

### Elfthade

### Genie Driscoll

Copyright © 21 Jan 2010 Genie Driscoll

All rights reserved. First Edition.

ISBN: 9781452398167

### Smashwords Edition, License Notes

### This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Cover photo courtesy of Alaskan Dude on Flickr:

www.flickr.com/photos/72213316@N00/5268156840/

Books by Genie Driscoll

### Stargate Aquarius: Starbase

### Stargate Aquarius: The Dragon

### Romance Anthology #1

### Romance Anthology #2

### Tavonovich ~ Spy Anthology

### V~The Sirrians Return (Book 1)

### V~Resistance (Book 2)

### Earthdome Space Fleet

### Poetic Passions

—oOo—

Chapter One ~ Sanesha's News

The sky was the bright, fresh blue of a deep mountain lake. Huge grey clouds, their edges glowing in the sunlight, drifted across it, their dark shapes all looming and ominous and hanging overhead as if they were about to fall. Their shadows moved over the stone walls of a great city which had been built on a plain somewhere in the middle of the land called Elfthade. The city's name was Umhlanga, and at its centre was the old castle, which was the seat of Elfthade's government. Unlike a regular castle, this one was equipped with several very tall and extremely stout towers. Their tops were flat and wide, massively reinforced so that they could support hundreds of tons in weight. It was for a very good reason. Up on the top of one of these towers, a dragon was perched.

Her name was Sanesha. At five years old, she was the size of an elephant and powerfully built, with four short, thick legs and a pair of wide wings on her back. Her polished scales were jet black and looked like they'd been carved from obsidian, and her curved talons and the six long horns on her head were all ivory-white, as were the fangs that jutted from her top lip. The membranes of her wings were blood red, as were her eyes, and her long-muzzled face was angular and fierce-looking. All in all she was an intimidating sight, as she sat and rustled her wings restlessly, waiting. After a few minutes a trapdoor by her foreleg opened, and a man climbed through it. He looked about thirty, and was clad in a long black robe. The man dusted himself down rather fastidiously, and went to stand a short distance away from the end of Sanesha's snout. She looked down at him, and then bowed her head, touching her nose to the stonework at his feet.

"Father," she said.

The man put his hand on her forehead. "Hello, Sanesha," he said. Sanesha raised her head and sat back on her haunches, curling her tail around her like a cat. She said nothing, and waited for the man to speak, which he did. "What have you discovered?" he asked. "Do you know if it's really true?" "It is," said Sanesha. She opened her left wing and showed him the flank beneath. It was marred by a row of deep, bloody gashes. "It's true," she said, lowering the wing again.

The man winced. "Those look bad," he said. "Here, let me heal them."

"No," said Sanesha. "Leave them. I'll let them heal on their own."

"Very well," said the man. "Now tell me what you've found."

"I met one of them, male, yellow, with an elf riding him."

"So they attacked you?" said the man.

"No," said Sanesha. "No, that was her."

"Bernice," said the man.

"Yes," said Sanesha. "And he was with her. I identified myself to them, but they ignored me. They tried to kill me. I called up the storm and got away, then came straight back here to report."

"Where was this?" the man asked. "And when?"

"In the Drakensburg Mountains," said Sanesha. "Not far from Dragons Peak. Two days ago."

"You got back here that fast?" said the man.

"Yes," said Sanesha.

The man's chin was adorned by a pointed black beard. He stroked it with a thoughtful expression. "If it's true," he said. "Then we can't afford to waste any time. I'll go there with Isis and see what I can find out. I want you to look for Peter and Doug, and Steve too if you can find him. Tell them to come back here. Pat will tell them what to do."

"Yes, father," said Sanesha. She flew away without another word, and the man retreated back through the trapdoor. There was a short ladder underneath it, which led to the top of a staircase. The man made his way down these, deep in thought. His name was Scott, and he was probably the most loved man in Elfthade. He was also the king of Elfthade, and had been for a hundred years. It wasn't a job he'd ever taken much pride in, but he did it competently enough. Since his crushing defeat of the rebel army called the Zulus he'd become more popular in some eyes, but the Empire, which he had built, was still far from safe, especially now.

Scott reached the foot of the stairs and began traversing a corridor. He was as fair in looks as he was in reputation – in other words, very. His hair was dark blonde and curly, and he wore it slightly long so that it flowed to his shoulder like a mane. The beard was a neat goatee and unaccompanied by a moustache, and he had eyes the same color as Sanesha's scales, hazel and unreadable, glittering with fierce intelligence. His features were angular, and handsome, and he carried himself like a man who knew what he was doing. He did, too.

He made his way through the castle until he reached a door, which he opened. On the other side were his private chambers. Or, at least, they had been private until a few years ago. Now there was someone waiting for him inside.

