Try as she might, Bronwynn couldn’t make the magic come. She vented her frustration on a string of foes, yet she made no more progress toward her goal. As her warriors dwindled in number, she began to look behind more than she looked ahead, hoping for some sign of reinforcements coming up the Down Road. Only a fraction of her army had made it up the hill, and she’d not seen General Joss since he turned aside to regroup for the first assault. But the men of the Mar now held the top of the road, and Mari supporters lined the cliffs. Without a tugolith to lead Joss up, any attempt to scale the heights would be senseless—in the general’s own words, suicidal.
The queen had started applying that same description to her own situation. Hopelessness stole its way into her spirit, and her arm felt the immediate effects. Suddenly it lost the elasticity, the wiry toughness that had allowed her to sling the sword from side to side all day. She reined her horse away from the fight, seeking refuge in the midst of her faltering force. Her arm dangled limply as she sucked in air, wishing she had some new inspiration to suck in along with it. A moment later, a new wave of sound deepened her despair— the Maris who stood along the cliff were all looking downward and were cheering wildly.
“The tugoliths have returned to their bloody business,” she mumbled to herself. That’s why Joss hadn’t come. The beasts were nothing but huge children. Left to their own devices, they would behave as any group of unsupervised children might— with utmost cruelty. And she could do nothing about it.
The cheers swelled in volume. Bronwynn hung her head in defeat. Then her defiant spirit surged back, and she jerked up to glare savagely at the Mari warriors clustered around the top of the Down Road.
Suddenly they were falling back before the object of their adulation, and Bronwynn saw a new troop of warriors gallop onto the High Plateau. Leading that charge was Dorlyth mod Karis, riding upon the steel shoulders of Pelmen’s old horse.
Dorlyth had long been a Mari hero. Since leading his people to victory in the Battle of Westmouth, his story had taken on the proportions of a legend. The rumors of his death had traveled widely, but many had disbelieved. Now those who’d scorned the story crowed aloud in their triumph. King Pahd had fallen, and golden-mailed invaders fought in the very heart of the High City. But here was Dorlyth mod Karis, come to lead the Mar to victory once again! Little wonder the people of the city cheered. They were perplexed, however, to see golden warriors riding up behind him. Side by side with Ferlyth came a tall, grim-faced soldier in armor the color of sun!
“General Joss,” Bronwynn breathed, and she swung her weary horse and rode wildly out to meet them.
All around her, the battle ceased as Mari eyes turned expectantly to watch Dorlyth cut this woman from her saddle. The watchers were astonished when Bronwynn and Dorlyth saluted each other and reined their mounts around to face the fortress.
“You’re just in time!” she cried in relief.
“Maybe,” he grunted. “Maybe not. Where’s Rosha?”
“There!” she shouted, flinging her arm around to point toward the castle.
“Then let’s go!” Dorlyth shouted, and Minaliss sprang forward. The ranks of puzzled Maris parted to let them fly past, and soon the great war horse led the invaders to the foot of the High Fortress.
Bronwynn gazed upward, trying to penetrate the mist. The instant she saw the body dropping, she knew who it was. “Rosha!” she screamed in terror and grief. Suddenly Bronwynn leaped into the sky.
She was aware of the wings on her back and the scales on her flanks, but she paid them no heed. The exultation over at last finding her altershape would have to wait. At this moment, she was a golden dragon with a single purpose—to catch her lover before he struck the ground.
As quickly as she thought it, it was done. Rosha landed between her shoulder blades—right between her wings. The impact knocked the breath out of her and nearly slammed her to the ground. She screamed again, in pain this time—a raucous, shrill cry unintelligible in human speech. Then she was rising again, soaring upward, and Rosha was safely with her at last.
“A dragon!” she thought to herself. “My altershape is a dragon!” And the joy of that thought carried her up through the cloud and out of it, into the sunlight above. She glanced down at herself and marveled.
She wasn’t a very big dragon, true, but she was a dragon just the same. And what other powershaper in all the world could boast such an altershape! She glided in a lazy curve around the castle’s uppermost spires and uttered a screech of total joy. Then she dropped back into the clouds, flying with an expertise born of instinct down to rejoin Dorlyth and Joss on the ground.
It was fortunate that she’d chosen that moment to descend. An instant before she touched down, her dragonform disappeared, and the young queen and her lover bounced unceremoniously across the pavement.
Bronwynn quickly got up onto her skinned knees and looked at Dorlyth in shock. “What happened?” she gasped.
In somber silence, Pelmen and Serphimera had built an altar. It wasn’t much—just a pile of rocks stacked against a stone shelf that jutted up from the cave floor. But as they stood beside it, their shadows thrown across it by the radiant object that glowed at their backs, this poor altar seemed to them the holiest spot in the universe. Here they would sacrifice their love and their future in order to redeem the past.
In that moment, it seemed worth it all to both of them. They were, after all, believers, and the Power in which they trusted had cleansed their spirits through an ecstatic experience of its presence. Purity hung in the air like acrid smoke. Nothing about the world outside the cave seemed real any longer; true reality had localized in this place and focused upon this rough, rocky ground.
“It’s time,” Pelmen said. He climbed onto the altar and stretched out on his back. Serphimera glided wordlessly to her feet. She pivoted around, and her eyes fixed intently on the pointed crystal object. She stepped to it and lifted it gently in her hands, thrilling to its touch. Then she spun again and walked gracefully back to Pelmen’s side. “In the heart,” he said. She turned the crystal point downward and raised it over her head to strike.
“Stop!” commanded a voice behind her, and Serphimera whirled around in surprise. For one brief instant, hope flared within her. Nothing would please her more than a stay of execution. But the sight of the figure standing in the cave’s mouth caused her expression to harden. She felt a chill tingle through her toes. She ignored it, and turned back to her ritual task.
Pelmen was gone. The altar was empty. She gasped in surprise and gasped again when his voice cried up from the altar, “Strike!” By the time it registered with her that, while she couldn’t see him, he still was there, she no longer held the crystal thorn. A ball of blazing fire had knocked it from her grasp. She scrambled after it.
“Leave it!” Flayh cried, as he jumped across the cave. When the woman would not obey, he exploded another ball of flame in her face, setting her back on her heels. He couldn’t fathom how she’d deflected his spell of dread, but it didn’t matter. She was obviously responsive to simple fire.
He raced to the gleaming object and grabbed for it. Other, invisible hands closed on it at the same moment and struggled to jerk it away. Flayh won the contest, but only briefly. A fist cracked across his jaw and sent him spinning to the ground. Once again the object bounced away. Another fist struck him, and Flayh roared with anger. This was foolishness. He cloaked himself and bounded after the glistening object. It shot into the air, and Flayh tackled the empty space below it. His arms closed around Pelmen’s legs, tripping him to the floor.