"I felt the light go through me."

"I felt it too, a flood of light, and I know not if it came from God or another, or from nothing at all except the earth and what it is. Either way, 'twas a glimpse of something beyond what I knew before. I know I had to give up a measure of my cynic's heart to get out."

She smiled and kissed his face. "Aye, and I'll miss that I'm sure."

"Mayhaps I can no longer play the demon," he said, giving her an ingenuous look from beneath his lashes. At her crestfallen expression, he laughed. "Aye, and youwouldmiss that, wouldn't you, Ceri."

Her blush was sweet, and he laughed again, pulling her into his lap for a kiss that had naught to do with demons and much to do with mouths and the sharing of breath, one into the other, with the feel of her in his arms and the even greater softness she promised.

"So you will go north with me?" he asked when she lifted her head.

"Aye," she whispered, her eyes languid. "We will build a palace out of ice, and every night melt it with our love."

"Rhuddlan has arranged for us to travel with the Ebiurrane."

"Good," she said, and snuggled closer.

"We will leave in a sennight. Does that give you enough time with your brother?"

"Enough," she murmured against his neck.

Breath by breath, limb by limb, she slowly drifted into slumber. He held her and lazily stroked her back, watching the last shades of sunlight fade from the peaks of the waves until all was night over the open sea. Out above the northern horizon, a single star flashed in the new dark sky and fell toward the water in a glittering arc of celestial dust. 'Twas the sign of a child to be born, his child by the quicksilver maid. He cupped her face in his palm and placed a kiss upon her mouth. There was life in love, and as he gave, sowould he drink it from her lips.

Gently, so as not to wake her, he laid them both down on the deep-piled rugs of softly woven Quicken-tree cloth, magical stuff, and drew her close to sleep and dream with her, safe in the Dragon's Mouth.

Epilogue.

Outside the castle walls, on a wooded slope overlooking Balor and the Irish Sea, Mychael sat high up in an old oak tree spread with age. He was skimming the pages of the red book Ceri had given him two days earlier, before she and Lavrans had left on their journey north. 'Twas from Usk, she'd said, the Latin in it being the prophesies of Nemeton that Moriath had written down.

He remembered Nemeton, a large man with a flowing red beard and a single iron-gray stripe running through his hair. Mychael had his own such anomaly now, copper running through blond, the mark he had gotten for venturing into the wormholes.

As for the rest of the red book, the strange languages filling some of the other pages, Ceridwen had not known what they said or who had written them. Neither did he, but he'd seen fragments of the odd scripts before, seen characters from them carved into the rock in the deep dark. Aye, the red book was a treasure.

The Latin in the book spoke much of dragons, as he'd hoped, and of maiden's blood, which did him no good.

He was no maiden, nor was he likely to have access to one. He was a man of God and had not abandoned the life of Strata Florida, despite the strange turn he had taken by coming north. In truth, the longer he had been in the caves, the more he'd come to fear the holy sanctuary of the monastery might be his only salvation when his task beneath Merioneth was done.

A grim smile crossed his lips. He had once considered restlessness the bane of his monkish existence.

Then he had been called by a vision, one of power and grace and frightening beauty, and of pagan things to be done, sure to damn his soul-and he had been unable to resist.

Three days of hard travel had brought him to the cliffs overlooking the Irish Sea. From there he had followed an overgrown trail and his instincts into the heart of the caves, and he had remembered a long-ago night and grown afraid, thinking of Ceri. Mayhaps he would have left then, run back breathless and penitent to his monastery, except for the keening cry that had risen out of the dark and touched him like a caress. 'Twas that which had lured him onward, the yearning in the cry, the hint of desperation and of things coming undone.

Thus he'd found thepryftrapped in the maze behind the weir gate and the old worm moving through the deep dark on a course of his own making. He'd found the great crystal cavern with its floating thrones; he'd found signs of those who ruled it all, and he'd found the gemstone that warmed to a man's touch and burned bright. He turned another page of the book and his hand fell upon familiar likenesses. Ddrei Goch and Ddrei Glas swirled and writhed across one of the pieces of parchment that was far older than those written on in Moriath's hand. He smoothed his fingertips over the curved lines and felt the power of the ancient creatures reach for him from across the ages. This was what had called him from Strata Florida, the dragons he had yet to find.

He'd seen their nest and the words carved into the rock that bespoke of dragon care and dragon need.

He'd touched those words and remembered all the tales his mother had told, beautiful Rhiannon with her angel's voice and the mother's love he had learned to live without. But he'd found no dragons other than the ones calling to him from inside his heart.

"Ddrei Goch," he whispered, tracing a golden eye and the beast's long, whiskered snout, a fierce creature with an incarnadine hide. "Ddrei Glas." His touch turned tender. She was glass green, of air and water, pale and silvery, fierce and so essentially female, so other than himself that she fascinated him.