She was sitting by the window, watching the clouds drift over the sky outside, the light making a halo over her hair. When Scott came in she turned around and smiled. "Hello," she said. Scott went to sit next to her. She took his hand in hers. "What's the news?" she asked. "Did you see one of the hatchlings?"

"It's been a while since they were hatchlings, Pat," said Scott. "But yes, I did. Sanesha, she brought bad news for us."

"The news riders really exist?" asked Patsy. She was an elf, but very slightly odd in appearance. Her long hair was silver, and there was a silvery sheen to her skin. Her eyes were fiery gold, and when she smiled her teeth were revealed to be sharp and her canines long.

"Yes," said Scott. "Or, at least, one of them is. A yellow male, with an elf riding him."

"Elves?" Pat asked. "Did she catch him?"

"Unfortunately, no," said Scott. "She was attacked, by Bernice and Stephen. She's all right, just a few scratches."

Patsy's golden eyes narrowed. "Where are they?"

"In the Drakensburg Mountains somewhere," said Scott. "Dragons Peak. Isis and I are going to investigate. You'll be in charge while I'm gone."

Pat squeezed his hand. "Don't go," she said. "Send someone else, please."

"Don't worry," said Scott. "Lloyd's coming with me. I'm not making that mistake again."

Pat hesitated. "Well, all right. But be careful. I don't want to lose you again."

"Don't worry about me," said Scott. "I'm tough to kill. And you be careful too, all right? Be on the alert. Keep a weapon to hand, make sure you're always guarded; the usual. I'm sure you know what to do."

"I can fight," said Pat, and growled mock-ferociously at him. "Now and always." She touched her abdomen, which was swollen from her advanced pregnancy.

"I know you can," said Scott, his eyes a little warmer than usual. He sighed. "I'd better go and get ready. Will you come and see me off?"

Pat stood up. "Of course."

Scott smiled and left the room. He headed for the armory with quick, efficient steps. He was taking no chances on this trip; Stephen had caught him unprepared before, and it had cost him dearly. In the armory he put on his armor, which he had had made especially for him. A plain but well-forged breastplate made of black steel with his personal symbol etched into it, which he wore under his robe along with a matching back plate, a pair of thick leather braces and a helmet decorated with a snarling dragon with its wings spread. Clad in this, with the helmet under his arm, he collected a bag of supplies which he'd had packed for him by one of the servants, and climbed to the top of the Northernmost tower, where Isis was waiting for him, Pat by his side. Isis was a green dragon, much like her grandniece, Sanesha, but much larger and more heavily built. Her wing membranes were red, and unlike Sanesha her lower fangs protruded over his upper lip rather than the other way around. Pat was with him, busy strapping the saddle into place on the green dragon's shoulders. Scott patted Isis's neck. "How are you, old friend?"

"Ready to go," said Isis. "And happy to as well. I've been bored out of my mind, waiting around here."

"Me too," said Scott. "Are Thorn and Lloyd ready?"

"Yes," said Isis. "They're over there." He indicated one of the towers at the far side of the castle, where a large red dragon was indeed perched. There was a man seated on his back. Scott reached out to them with his mind. "Are you ready to leave?"

There was a brief pause, and then Lloyd's mental voice said; "Yes, my lord. We'll follow you."

Scott nodded. "Right, then that's everything." He turned to Pat. "We'll only be gone a day or two at most. Take care of yourself. And don't forget to have a word with Councilor Joshua about that irrigation scheme he's been fussing over. And be sure to take your potion every morning, and-,"

"Calm down," Pat advised him. "You're fussing again."

"Sorry," said Scott.

They embraced and kissed, and then Scott slung his bag on his back and climbed into Isis's saddle, where he secured himself with the leg-straps built into it. Pat took shelter by the low stonewall at the edge of the roof, and Isis took off with a great flick of her red wings. She flew up and over the castle, and Thorn followed, and the two dragons soared off over the roofs of Umhlanga and away.

