"The Dragon is in residence," he told Alemar. "I smell him."
"Good," the prince said flatly. Toren caught a certain ambivalence in his tone.
The palms of Toren's hands broke out in a sweat inside the gauntlets. Another league and his journey would be over. He tried to focus on the center of the energies, learn what he could about the exact strength of Gloroc's magic. His probing yielded unexpected results.
"Strange," he muttered.
"What?" Alemar inquired.
"The Dragon's emanations are diffused. I can't pinpoint them. What could be causing that? I can locate every other source of magic with complete clarity."
"I don't know. You'd think such a powerful nexus would stand out like a beacon."
"Yes." Distracted, Toren bumped his head again.
When his forehead stopped throbbing, he probed once more. The source refused to resolve itself sharper than a wide, vaguely defined sphere. He estimated the zone to be about a hundred feet in diameter. He would need greater precision than that once they reached the great hall and he tried to snare his prey.
The tunnel angled upward. Belly cramps plagued Toren as they climbed. He murmured prayers to his ancestors. What had he gotten himself into? Surely, if he was right for the gauntlets, he would be able to pinpoint his enemy. A bitter, adrenaline tang filled the back of his throat.
"Geim?" Toren called.
"Yes?" the other Vanihr called from the back of the group.
"I just want you to know that whatever happens to you up ahead, it's your own fault for capturing me back in the Wood."
"I've been thinking what a stupid thing that was to do," Geim replied dryly.
Toren tried to laugh, but he coughed instead. An image of his and Deena's farewell lovemaking took form, but the memory of her musk drowned in the stale sea reek of the passageway. Maybe he did not need to know if the gauntlets worked. If he hid well enough in the Wood, Gloroc might never find him until long after he had died of old age.
And Rhi and his descendants would bear the totem of a coward.
He sighed, trudging on, arms trembling from the anticipation. The Dragon's radiations grew in intensity, all without resolving to a proper locus.
The tunnel ended almost before he expected it. "Stop," he told the others, and triggered the second crossbow trap. Three paces farther he found a hatch like that at the other end. The gauntlets dealt with the lock.
He stepped out into a small, empty room lit with the same bluish phosphorescence as the tunnel. The werelight bothered him. It was powered by a subtle, pervasive spell. Who was this Dragonslayer, to cast spells that lingered centuries after his death? Struth illuminated her subterranean chamber the same way. He would have to ask her how he might reproduce the light.
The aura of dragonmagic was overriding, no longer muffled by layers of sea bottom. Toren rubbed the palms of his gauntlets together. They crackled with static. Near, so near. He wished his knees would quit shaking.
Alemar smelled the Dragon's presence as well, even without a gauntlet to augment his senses. The inner lining of his cheeks turned to cotton. He hesitated at the mouth of the tunnel until, realizing that he was blocking the progress of the others, he shuffled forward. Match, Ebben, and Geim all sighed gratefully as they emerged, able at last to straighten their spines.
Toren waited in the center of the room, eyes closed, gauntlets still pressed together. Beyond him stood an apparently open archway. Alemar approached it, alert for signs of sorcery. Beyond the threshold lay a gallery filled with statues and sculptures, paintings and tapestries. By stark contrast, the room they were in was empty. Dust puffed with each footstep. The light in the gallery was bright, artfully balanced to best display the collection of masterpieces, but none of it came within the dusty alcove. Alemar could see his companions strictly because of the werelight.
He reached into the archway. His hand flattened against a solid wall. Tregay, equally intrigued, tapped his knuckles lightly against an adjacent spot. "Hard as rock," he muttered.
"An astounding bit of thaumaturgy."
Toren's voice made Alemar jump. "Don't worry about making noise," the modhiv added, noticing the prince's reaction. He joined them at the threshold. "No one in the palace can see or hear us. To them this archway is just another section of the wall. Even Gloroc would never suspect our presence, even if he coiled up ten paces away." Toren leaned nearer the invisible wall, admiration sparkling in his eyes. "It must have taken weeks to cast the spell that made this illusion."
Alemar, equally amazed, lifted his amulet out of his collar and placed the gem against the surface. Not so much as a flicker came from the talisman. The mirage was so well-wrought that it swallowed its own telltale emanations.
"How do we get through it?"
"It's keyed to the gauntlets. As long as I hold my hand in the opening, a person can pass through."
Alemar recognized the gallery from Omril's memories. "The Dragon's chambers are scarcely two hundred yards away." He licked his excruciatingly dry lips. His hand settled uneasily on the hilt of his poisoned dagger.
"Once we step through, Gloroc will sense the talismans," Toren stated. "I'll have to weave a cloaking spell first. That will take me at least two hours. It should hold long enough for us to run to the hall. Let's rest now. It's only early evening."
Alemar wondered how Toren could tell the precise time of day when they had been in the tunnel so long, but it matched his own gut feeling. He sighed. The delay would wreak havoc on their nerves, but the strategy was wise. They would attack in the dead of night when the palace activity was at its nadir.
The prince settled stiffly against one of the walls. Tregay offered him a strip of dried fish, but he declined. Who could eat now?
An hour dragged by. Ebben chewed short seven of his fingernails and started on the eighth. A drudge entered the gallery, swept up a few motes of dust and wiped down several sculptures, including the one immediately in front of the alcove, a remarkably lifelike rendering of a kelp shark. Alemar instinctively shrank up against the wall, but the woman departed again without once glancing in their direction.
Geim continued to scowl at one of the statues across the room long after the servant had cleaned it. He nudged Toren. "Take a look at that," he said.
Alemar also glanced where Geim indicated. He saw a full-size figurine of a slim, petite woman in a flowing gown, a delicate scepter in her grip. The prince recognized it immediately; small versions existed throughout Elandris and Cilendrodel. His father had given one to his mother.
As Toren stared at it, his jaw slowly fell open. He uttered something in Vanihr that could only have been an expletive.
"Is something wrong?" Alemar asked.
"Do you know whom that statue is modelled after?"
"Of course. That's Miranda, sister of Alemar Dragonslayer."
Toren exhaled suddenly. He and Geim exchanged a meaningful glance. The modhiv rubbed his head so firmly he creased his scalp.
"Does that mean something to you?" Alemar asked.
"Yes. But I'm afraid this isn't the time or place to discuss the matter."
Alemar frowned. Toren's tone closed the subject. The prince let it rest. Too many other thoughts and memories crowded his mind. Once Toren began weaving the spell of concealment, it was all Alemar could do to sit in one place.
The strands of the spell fell into place one by one and became a seamless fabric. Toren would have grinned if he had not been so frightened. With the gauntlets, his magic flowed like the waterfall of Headwater, straight and unstoppable. He stoked his internal fires. Once he and his companions passed out of the room, no time would remain for slow, careful spellweaving.