A movement in the glade below caught his eye and drew his attention from the book. Leaning forward, he swept aside a veil of leaves better to see. A girl was walking alone through the woods. He remembered her from the weir of thepryf'sdark maze. She'd fought well, but had lost her friend, and the sadness of the loss still clung to her. He saw it in the unnatural heaviness of her movements, as if every step were a burden she scarce could bear, and her face was drawn, her eyes downcast. Llynya was her name.

He watched her bend low over a patch of yellow flowers at the base of a hazel tree. She picked one and brought it to her lips. 'Twas a buttercup.

Eyes closed, she blew into the bright lemon-colored petals, setting them all aflutter. Delicate pistil and stamens trembled within the sweet draft of her breath, tangling together, and for an instant... a twinkling, no more... the aureate hue appeared to lift off the flower and grace the air with its light golden tones, as if the girl had blown the color from the petals themselves.

A fanciful musing, he thought, yet he still gave the girl a closer look, and 'twas then that he saw the tears upon her cheeks. Her sadness ran deep, but in time he knew she would find comfort in memories and a lessening of her grief, just as he would find the dragons, for all things came to pass in time.

Glossary anthanor-an alchemist's stove aqua ardens-"water that burns," alcohol athame-a small ritual knife bedzhaa-Arabic word for "swan"

Beirdd Braint-"privileged bard," the second class of the Druidic Order Beltaine-Celtic festival falling on May Eve and May 1 Calan Gaef-Celtic festival falling on October 31 and November 1 Canolbarth-the midland caves beneath Carn Merioneth; . ceremonies are held in the largest cavern by the scrying pool cariad-love, lover crwth-musical instrument, a bowed lyre Cymry-Welsh name for themselves Ddrei Goch, Ddrei Glas-the dragons of Carn Merioneth Ebiurrane-northern band of the wild folk gwin draig-dragon wine hadyn draig-dragon seed kif-hasheesh Liosalfar-Quicken-tree soldiers penteulu-leader of a great Welsh prince's war-band pryf-dragon larvae, worm pudre ruge-ared powder used in the healing of wounds Quicken-tree-southern band of the wild folk rasca-Quicken-tree medicinal ointment rihadin-small combustible packets of resin that ignite in various colors tylwyth teg-Welsh fairies

Look for

DREAMSTONE.

by Glenna McReynolds

Coming in hardcover November 1998 In twelfth-century Wales, a young boy named Mychael ab Arawn is taken from his ancestral home when it is overrun in a siege. Raised in a monastery, he intends to remain there-until a fearsome vision of battles, dragons, and a nymph sends him north to explore the mysterious caverns beneath the stronghold of Carn Merioneth.

There he finds no battles, no dragons, only the nymph Llynya. More at home in the trees than on the ground, so delicate in appearance yet as fierce as a warrior, Llynya is determined to fulfill a vow that Mychael knows will lead to her death. Yet even as the two struggle to find their destinies, evil forces are gathering, ancient enemies of man and of the wild folk of the woods, who will use Mychael and Llynya to turn back time and change forever the course of history.

Mychael silenced Shay with a finger to his lips. They were not alone. He tilted his head to one side, listening beyond the weak sound of Bedwyr's dying breaths and beneath the rushing of the waterfall. He did not have a Quicken-tree's sense of smell, but his hearing was keen, and he heard something, a high-pitched, continuous hum seeming to come from directly overhead and running to the north. Rising to his feet, he signed for Shay to stay with Bedwyr and set a course for the falls. Four other Quicken-tree needed to be found, mayhaps some who could be saved.

Quick and silent, he wove a path through the drip shanks hanging from the ceiling and jutting up from the floor, skimming his fingers over their smoothly rippled surfaces to mark his way and gauge his distance from Shay.

The noise came again from above, louder and closer, and he froze in place, not daring to breathe. His fist tightened on the iron knife. Whatever was up there, he'd not encountered it before, and mayhaps it was as good at blind scouting as he and Shay, needing little more than a scent or a sound to find its prey.

Or mayhaps 'twas a dragon.

The beasts could kill. He knew that as surely as he knew the same awful truth about himself. But would they hum? Did not seem much of a dragon sound.

The second noise faded to the north as had the first, and he followed, moving swiftly before he lost the way. He tracked it to a narrow arch made of two large drip shanks welded together at the top, and slipped through, his dagger held at the ready. Spray from the waterfall misted the air on the other side, making freshets on the rock underfoot and dampening his face-and bringing to him a scent he'd feared he would not find. Lavender.

Llynya was near. Trouble though she might be, he would find her.

He turned to the south, stepping into the stream. Smooth, water-worn rocks made poor footing, but he waded in up to his knees, into water like liquid ice 'twas so far from the sun. A wall of rock or a huge boulder-he could not tell which-curved along a length of the streambed on the other side, the top of it just within reach of his hand.

