Pure magical force threw him into the air, threw him beyond the maze, and even beyond the grounds of the Manor. Unwilling to slay, Valea sent him far away, so far he would be no trouble for months to come. It would take him that long simply to reach his own master . . . who would not be so gentle after such an abysmal failure.

As the spell waned, a garbled, horrific sound made the sorceress turn back to the first drake. To her horror, she saw him struggling futilely to free himself from a hedge that seemed determined to devour his armored form. A gauntleted hand tore uselessly at the enshrouding limbs of the tall plant while the other stretched forth in desperate plea to the figure nearest.

But Shade did nothing as the hedge inexorably pulled its victim within.

Valea charged forward, but the warlock blocked her with his arm. The drake let out one last hiss . . . then the hedge enveloped him, leaving no trace.

"The master of the Libraries delved well and deep for this treachery," Shade uttered.

At first, Valea did not know what to make of his words, for why her parents' friend the Lord Gryphon would send drakes to attack the Manor was beyond her . . . but then she recalled that the leonine ruler of Penacles, City of Knowledge, did not yet even exist. The sorceress also recalled the colorings she had seen when the light had been strongest, a faint purple tint to the green scale.

Purple . . . the color of the Dragon Kings who had ruled Penacles until the Turning War, two hundred years prior to Valea's birth.

Shade waved one hand at the hedge that had devoured the drake. The foliage shimmered briefly, then resumed its normal appearance.

"But how-" Valea stammered. "It's impossible! How can they pa.s.s through the barrier?"

The shadowed visage turned to her. "It is said that any answer can be found in the books of Penacle's magical libraries . . . if one knows how to phrase the question." He leaned forward, a specter that suddenly blanketed the night. "You are well versed in power, Galani. My grat.i.tude." He took her hand. "One would say your power rivals even that of Arak. I am surprised. You have said your powers were minute."

Only then did Valea realize what she had done. She controlled the elf's body again. She had made the decisions, defended them both.

She had altered the memory.

Or had she? Perhaps her actions had just been akin to those that Galani would have chosen. Surely it was not possible for her to- "What is it? What happened out here? Galani! Where are you?"

Shade's hood lifted. "We are here, Arak!"

A green glow rose from elsewhere in the maze and the hedges before them abruptly separated. Hand up, Galani's cousin stalked toward them, eyes surveying everything in search of a foe.

"What happened? I heard shouts and felt spellwork!" He seized Valea, practically tearing her from the warlock's grip. "Cousin! Are you all right?"

"She is well . . . and quite capable, I might add." Shade pointed at the ground, where the peculiar weapon used by the one drake still lay. "A possession rod. Designed to make its captive pliable through pain. I believe it was meant for you, not me. Lord Purple planned well, but did not take in account my resilience."

The elf was aghast. "Penacles? There were drakes here? Within the barrier?"

"You know that of all the Dragon Kings he has the wherewithal to find a way inside. Fortunately, some sacrifices had to be made. Neither drake could shapeshift or else we would have been overwhelmed by dragons. The two could not cast spells, either, I believe. They must have seen your cousin run out to the hedge and a.s.sumed when I joined her that I must be you."

"'Ran out to the hedge' . . ." Arak stared down at Valea, who chose to say nothing. A look of contrition spread over the male elf's countenance. "Galani, I am so very sorry. If I-"

"They must be after the Wyr Stone," Shade interjected.

All thought of apology vanished from Arak. "You think so?"

"What other reason?"

"Then . . . my decision is made for me. Their tyranny must come to an end."

Valea desperately wanted to ask what the Wyr Stone was and what it would do to the Dragon Kings, but suddenly her head pounded horribly. She swayed and would have fallen if not for Arak suddenly catching her.

"Galani! Galani! Gal-"

"Mistress Valea! My lady! Please awaken!"

Moaning, Valea opened her eyes. A rounded, elderly woman in brown, one of the human servants, leaned over her. The woman's face was flushed and she had obviously been trying for some time to awaken her mistress.