Left alone, Pat retreated indoors. There was a chilly wind beginning to blow in from the North. Back in the chambers she shared with Scott, she closed the window and put on a warm grey robe with fur trimming. So, Stephen was back. She hadn't seen him in years, but she hadn't forgotten him by any means. The boy had been leader of the Zulus, and was the only dragon-rider left who was not loyal to Scott. He and his blue dragon, Bernice, had both been determined to bring down the Empire at any cost, and the result had been a long and bloody war. It had come to a head when both Pat and Scott had been captured by the Zulus. Stephen, showing a brutality that none had previously believed him capable of, had had Scott mercilessly tortured and had tried to force him into handing over control of the Empire to him. However, Scott had refused to co-operate, and had come very close to dying for it. But luck had returned to him and Pat. They had been freed thanks to Pat's father, Ellery, and the Imperial army, led by Lloyd, had wiped out the Zulus and captured most of its leaders. Stephen himself, however, had escaped along with Bernice and managed to evade all attempts to find him. Now, some years on, rumours had surfaced that there were other riders in Elfthade. Riders who wanted to bring down the Empire and murder Scott, although they called it "liberating Elfthade" and "avenging the riders of old". The "riders of old" were the previous rulers of Elfthade, and had been wiped out by a rebellion led by Scott, who had built the Empire to replace them and made himself king of it. He had ruled Elfthade for over a century since then, and although it had been a time of peace and stability there were those who still hated him for his past crimes and wanted to remove him for it. Pat did not take this idealistic view. She had lived during the time of the old riders, and she did not remember it as a utopia. What she remembered was how the riders, supposedly so powerful, had been more or less controlled by the Elves. And under their narrow-minded and supremacist influence they had treated Elves as second-class citizens and slowly given more and more power to the Elves. Those whom the Elves disliked, such as the Humans, and the mysterious Elves – were made war on and driven out of their lands, which were taken from them along with their treasures and secrets. The Elves were wiped out altogether. All that remained of them was in one man, Scott. His father had been a dark elf, and he was the last man alive who knew the secrets of that lost people. Pat thought of the riders" fall as a good thing because she, too, had been persecuted by them. She had hated them and the Humans as well, for their cruelty and their prejudice. She had first fallen in love with Scott because he was the only one who saw the wrongness of what was happening, and who had the strength and the courage to try and put a stop to it. She remembered how passionate he'd been then; a mere boy, still weak and suffering from insanity and illness brought about by imprisonment and loss. But in spite of that there had been something in his spirit that had kept him alive against all the odds. It was an inner fire, which had led him to win what looked like a hopeless battle, and build an empire almost single-handedly.

And now Pat was helping him to make the empire a hundred times stronger than it had been before and was now. Before, he had ruled Elfthade by right of conquest, which was a strong enough right. The riders themselves had taken over by force. But according to the oldest laws of Elfthade that right only lasted until someone managed to kill him. The instant Scott died; whoever killed him would automatically take his place as ruler. But now Pat would change that. She knew the other law. The instant she bore him an heir, his right to rule would be automatically legitimized. Once the child was born, the death of Scott would only mean that the throne would pass to it. And the killer would have no claim at all. After a string of miscarriages they had managed to conceive a healthy child, and though Pat resented it she knew it was her duty now to stay in Umhlanga and keep safe. And take care of the empire.

She wasn't afraid of the rebels. She would stand by her Pat's side no matter what the cost, and she would fight for him and for their child. And if that meant going up against Stephen again, then so be it.

Chapter Two ~ Blood for an Empire

Isis flew steadily, his white wings held out stiffly from his sides to catch the wind. Thorn flew a short distance behind the black dragon, Lloyd dozing on his back. The two dragons had flown for an entire day out of Umhlanga, stopped for the night at the city of Furnost, and resumed their journey first thing in the morning. Now the Drakensburg Mountains were coming into view, and Scott estimated that they would reach them that evening or perhaps on the following morning. After that it would be a short journey to Dragons Peak. Dragons Peak was an old dwarf city carved into a mountain. He'd been there a few times, and remembered that it was an eerie place, with many hiding places in it. The war that destroyed the old riders had been fought in many places, and that had included Dragons Peak. Mostly Scott's allies, the Forsworn, had fought on his behalf there, but he'd gone there personally at one point to deal with a particularly tough enemy who'd gone to hide there. It hadn't been an easy fight. Dragons Peak was a good place for the brat and his rebels to lie low. The approach would be difficult. There were plenty of places for lookouts to hide, so approaching unseen would be nigh-on impossible.

However, Scott had ways of dealing with that.

Just as the sun was starting to dip below the horizon, they reached the mountains. "You know what to do," he told Isis.

Isis knew. He glanced upward. There were a few pale clouds threading overhead, more than enough. The black dragon reached out with his mind. First he alerted Thorn to what he was doing, and then he set to work.

The clouds began to grow. And grow. They spread across the sky, melding into each other like patches in a quilt. The light dimmed and became dark blue-grey. Thunder rumbled, and white lightning snaked across the sky. The wind picked up. Thorn, his eyes wide with fear, took shelter by Isis's side, flying as close to the other dragon as he dared. No dragon likes to fly in a storm. It is one of the few things that can make them panic. Isis focused his powers, and sent the storm on ahead of them into the mountains. Scott could feel the black dragon's dark satisfaction at this. Any dragon hiding up ahead would be too frightened to take to the air... hence, no chance of getting back to Dragons Peak to alert Stephen to their presence. This was Isis's secret weapon, and it had been an important factor in winning them the war. Now it would help them take Stephen by surprise... if he was in Dragons Peak at all. Scott considered that unlikely. In all probability the boy knew that Sanesha would have come straight to him with the news, and would have moved on. Still, no sense in taking pointless risks.