Taking care where he placed his feet, he followed the rock downstream to where it turned back in upon itself and began rising out of the water to higher ground. 'Twas not a boulder but a wall three hand spans thick, a gradually spiraling wall. He took up the faint trail left on the stone, and when he turned the last curve was suddenly upon her. The rich scent of lavender washed over him in the same instant that her blade flashed blue and opened the skin on his face with a bite of steel, cutting him high on the cheekbone. 'Twas instinct alone that enabled him to block her next blow. On the strike that followed, he captured her knife hand and lunged for the rest of her, grabbing her and pulling her hard against his chest. She struggled as if 'twas death she fought, but he held tight and forced her to drop the dagger. The clatter of steel and crystal on stone was a raucous backdrop for her breathless cursing and striving to break free.

"Not a child...'s-sand eater. Let go of me, Bedwyr. Sticks! Filthy leaf-rotter... not a child-"

"Llynya." He spoke her name harshly, tightening his hold and pressing his thumb against the inside of her wrist in warning.There is danger in the dark, he signalled, and despite the noise and light of her attack and what it might bring down on them, he swore most of the danger was in his arms. She'd nicked him on the wrist when he'd blocked her, and warm blood ran down his face. Curse him as a fool for forgetting she was Liosalfar and not a helpless chit lost in the dark. "Llynya," he repeated, and again pressed his thumb to her wrist.

She jerked her head up at his second warning touch, and the eyes staring at him in the fading glow of the fallen dreamstone blade were wild with fear. Her heart beat in a frighteningly rapid pattern against his chest. Her breathing was uneven. The icy mist settling in his wound was so cold, the bone beneath the cut ached, but 'twas no colder than the Quicken-tree girl. She was shivering uncontrollably, her clothes soaked through.

Are you hurt? He signed in her palm, but got no response before the last flicker of blue light died off her blade and plunged them once again into darkness. He was left with a vision of her stricken gaze and her fair face, and of the dark mass of her hair falling down on her shoulders, twisted and braided and stuck through with leaves and twigs.

Llynya, he signed, and when he still got no response, his own heart began beating too fast. Mayhaps he was too late. Mayhaps she'd already been alone too long and had begun her decline. She was not as strong as the others, not yet as hardened to the march and the weight of the darkness.

He swore to himself, at a loss. Shay would have seen the flash of dreamstone light and would come, but they could not stay where they were.

As if to prove him right, the craunch and scrape of some new thing in the dark sounded behind them, off to the east. Mychael whirled, keeping Llynya at his side.

The smell that came after the sound was enough to decide him. He swiped his hand up her arm-come -and took off, determined not to be caught in the trap of the curved wall with God knew what readying itself for attack. He knelt for her blade and sheathed it with his own, never once letting go of her. She had no choice but to come with him, but whether she did it willingly or unwillingly, he couldn't tell. The strength of his grip on her overrode any effort she might make.

He wasn't going to lose her.

He ran with her through the dark, skirting drip shanks and pools, making his way toward Shay.

Something had been back there, something bigger than a tua, and it had been after them, suddenly scraping and scrambling, the stench of it bursting upon them in a rush. If he'd hesitated a moment longer, it would have caught Llynya. He was sure of it. They'd lost the beast, if beast it be, in their wild dash through the stream, but were now both dripping wet, which he feared would do the girl no good. He needed to get her to a place where they could use their dreamstone blades. The heat coming off a single crystal hilt more than doubled when two were bound together. 'Twould be enough to warm her, andmayhaps seeing the light would ease her fear.

The trail split ahead of them, with the path he'd taken earlier heading across the cavern floor and another winding higher in a course of stairs up the wall. He chose the stairs, keeping her close behind him. If trouble came, he would as soon have the high ground and a wall at his back-and the elf-maid at his side, fierce chit. He hurt like hell and was still bleeding. Half frozen and scared witless, she'd cut him with a speed and a finesse he would be hard pressed to better, ready in an instant to fight and, if needs be, to kill.

She knew what was in the dark, knew enough to be terrified. Sand eater, she'd called him, leaf-rotter, and cried Bedwyr's name. Only by the light of her blade and his touch had she recognized that he was of her company, a telling lack.

Sticks, indeed, he swore to himself. She couldn't smell friend fromfoe, let alone the hundreds of other things she needed to keep herself safe in the deep dark. Like the old ones whose senses were no longer keen, she should not be allowed beyond Lanbarrdein. She belonged in the forests, not in the caves where the ability to blind scout meant the difference between life and death.

They were nearing the place where he'd left Shay when a high pitched hum streaked across the black emptiness in frontofthem. He stopped and pulled her closer to his side. She did not balk, but followed his lead, keeping her one hand in his and holding on tight. She clung and shivered and no longer thought to fight him. Thank God.

