn, where she and Braddoc were supposed to stay for the night. Not that there’s much night left, she thought, remembering the hour or so she had stood outside the rendering hall, trying to reconcile her rage at Brisbois and her grief for Flinn. She stopped to shift Braddoc’s battle-axe, which fit poorly in Wyrmblight’s harness. She had carried Wyrmblight in her hands all the way from the rendering hall; it had given her a sense of security she’d sorely needed as she walked through the gloom alone.
Almost by instinct, her fingers sought the four raised sigils. You have lost faith tonight—the sword again—but it can be reclaimed. Have faith, Johauna Menhir. Have faith! The words rang in Jo’s mind, but not in her heart. Duty alone had prompted her to return to Braddoc to help him bring Brisbois back to the Castle of the Three Suns. That and the fact that she couldn’t fail Sir Graybow. Jo’s benefactor had expressed his good opinion of her directly to the baroness.
Jo reached the alley leading to the exterior stairs. She took a step into it, then stopped. The alley was dark, far darker even than the one near the rendering hall had been. Shouldn’t there be a light near the stairs? she thought. Hadn’t there been one lit when they set out for the hostler’s? Perhaps the rain or the wind had extinguished it, she thought. The squire glanced toward the front of the inn. A shuttered lantern rested by the door, casting a starlike pattern of minute lights from holes punched in its sides. Pretty but not very illuminating. Still, it was brighter than the gloomy alley. Jo held Wyrmblight a Little higher. I can go through the front, I suppose, and risk stepping on the people sleeping in the common room. She took a step in that direction.
Something shifted in the darkness near the stair. Jo dropped to an immediate crouch, Wyrmblight gleaming before her. The gloom was too great for her to make out anything more than a general impression. Some creature, hunched and draped in rags, lurched toward her.
“Who goes there?” Jo called out firmly, only a trace of fear in her voice.
The figure halted for a moment, sniffing oddly in the darkness, then continued toward her. Jo retreated a step, trying to sidle toward the inn’s front door. The creature paused, its darksome eyes piteously studying Jo from beneath a tattered hood.
“Please,” came a thick, rasping voice. “I mean you no harm. I only wish to know if… you are Squire Menhir? The one who was bitten by the watcher in the woods?”
“… watcher?” Jo asked tentatively. Her eyes adjusted minutely, and she could make out the creature’s crooked shoulders.
“An old term,” the voice responded. Jo couldn’t tell if it was male or female, only that it sounded old and infirm. “Some call them abeylaut, or abelaat. Are you she?” The figure took one tentative step, and this time Jo did not back away. She kept Wyrmblight at the ready, however.
“And if I were?” she countered.
“I have … something for her, if you are she,” the voice grated. The figure knelt, removed something from its cloak, and placed it on the stony ground. It then stood and backed away. “It is for you,” it said, pivoting on a heavy, thudding boot and starting away down the alley.
Jo called after the mysterious creature. “Wait! What is it?”