They entered the mountains without incident, with Isis's storm going ahead of them, sending powerful winds and bolts of lightning into valleys and canyons. Anyone hiding there would be in trouble. But, so far, they saw no-one. The only living creatures in evidence were a few mountain goats. Nevertheless, they kept on toward Dragons Peak. Lloyd was first to spot the crumbling remains of the two watch-towers carved into the twin peaks they passed between. He pointed them out to Scott, who nodded. They were now in Dragons Peak. After a short flight through the deep gorge beyond the towers, they found themselves flying through a city. On all sides the rock was honeycombed with doors and windows – all now reduced to just empty holes where wooden shutters and doors had rotted away. The wind howled and whistled around them like angry ghosts, a desolate place, a dead place. But it had an uncomfortable feeling of, waiting, for something.

Isis and Thorn flew on toward the centre of Dragons Peak, on the lookout for any sign of movement. They reached the centre without seeing any, and landed on the roof of the large mountain-palace which stood there. Once a great dwarf queen had ruled there, but though her time was long gone the seat of her power still maintained some of its grandeur. Once Isis had landed, Scott pointed to a spot lower down, where a chunk of an ornamented lintel had been broken off and the stone was marred by a row of deep gashes. "Remember when that happened?" he asked mentally.

"Oh yes," said Isis. "My talons have grown a lot since then, haven't they?"

He dug them into the stone beneath him, making a series of cuts that were deep and wide enough for Scott to fit both his hands in.

"Very impressive, master," Thorn's mental voice intruded. "But what about the task we're supposed to be carrying out right now?"

"No need for sarcasm, Thorn," said Isis. He raised his head and sniffed. "Can you see anything?" he asked, appealing to all three of his companions.

"Nothing," said Lloyd.

"Nothing," said Thorn. "Can't see anything, can't smell anything; then again, with this wind..."

"What do you think, Scott?" asked Isis.

Scott scrutinized their surroundings. "Nothing," he echoed. "If there's anyone here, they're lying low."

"Most likely they've moved on," said Isis.

"Yes," said Scott. He sighed. "I didn't really expect them to linger. We'll search the buildings and see if we can find anything. Afterwards we'll make a search of the mountains nearby. Isis, keep the storm going. If we catch them, I want to catch them while they're grounded."

"As you wish," said Isis.

Thunder rumbled. And then light returned to the dead city; bright, golden sunlight. It shone through a hole that had appeared in the clouds, and blinded all four of them. While they were still blinking, it got brighter. The thunder died away, and the wind dropped. The clouds parted inexorably, showing blue sky beyond. The storm was clearing.

"Isis!" Scott shouted mentally. "What are you doing?"

"It's not me!" said Isis. "I'm trying, but,"

There was a groan from Thorn. The red dragon shook his head dazedly, as if trying to shake off a fly. Then he slumped down onto his haunches, his sides heaving.

"Thorn, what's wrong?" said Scott.

Thorn said nothing. His eyes had gone glazed. On his back, Lloyd drew his sword. "Something's coming," he said. "I can; it's in my head. Thorn?"

Thorn remained silent. Isis nosed at him, but the younger dragon didn't move. Scott looked around quickly. Still, there was no sign of anyone. But the storm was gone. "Lloyd!" he shouted out loud.

Lloyd's eyes suddenly widened. "She's coming," he said. "You must get out of here, my lord. I can't..." his voice died away. The look of fear on his face suddenly settled into one of blankness and placidity, and he lowered his sword.

"Lloyd?" said Scott. "Lloyd, can you hear me?"

There was no response. Isis gave up his attempts to wake Thorn from his trance, and turned to stare at the empty houses below them. "Something bad is happening," he growled aloud. "The storm won't obey me."

The black dragon took to the air, the sunlight shining on his white wings. Sitting apprehensively on his back, all alert for some sign of movement, Scott saw it. Or, rather her.

She flew up from the depths of the city's lower levels, and the air seemed to grow a little colder when she did. She was a dragon. Much larger than she'd been last time he'd seen her. Her scales were silver, but traced by a sickly web of vile black veins, as were her oversized, ragged wings. Her whole body was warped and twisted out of true, all jutting bones and grotesque angles. And her eyes were two black, dead pits in her face. Vervada.

"Vervada," said Scott. "Isis, get us out of here. Now."

Isis didn't move. He stayed where he was, beating his wings occasionally to stay aloft but doing nothing else. Scott could feel the black dragon's distress, and he knew all too well what was happening.

Vervada hovered in front of them, her face blank and empty of expression. He felt her mind touch his, and fended her off automatically, but her voice still sounded in his head. "I cannot control you," it said. "But you are in my way. And now you will die."

