“Why don’t you?” Pelmen asked.
“Because it seems evident I must kill you first. Otherwise I should have to contend with your repeated attempts to overthrow me. Is that not so? And I must remove dear Serphimera from the picture as well, for who can say? She may have the power in her fingertips to resurrect the dead. While I have you here together, it would be inefficient of me not to dispose of you both. Inefficient and dangerous to the new state.”
“Meaning yourself,” Pelmen said.
“Of course. But don’t fear too much for the land’s future,
Pelmen. I will be a benevolent despot. I can be a good ruler when my authority is not being regularly challenged.”
“But that’s just the problem, isn’t it, Flayh?”
“What do you mean?”
“There will always be someone to threaten you.”
“You think so?” Flayh asked. Then the light disappeared.
While the two men had argued, Serphimera had decided to act. She was tired of being the only participant in this confrontation who could be seen. She’d remedied that, creeping unnoticed to the glowing object, snatching it up and hiding it beneath her voluminous robes. She kept her grip on it, though, so she was ready to wield it as a weapon.
Pelmen and Flayh both shouted in surprise and dashed toward the spot where the jewel had glowed.
Serphimera had turned her body toward the source of Flayh’s voice, and now she felt Flayh brush against her. How did she know it was he? Smell, perhaps? The boniness of his body, so different from that of her lover? Somehow she knew, and she stabbed upward with the object, burying its point deeply and drawing a scream from the pierced shaper. She jerked it free and stabbed again, this time toward what she thought was his throat.
Flayh’s death rattle both relieved and terrified her. The life force of a shaper had been expended, and she had not been obliged to kill her love!
She was certain, however, that neither she not Pelmen would survive the aftermath. The mountain rumbled and the dogs howled. For one horrible instant, she feared she’d be forced to witness the cataclysmic events she’d set in motion. It was blessedly brief, however. She passed away into darkness.
Noise and light sundered the mountain. The bodies of thousands of dogs dropped lifeless into the snow.
The proud, ancient firs of the forest fell prostrate in obeisance. The earth trembled with excitement, the clouds parted, and the sun and stars chorused together in jubilation. Myriads of powers, long lost and lonely, were in that moment reunited with their Maker. And in the process, that fabulous jewel wrought from six perfect diamonds was smashed into powder. The Power’s gateway had opened and closed.
The world of men experienced a slight tremor. It was quickly forgotten.
Rosha sat up and looked at Bronwynn. “It’s over,” he said.
She’d expected him to be dazed and shaken, but he was alert and very much in control of himself. His eyes troubled her, however, as they met hers. They showed unspeakable suffering and great calm at the same time. “What happened?” she asked again.
“Didn’t you feel it?” Rosha asked. “The magic passed. That’s why you lost your altershape and why I lost the dread.”
“The dread!” Bronwynn gasped in horror. “Flayh laid a dread spell on you?”
“He did—at the same moment the Power took me. And I was aware of all that happened while I lay on your back.”
Bronwynn studied him doubtfully. This wasn’t the Rosha she’d known. He was different. As he climbed to his feet, there was an attitude of confidence and certainty about his movements. Somehow, he’d finally found himself, and she wasn’t sure she liked the change.
But as he reached out to pull her to him and kiss her soundly, she decided she did like it. This was the Rosha she’d always wanted.
“I hate to interrupt…” Dorlyth spoke beside them, and Rosha whirled around, delighted shock on his face.
“Father!” he shouted. Holding Bronwynn in his left arm, he reached out with his right to return Dorlyth’s embrace. “They told me you were dead!”
“I thought I was, too. But you know how these shapers are, flying off to a new thing before they’ve finished the old. Rosha, what is all this business? I don’t understand at all.”
Rosha sighed. “Pelmen and Serphimera remade the ancient weapon that was designed to kill the dragon.
And just before he made me jump, Flayh said he was going there to the Mount of Power. With the Power in me, I was aware of the struggle of the three of them for the weapon. Serphimera got it and sacrificed Flayh. Magic departed at that instant, and the top of the mountain blew off. We’ll search, of course, but I’m certain all three were destroyed.”
Silence greeted his words. Then Dorlyth whispered, “Pelmen gone!”
“And all magic departed,” Bronwynn murmured, her gaze far away.
Rosha gave his wife a quick squeeze and then turned to the
crowd clustered around them—Maris mingled with the invaders who had been locked with them in a deadly struggle only minutes before. “Mar-Yilot,” he barked. “Has anyone seen Mar-Yilot?”
“I saw her briefly,” a Mari warrior volunteered. “Lord Syth was trampled by a tugolith, and she covered them both—”
“Where was this?” Rosha asked. The man pointed. “You, you, and you,” Rosha commanded members of the crowd. “Go with this man, find them, and bring them to the castle. You others, start looking among the fallen. We’ll bury the dead later, but the wounded must be treated now.”
He didn’t wait to see if his orders were obeyed, but turned to look up at the High Fortress. “Mar-Yilot burned away the stairway,” he muttered to himself. “But there must be someone inside.” He marched toward the stable entrance, and people parted to let him pass.
The stable was filled with ashes. Rosha stepped over them to gaze up through the castle’s open floor.
“Anyone up there?” he called.
“I’m here,” a voice answered, and the slaver who’d stabbed Admon Faye tossed a rope down through the hole.
“A slaver!” someone who’d followed Rosha snarled.
Rosha smiled grimly. “One who saved my life. Are there other slavers still there?”
“None to give you trouble,” Tibb answered. “I let the slaves out of the pit and armed them. They took a bit of vengeance. There’s a winch here. Shall I draw you up?”
“In a moment,” Rosha called. Then he turned to set the crowd to cleaning the stables and to finding wood to rebuild the staircase. Minutes later, the group he’d sent to find Syth returned, carrying the Lord of Seriliath on an improvised stretcher. Mar-Yilot followed.
“Is he alive?” Rosha asked.
“Barely,” she muttered, her eyes averted. There was a sob in her voice as she looked down at her unconscious husband. “And this time, there’s no Serphimera to help him with her healing touch!”
“There’s one here who can help him,” a voice called from above. They all looked up to see a woman peeking through the hole in the ceiling.
“Sarie?” Rosha asked. “Sarie Ian Pahd?”
“That’s right,” Sarie answered. “Let me send you the man who healed me.”
A man came sliding down the rope to kneel quickly beside Syth.
“Wait!” Mar-Yilot ordered suspiciously, blocking the man’s hands away from Syth. “Who are you?”
“My name is Tahli-Damen,” he told her brightly. Clear eyes, freed from the blue haze with the end of magic and spells, locked onto those of Mar-Yilot. “I’m from the Power.”
There was the sound of massive feet pounding the ground outside, and the crowd cleared away from the door. Chimolitha stepped carefully inside, with Gerrig sitting gingerly astride her horn.
“Gerrig!” Bronwynn shouted, clapping her hands. “You survived!”