Her skin was soft, her fingers fine-boned yet strong where they clasped his. And the smell of her...

Lavender-breathed and something more, something essentially female at its core. The monks at Strata Florida had not thought to warn him about the scent of women, though they had warned of plenty else: the fire in women that made men burn, the lasciviousness of the female nature, and of mysteries too profane to be told.

He stared into the darkness ahead, waiting, the iron dagger grasped in his fist. If there was danger to others in the wild blood pulsing through his heart, he feared she would be the first to feel it. 'Twas more than simple lust she roused in him, he would swear it, though she roused him easily enough. But the yearning he had for Llynya went beyond lust-or so he'd thought. With her plastered up against him as close as anyone had ever been, her panicked breath warming his shoulder and melting his resolve, he wondered if in his inexperience he had simply underestimated the power of crude desire.

Shay had stolen a kiss from her in the guise of comfort. Dare he succumb to temptation and try the same? Dare he turn and draw her close and set his lips to her cheek? Soft skin there, to be sure, and not so far from her mouth. Would such a touch be enough to ignite the lasciviousness of her nature as the monks had warned ?

Somehow he thought not. More than likely, she would gut him and be done with it. Aye, she was not one to be trifled with. She'd proven that the first night at the well, going for her knife against the blade-master himself. He should have taken greater heed.

The hum came again, farther away, and he wondered if they would not both be better served if he set his hand to getting them out of the cavern alive, rather than trying to immolate them with lasciviousness.

"C-come," she suddenly said, slipping around him on the stairs and pulling him along by the hand. She was still shivering like a leaf in the wind. Not much fire there to burn a man, he granted. In three steps, she led him off the stairs into a tunnel that twisted into the earth. He followed more out of a dubious impulse to stay near her rather than the common sense that told him she'd already gotten herself lost once and needed his help.

The tunnel grew progressively narrower and lower, curling in on itself, until they came to the end of it with him crouching for lack of headroom.

" 'T-tis safe to light the b-blades here," she told him, and he believed her. They were out of Crai Force.

Holding both crystal hilts in his hands, he squeezed and ignited a lambent glow. The heat was slow to build, but 'twas there, coming to life between his palms.

A shuddering sigh escaped her, and she reached out with her hands, opening them to the light, warming, herself as if 'twas a fire he held.

" 'Twas n-near frozen I was," she stammered.

With good reason as far as he could tell, looking her over. Her hair was sopping wet, her clothes sodden. Water dripped off the hem of her silvery green tunic, pooling on the floor. The warm puffs of her breath made small vaporous clouds in the cold air.

"Are you hurt?" he asked. She didn't look to have a mark on her-unlike himself-but that didn't mean she'd escaped her ordeal unscathed. Nor could she be any too happy that 'twas he who had found her.

He doubted if she would have fought Shay so fiercely.

"Nay." She shook her head, and water fell from her leaves and twigs like a fine rain. "I be of a piece."

Once her fingers were warmed, she leaned back against the tunnel wall and began searching through the pouches hanging from her belt and a green baldric bandoleered across her chest. She rummaged for a while before pulling out a soppy pinch of lavender and offering it up.

"It will ease you, if you like."

When he shook his head, she stuck the petals in her mouth.

"We're safe here for the moment, long enough to get warm," she said, her head bent once more over her pouches. She must have had a dozen of them, but had lost her pack.

"Safe from what?" he asked.

"The Sha-shakrieg."

"Sha-shakrieg?"

Her gaze flicked up to meet his, and her eyes shone aqua in the dreamstone light. She held a piece of seedcake in her hand, and it, too, was the worse for having been dunked in the river. "Spider people."

She put the seedcake in her mouth.

Spider people.Sweet Jesu. Mychael squeezed the blades tighter and cast a wary glance toward the tunnel opening. God's ballocks. She'd trapped them. 'Twas what he got for following his damned impulses. "What are spider people?" "A wasteland tribe from Deseillign," she said around the mouthful. "They were allies of the Dockalfar in the Wars of-" She stopped suddenly, and he turned to find her staring at the side of his face where she'd cut him, where the blood still trickled down his cheek. Her own face paled at the sight.

He started to wipe the blood away with his shoulder, but she stopped him.

"Wait," she said. "Wait. I have rasca." She reached for her pouches again, and he noticed her fingers trembling.

"Are you sure you're not hurt?" he asked, hoping she hadn't just realized 'twas him tucked away with her in this far corner of the cavern. Mayhaps the light was only strong enough now for her to see. 'Twould be enough to startle anyone who felt a need for warding signs in his presence, to find him looming over her with a pair of daggers at the ready.

"Aye," she said, though the wavering of her voice belied the word. " 'Tis just a bit of the scare left in me.