Scott moved fast. He held out his hand, palm-first, and shot a ball of black energy across the gap. Vervada spat silver flames, and they hit the oncoming magic and deflected it. Scott swore and struck again, faster this time. But his magic had no effect on the monster. He wasn't put off yet, however. He unhooked his bow from its holder on Isis's saddle, and fired an arrow, aiming for Vervada's heart. It hit her, lodging itself between two scales, and black blood oozed from around it. Vervada hissed and snapped her teeth at the empty air, and Scott's bow shattered, driving hundreds of wooden shards into his hands. He gasped at the sudden pain, but reached for his sword, ignoring the blood running down his fingers. His grip on the hilt was slippery, and he had trouble pulling it out of the sheath. And before he'd managed to do that he heard a blasting of air, and they rose into view.

Riders, thirteen of them. The dragons were of all different sizes, and at their head was a blue female, Bernice. And on her back was a young man who looked more elf than human, whose pale, handsome face wore an expression of Berniceble hatred. Stephen. Scott acted quickly. He pulled a dagger from inside his robe, and threw it as hard and fast as he could at Stephen's face. Stephen threw up a magical shield, and the dagger bounced off it and fell into the canyon below. Scott gritted his teeth and sent his most powerful magic toward the other rider, one blast after another, as fast as he could... which was very fast. But Stephen blocked him every time, simultaneously shouting some command to his fellows. They struck as one.

They didn't kill him. The magical blast washed over him and passed straight through his brain, cutting off his access to his powers and trapping inside his own head. It was a simple enough spell to cast on someone, but the backwash of so much magic sent a blast of pain rifling straight through him, as if his nerves were on fire. When he opened his eyes again, his blurred vision showed him Stephen.

"Not so clever, are we?" the young man sneered. "This is the second time I've got the better of you, and this time I'm not going to leave you alive. My friends and I are ready to destroy the Empire. But you won't live to see our triumph."

Scott coughed, and tasted blood in his mouth. He struggled to draw his sword, but his arms had gone numb and weak. And besides, what chance did he have to fight against so many, especially when Isis was out of commission?

Stephen unslung a bow from his shoulder, and notched an arrow onto the string. As he did so, Scott saw something move just over his shoulder. He glanced back at it, and saw Thorn coming toward them. For a moment, hope rose inside him. But the red dragon flew to Stephen, taking his place by Bernice's side.

"Now we're complete," said Stephen. "Fourteen of us; thirteen riders under one leader." He looked over at Lloyd, who nodded to him. "Glad to join you, Stephen," he said.

"Thirteen forsworn to destroy the riders," said Stephen. "And now, thirteen warriors to bring them back. Is that not beautiful, traitor?"

"Lloyd!" Scott shouted. "How could you do this to me? I trusted you!"

Lloyd looked at him, stone-faced. "That's because you're a fool," he said. "And now it all comes full circle... the betrayer has been betrayed."

Stephen nodded approvingly. "Full circle," he agreed. He raised his bow. "That creature that you fornicated with is dead," he added. "We sent assassins into Umhlanga for her. The monstrous child you spawned died with her. I wanted you to know that before you died."

He loosed the arrow. It hit Scott in the arm. A second arrow got him in the chest, piercing his breastplate. Scott slumped in the saddle. The third arrow was aimed at Isis. It was well-aimed, and went straight through the black dragon's scales and into his heart.

Isis let out a horrible howl of pain, and Scott too felt it tear into him. It was a pain far deeper than that caused by his injuries. It didn't just strike into his heart. It was in his mind as well, and in his soul. Isis's wings crumpled, and he plummeted from the sky. It was in that instant that Scott felt something that he had felt once before – something that had nearly destroyed him. He felt part of himself die. His mind shut down. He began to fumble with the straps holding his legs in place, aware of nothing but a desperate urge to get away from the hell he was suddenly in. The straps came loose, and Isis hit the canyon wall, flinging him out of his seat. Then he fell. And darkness swallowed him.

Evening, and Pat returned to her chambers. It had been a long day, and the silver elf was exhausted. She'd never known, before, that running an empire would be so much hard work, but it was. And it wasn't glamorous either. She'd spent the morning attending to the accounts, spoken to twelve different officials about matters of state, which included repairs to the dam at Gil'ead, a problem with smugglers in Therinsford, a shortage of grain in Daret and the building of a new irrigation canal in Melian, and spoken to Sanesha and those of her siblings who had returned to Umhlanga in the evening. There'd barely been time for a quick lunch, and by dinner time she was too tired to eat much and went straight back to her room to rest. It was difficult to imagine that Scott had put up with this sort of thing day-in-day-out for a century. No wonder he'd been so keen to go off adventuring again. Pat just wished she could have gone with him.

She entered the room, locking the door behind her, and flopped gracelessly onto the bed. For a while she just lay there, enjoying the softness of the mattress, but she got up eventually and started preparing for bed, feeling thoroughly fed up.

While she was kneeling in front of the clothes chest, selecting a nightdress, someone grabbed her by the hair. A dagger flashed across her neck, and Pat fell backward, blood oozing from her neck.