"Cora . . . what's . . . what's wrong?"

"Mistress Valea! 'Tis nearly dinner! You've slept all night and all day!" Cora felt the younger woman's forehead. "And you're cold to the touch! Do you feel ill?"

Her head throbbed and Valea felt hungry, but otherwise she seemed all right. She told Cora so.

With an expression worthy of Lady Bedlam, the senior household servant shook her head. "Well you'll still stay in that bed while I get someone to bring you some good broth. If you can down that, we'll see about hardier food. Wouldn't do for your parents to come home to find you on death's door, would it?"

Knowing better than to argue, Valea lay back on the pillow, watching as Cora fussed about for a moment before departing to find her mistress some healthy food. The young sorceress marveled for a moment that she with all her trained and natural skills still had to rely on someone without a single iota of ability when it came to magic.

Thinking of magic drew her back to her dream . . . or whatever it had been. Cora had said that she had slept through most of the day! What sort of dream would cause that? It was surely no coincidence that it had concerned the very characters out of the Manor's ghostly memory.

She bolted upright in bed. Had she somehow become tied to that memory? But why . . . and how?

And what would happen when she next went to sleep?

V.

THE NIGHT STRETCHED long. Too long, as far as Valea was concerned. Candle in hand, she strode through the high halls of her home, pa.s.sing without gazing at wall tapestries collected by her mother or vases and other decorative gifts given to both her parents over the years. As the foremost wizards of the lands, the Bedlams had as many friends as they did enemies and among the former were some of those most influential. A three-foot tall rearing steed made of onyx and reminiscent of Darkhorse stood atop a pedestal to her right, a recent present from the ruler of Zuu, Belfour. The people of Zuu had an obsession for horses and their sculptors could fashion the most marvelous, intricate statues of the equines, but even this, a favorite of Valea's, did not distract her.

She did not want to go to sleep. Having done so all day should have aided her in that regard, but there had been no rest in that slumber. The dream had sapped her of her strength as if she had actually expended herself physically. Valea still wanted to investigate the events behind the apparitions and the dream, but on her own terms.

Once more she stopped in the library, this time to research what history of the Manor her father had chronicled. Valea already knew that there would be no mention of an elf called Arak nor of his cousin Galani. What she did seek, however, was any mention of an artifact called the Wyr Stone. Clearly it was of great significance, if both Arak and Shade had believed it useful against the Dragon Kings.

For the next hour, she thumbed through the first journal, finding reference to other past inhabitants but not to the object in question. Discarding that tome, the crimson-tressed sorceress seized a volume related to the Dragon Masters, a band of wizards and other spellcasters of whom her great-grandfather, Nathan, had been one of the foremost . . . as had been her mother. Gwendolyn Bedlam had put down with quill all that she could recall of her days as part of the group that had attempted to oust the drakes from rule . . . even her love for her husband's grandfather.

The story made for fascinating reading and Valea had pored over it more than once in the past, but now she hunted a specific section. Somewhere there had been made mention of the artifacts that the Masters had sought for their grand purpose and Valea wondered if perhaps one of them might be the one she hunted.

The candle sank into a waxy puddle as she perused page after page, finding nothing. One pa.s.sage briefly seized her attention, for it spoke of a possession rod, but little more could Valea discern from it.

She rubbed her eyes, squinting more and more as the candle became less useful. Her father had raised her to use magic judiciously, not for every whim or minor physical activity, but Valea realized that soon she would be attempting to read in utter darkness. Raising her hand, she cast a minor light spell, one that surely her father would have seen as a very miserly use of her abilities- A face stared back at her from the other side of the desk.

"No!" Startled, Valea pushed the chair back . . . and fell with it. She caught herself at the very end, preventing a possible broken neck but promising many bruises.