But she wasn't dead. She flipped herself over almost instantly, and scrambled backward away from her attacker, pulling herself upright with elfish grace. Standing by the wall, with her hand clasped to her injured throat, she found herself confronted by a black-clad human with a hood covering his face. There was a dagger in his hand, its blade stained with her blood. Only her quick reflexes had saved her; she had seen the dagger coming and had thrown herself onto the floor to avoid it.

Pat didn't pause to think. She rushed at the assassin, taking him by surprise and bowling him over. He stabbed at her with the dagger, getting her in the shoulder, but she grabbed hold of his wrist and twisted the weapon out of his grasp. The assassin punched her in the face and wriggled out from under her. The instant he had the space to do so, he reached into his clothes and brought out a second dagger, rising to his feet and preparing to attack again. Pat got up, a guttural growl sounding in her chest – an unnatural noise which no elf could ever make. She bared her teeth, and the assassin faltered a little at the sight of them, which was just what she had been aiming for. She kicked him, hard, in the stomach, and followed it up by lashing out at him with her claws. The man threw himself at her, dagger first, and the two of them struggled together on the floor until Pat sank her teeth into the assassin's hand and made him drop the dagger. She pinned him down, flipping him onto his stomach and twisting his arm behind his back, while outside her bodyguard broke down the door and came rushing in.

He and Pat dragged the assassin to his feet, and while the bodyguard held him still Pat said; "Who sent you?"

The assassin refused to answer. His hood had come off during the fight, and he was revealed as ordinary-looking but tough. The sort of man you wouldn't look twice at in the street. He stared at Pat with hatred, and she snarled and thrust her claws into his chest, twisting them to cause him pain. The man cried out.

"Answer me," Pat rasped, blood still running down her neck.

"I'll tell you nothing," the man spat back, wincing.

"You'll tell everything," said Pat. "Maybe not to me, but you'll tell it to the King."

"The King is dead," said the assassin. "He died at Dragons Peak today." He wrenched his arm free, and before anyone could react he had pulled a tiny glass capsule from his pocket and crushed it between his teeth. Instantly he went rigid, twitching horribly, and then sagged in the guard's grip. He was dead.

"Damn it!" the guard swore. "I'm sorry, my lady."

"Take him away," said Pat.

"Should I send a healer to you, my lady?" the guard asked.

"No," said Pat, turning away. "I'll be fine."

The guard left. Alone, Pat went to a shelf and opened a small box which sat on it. She took a length of bandage and some herbal ointments from it, and set about tending to her injuries, her motions automatic and emotionless. She could feel herself trembling slightly. The attack had been so sudden, so violent... and how had the assassin got into her room? Someone must have let him in. And that could only mean there were spies in the castle. The question was... who were they? Scott would know the best way of finding them. But the assassin had said he was dead. No, that couldn't be true, never.

Pat finished bandaging her throat, and looked blankly at her hand. There was blood on it from where she had grabbed at the dagger blade. It would do. She cupped her hand, and let a little pool of blood gather there. Then she focused on it and said; "Draumr kópa."

Light bloomed in the little red globule, white and shimmering. Pat, staring intently at it, focused on Scott. Show him to me. Show me Scott.

The magic responded. Its light wavered and opened up to show her where her Pat was now. But all she saw was darkness.

Chapter Three ~ Lost

Rain fell over the Drakensburg Mountains. It lashed at the peaks and poured into hollows and crevasses in waterfalls, like a miniature army trying to take the land for its own. If it was an army then its battle-cry was thunder, and its banners were the lightning. And its voice was the wind. The storm had returned, and it was back with a vengeance.

The sun had gone by now, and night claimed Elfthade once again, a night without stars. And still the rain fell.

It fell on the dead city of Dragons Peak. And it fell into the deep pit below the palace of the dwarfen queen, drenching what lay down there among the broken stone. A black dragon with white wings was by the base of the cliff, the arrow that had killed it still sticking out of its chest, and its limbs lying brokenly over the ground beneath it.

Not far away from the dragon was a man. He lay on his back, his left arm twisted underneath him, his long hair matted with blood.

The rain, drumming on his face, woke him up. He opened his eyes. But he saw nothing, only darkness. He blinked vacantly and tried to sit up, then slumped back. The motion disturbed his left arm, which burnt with horrible, white-hot pain. He let out a little cry and lay very still, frightened to move again. Eventually he tried moving his other arm. This one seemed to be uninjured, and he pushed on the ground with it, levering himself upright. Once he was sitting up, he rested his back against a rock and gingerly eased his left arm out from beneath him, gritting his teeth as he did so. Once it was lying uselessly across his lap, he felt it carefully. His fingers seemed to know what to do, and they located at least two broken bones. Without even thinking, he began checking the rest of his body. His right thighbone was completely shattered, with a piece of bone actually sticking through the skin. The other leg, however, appeared to be fine, though badly cut and bruised. He tried feeling for broken ribs, but his chest was strangely... hard. He undid his robe, and found a sheet of metal underneath, black steel. It was a breastplate, that was it. With an odd symbol on it that looked like a twisted flame.

There was a piece of broken wood sticking out of it, just above his heart. There was blood on it. When he touched it, it hurt.

Once again, his fingers knew what to do. They wrapped themselves around the piece of wood, and pulled, hard. It took several attempts to remove it, but he persevered. He paused, winced, and pulled again, and eventually it came out. It was much longer than he'd thought, tipped with metal and covered in gore. He examined it for a moment, and then threw it aside. There was a second piece of wood stuck in his good arm, but he had no way of removing it, so he left it alone. Once this was done, he sat back to rest and try and take stock. So, he was alone and hurt. Would someone come to help him?

No. The answer arrived in his head almost immediately. No-one would come. He didn't know how he knew this, but a certainty came over him as soon as he thought of it. He was on his own, and would have to find some way out of this place himself. Nevertheless, he waited. He wouldn't get far with a broken leg, much less in the dark.

Hours dragged by, and the rain continued to fall. He did his best to keep warm, but his clothes were soaked, and before long he started to tremble violently. He knew what that meant. He was going into shock, and getting dangerously chilled as well. The way to deal with that was to start moving. He groped around for something he could get a grip on, and found the remains of a bag, its contents littered all over the ground. Leaning forward as far as he dared, he started gathering whatever he could reach, depositing it in a neat little heap beside him. He found a length of rope, a dented metal flask, a soggy loaf of bread, some torn paper, a bag of coins and something wrapped in oiled leather and tied up with string. He unwrapped it and found it contained nothing more exciting than a length of wood with a clump of tar-soaked rags at one end. He examined it, waiting patiently for the ongoing flashes of lightning overhead to provide some light, and wondered what he was supposed to do with it.

Fire. That was it. The end should be burning. It would give light. Without thinking, he held the piece of wood with the rag-covered end upright, and said; "Brisingr."

The word sounded strange, but the instant he said it the rags caught alight, burning steadily in spite of the rain. He stared at it, and then chuckled a little in wonder and delight. Amazing. He lifted the torch; yes, that was what it was called, a torch; over his head, and looked around. He was in a place with high stone walls in front and behind him. The walls stretched off into the distance, and between them was barren ground peppered with boulders and shards of broken stone. And in front of him, half propped up against the opposite wall, was something huge and dark.

His heart seemed to pause in its beating. Forgetting his broken leg, he lurched upright and then fell forward, crying out as his left arm hit the ground. Ignoring the pain, he began to drag himself toward the thing, clamping the torch between his teeth to free his good arm. It was a long way to go. It felt much longer.

He reached the thing, and pulled himself around to its other end to see what it was. It was a dragon. A dead dragon, lying on its back with its white wings beneath it and its legs splayed out from its belly, the talons curving up toward the thunder-stricken sky. Its head was on the ground, turned sideways at an unnatural angle, the mouth hanging open to reveal bloody, broken teeth. He crawled laboriously toward it, the strange, peaceful state that he had been in before crumbling away and leaving terror behind. He reached the dragon's head, and put his one good hand on its snout. Its black scales were cold and lifeless beneath his fingers, with no pulse of life moving beneath them.

The man slumped to the ground by the dragon's head, suddenly overwhelmed by a feeling of grief so strong it almost paralyzed him. He did not know why. He lay still, shaken with sobs, the torch lying forgotten in a puddle, where it spluttered and went out.

He never knew how long he was there for, mourning for a dead dragon he didn't recognize, in a place he had no memory of reaching. But in time the storm died down, and the sun began to raise once more, its sickly light coming into the canyon and turning everything silvery-yellow. He raised his head with a great deal of effort, and saw the fading stars just visible through the clouds before the reborn sun outshone them. The night was over, and he knew he had to move.

Moving was much more painful than it had been before. Now his injured limbs had stiffened, and bruised joints had seized up and didn't want to work any more. His head ached, and his extremities had gone numb from the cold. If he was going to recover, he would have to find somewhere to shelter and tend to his wounds. Pulling himself upright by holding onto the dragon's neck, he spotted a doorway carved into the rock wall behind it. In the dark it had been invisible; now it was clear as day. Perfect.