Rolling away from the chair, Valea amplified the light spell, filling the library with almost blinding illumination. Ceiling-high shelves filled with book after book, scroll upon scroll-all carefully collected by not only the Bedlams but some of their predecessors-revealed themselves to her, but of her intruder there was no trace.

Rising, Valea hurried to the doorway, but saw no sign. She frowned, recalling what she could of the face-and her mouth dropped.

Arak.

Yet, there had been something else about him, some details about his elven visage that had only partly registered. He had not been as she had seen him initially-tall, handsome, foreboding. What had changed?

She turned back toward the desk-and this time gasped as Arak once more glared at her.

Now Valea saw with horror what was different about him. He still retained elven features, but they had also become something different, something reptilian.

Arak moved, but he did not walk toward her. Rather he stared past her, his mouth working as if speaking to another in the room. Then the elf, his garments misshapen as if his body was not entirely normal any more, darted toward the far wall . . . and through the very shelves.

At the same time, feminine sobbing echoed through the corridors outside.

Valea stood momentarily torn between investigating the apparition in the library or pursuing the ghostly sounds beyond. When Arak did not reappear, she finally abandoned the chamber and hurried down the halls, wondering why no one else came in response to the anguished cries.

Not at all to her surprise, the sobbing led her back to the staircase.

Once more the elven figure bent down and once more blood pooled beneath. This time, Valea did not reach out, hoping that by holding back she would see the vision do more.

It did. Rather than finally crumple to the floor, it rose. In one hand something glittered despite no other light, a dagger fine and silver whose end was drenched crimson.

The female elf-surely Galani-shifted back toward the staircase.

Valea stared at her own face.

No . . . not exactly her own. Much akin to hers, save that the features were better defined, far more graceful. Valea's face without imperfection.

Yet another gasp escaped the sorceress at this revelation . . . and suddenly the spectral figure looked her way.

"I had to do it, didn't I?" Galani asked her.

The elf's wound finally proved too much. She doubled over, the dagger dropping from her failing grip. Valea reached forward, but her arms caught no body, for Galani's ghost vanished even as death claimed it not for the first time.

Shivering, the younger Bedlam gazed unblinking at the site where the elf had been. No blood, no Galani, no- The silver dagger still lay on the floor.

No blood covered the tip now. Biting her lip, Valea approached the weapon, waiting every moment for it to vanish. When it did not, she cautiously pushed at it with her slipper.

With a slight sc.r.a.ping sound, the dagger slid a few inches away.

The sorceress hesitated, peering around. No one had as yet come in response to all the noise and that bothered her. This entire scene had been played out for her and her alone and now the weapon that had evidently ended Galani's life lay tantalizingly nearby. All she had to do was pick it up. Surely then with some spell she could divine some of its secrets.

But with her fingers only inches from the silver artifact, Valea paused. By taking the dagger, she also risked falling prey again to the ghostly apparitions. The Manor played some sort of macabre game, one that went well beyond her interest in the phantoms inhabiting her home.

Valea pulled back.

The dagger flew from the floor, thrusting itself hilt first into her hand- HER FACE STARED back at her.

No, not Valea's face, but rather Galani's. Valea sat at a high, gold-framed mirror, an emerald brush, not a dagger, clutched in her hand. The brush dropped from her grip as she studied the elven features closer. Still strikingly similar to her own, they had undergone some changes. The beauty was now not quite perfect, for there were dark circles under the eyes, which held much, much sadness. There was also a small scar on the left edge of the chin, a recent scar.

Valea recalled Arak's moods and grew angry. If he had done this- An intense rumble of thunder suddenly made her forget all about the male elf's transgressions. The entire building shook as the rumbling continued. A bolt of lightning flashed outside, almost seeming to strike just beyond the walls.

The invisible barrier was supposed to protect the area even from the elements, but already two drake a.s.sa.s.sins had entered. Valea wondered if perhaps the Dragon King was also responsible for the storm.

Again thunder rocked the Manor. A crystalline vase toppled from a fireplace mantle and across the room an exquisite tapestry of what might have been the elves' forest homeland slipped free, landing in an inelegant heap.

Although Valea had control of Galani's body, unbidden from her mouth came her cousin's name. "Arak!"

Not certain where she headed but feeling that somehow Galani would guide her, the sorceress ran from the room, hurrying down the corridor leading to the staircase. The sense of urgency rose with each second. Something had gone terribly wrong; both she and her host knew that. Whatever Arak desired, it was not what he would reap.

To Valea's consternation, her path took her not to the grounds, as she had expected, but rather toward what would be the library in her parents' day. Even now, the room was much as it should have been; the same shelves greeted her along with sleek, well-crafted mahogany table and four matching chairs, the latter leather-padded and all the furniture under the same centuries-long preserving spell as the rest of the Manor.

Letting Galani's memories continue to guide her, the sorceress reached one of the bookcases near the rear. Her right hand went up, pa.s.sing along three black tomes, then touching a crimson one two shelves below.

"It is here," the elf murmured. "I know it was here he touched."

Suddenly, the entire bookcase vanished, revealing a pa.s.sage descending below, a pa.s.sage carved into the mighty tree that made up this half of the Manor.

A pa.s.sage none of the Bedlams had ever uncovered.

Muttering echoed from deep below. Valea recognized spellwork, but not of a type akin to her own.

The narrow pa.s.sage wound around and around like some parody of the staircase. Valea constantly collided with the walls, which looked to have been formed from the tree's very roots. For a time, the steps seemed without end, but then at last the bottom appeared, opening up into a much wider corridor lit by small, glowing spheres of blue.

The muttering grew louder but still remained incomprehensible. An unsettling gray light radiated from a chamber ahead, devouring the blue illumination without mercy.

Planting herself against the nearest root wall, Valea peered around the edge. Acutely sensitive to magic, she had to steel herself before looking, so wild, so manic were the powers in play.

Before her stood Arak . . . and before him, the Wyr Stone.

It was not what she had expected. Valea had imagined some ma.s.sive, glittering emerald or ruby. Perhaps even a pure white, transparent crystal. Certainly not this.

The Wyr Stone was just that . . . a stone. It was no larger than Arak's fist and was only vaguely round in form. It might have been found in any quarry or canyon. At a first glance, the sorceress would not have even paid it any mind-if not for its coloring.

One second it was brown, then gold, then red, then a myriad display of other colors. Never did it cease shifting. There were brief periods when more than one color displayed itself and sometimes impressive patterns played over the artifact. Several of the colors Valea could not even put a name to. The Wyr Stone constantly changed, the pace increasing with each phrase spoken by the elf.

And as the Wyr Stone changed, so, too, did Arak.

He looked taller, more gaunt, and his hair had begun to gray, although perhaps that was a trick of the peculiar light emanating from the stone. More dramatic, however, was his visage, which had elongated and grown scaly. His nose had nearly vanished. Valea could not see his eyes, but felt certain that they had also been altered.

The elf raised his hands . . . and in them the sorceress could see a dagger identical to the one the ghost of Galani had wielded.

As she watched, Arak took the dagger in his right hand, then stretched forth his left, revealing the wrist. Already the elf's limbs looked misshapen, his fingers curled and clawed, his arms twisted at odd angles. Undisturbed by his transformation, Arak held the blade over his wrist, then drove the weapon deep.

Stifling a gasp, Valea watched in horror and wonder as he held the bleeding limb over the Wyr Stone. Droplets of blood dripped from what should have been a terrible wound, spilling onto the artifact while Arak calmly waited.

She expected some force to burst free from the stone, but instead, it seemed to draw from around it. A sense of vertigo touched the sorceress and Valea suddenly realized that the stone was absorbing the magic around it. She drew back, fearful.

"Kaladi Dracos!" shouted Arak at the wall beyond. "Kivak Dracos!"