Slowly, agonizingly slowly, he climbed over the dead dragon and into the cave. It was dry and sheltered inside, and he knew he would be able to stay there for some time if he had to. But he wasn't out of trouble yet. He rested in the entrance for a while, rubbing his shoulders to warm them up, and the weary knowledge settled over him that he would have to gather the loose objects he'd found in the canyon and keep them in the cave with him. But first things first. He took hold of the hem of his robe, and tore a strip off it, using his teeth to break the fabric. Once he'd made two of these crude bandages, he stuffed them into his pocket and made the slow, dragging journey back to the dragon's head. There he picked up the discarded torch and broke the burnt end off it by bashing it on a rock. Once he was satisfied, he used the strips of robe to bind it to his broken leg, tying the knots one-handed and pulling them tight with his teeth. With this crude splint in place, he tried putting weight on the leg. It was still extremely painful, but he managed to stand up, and found he was now able to walk, albeit very slowly and with a hopping sort of motion. It would do. This done, he set about collecting everything he could find lying among the stones. Now that the sun was up, he found several items he'd missed before. One of them was a sword. It had a long white blade and a silver hilt, and was stuck between two stones. He had a go at pulling it out, but it didn't want to come so he left it where it was. Everything else was stuffed into his pockets, and once he was done he limped back to the cave. There he did his best to make himself comfortable, settling down with his back against the wall, and had a look around at his new home. The cave walls were all straight and smooth, and the sandy floor was the same. The roof was arched, and not far from the entrance there was a flight of stairs carved into the rock. He took all this in with interest, wondering who had made it. Did it mean there were people here somewhere? The cave's interior was dusty and cobwebbed, and there were no footprints on the floor. Clearly, no-one had been there in a long time. He suddenly decided that he was glad about that. He didn't want anyone coming across him while he was in this state. He'd be defenseless.

He turned his attention back to something more immediately important. One of the things he'd found and brought into the cave was a small jar of ointment. He took the lid off and sniffed, and the instant the strong herbal scent hit him he knew that it was a healing substance. Once again, he didn't know how he knew it, he just did. The knowledge just appeared in his head without his intervention. He started to dip his fingers into the jar, and suddenly stopped. He withdrew his hand and turned it over. The palm was torn and reddened with dried blood, and dozens of wooden shards were embedded in it. He'd been so distracted that he simply hadn't noticed it before. A quick look at his other hand revealed that it was in a similar condition. Better deal with it before it got infected.

He set to work. Once he'd splinted the broken arm using the hastily-adapted shafts of a couple of arrows he'd found, along with some more bits of torn robe, he extracted the shards of wood from his hands as best as he could with his fingernails. He finally managed to remove the broken arrow that was still sticking out of his good arm, though he had to do that with his teeth. He applied the herbal ointment liberally to every spot where the skin was broken, knowing that he had to avoid an infection at all costs. Then he sat back to rest and investigate the contents of the metal flask he'd found the previous night. It turned out to have some kind of alcohol in it, and he drank a generous measure of it and sighed with pleasure as warmth spread through his body.

There were several packets of dried food amongst the items he'd gathered, and he opened one of them and ate the contents, chewing slowly to make it last longer. It was important to eat plenty, if he was going to heal. He felt much better now. To be sure, he was still lost and cold, but now he was sheltered and he had food, and his wounds had been attended to, after a fashion. He could stay here for as long as his food lasted, and after that... well, he'd decide what to do then.

In the old dwarfen palace high above, the fourteen rebel riders had gathered in the huge hall that had once been used for feasting. Bernice stood on the high plinth where the queen of Dragons Peak had had her throne, Stephen standing in front of her as if she were his personal bodyguard. The others stood in a semi-circle below them, every rider backed by his or her dragon in the traditional fashion. Most of the new riders were Elves, and they were of both sexes, but all were young. And they looked to Stephen as their leader.

He looked proudly on his followers, while Vervada watched from the shadows, a silent, twisted presence in this gloomy hall of a dead queen.

Stephen was holding a scrap of paper. "There's news from Umhlanga," he announced. "The assassin failed. Scott's whore is still alive."

The other riders shook their heads, some muttering swear-words. "Did they capture the assassin?" Lloyd asked.

"No," said Stephen. "He killed himself before they learned anything, according to my sources. Although he did tell her what happened to Scott, which is all to the good."

"Is it?" said one of the other riders.

"Of course," said Stephen. "She'll come rushing here to look for him, because she won't believe he's really dead, and she'll fall right into our hands. And if she brings the Imperial army with her, even better. We'll wipe them out."

"And if she doesn't come here?" said Lloyd.

"If she doesn't," said Stephen, "Then we'll attack Umhlanga. No half-measures. We'll raze that cursed city to the ground. No-one will be able to stop us."

"What about the dragons?" asked one of his followers, a female elf with a green dragon.

"Vervada can deal with them," said Stephen. "Once they're disabled, we'll kill them easily."

"You're sure she can work on that many at once?" the elf persisted.

"I've seen her stun a hundred people at once without blinking," said Stephen. "She even managed to stop the Night Dragon dead in his tracks. The only person her power didn't work on was Scott. And now he's dead."

"Out of pure curiosity, do you know why he was able to resist?" asked one of the human riders.

Stephen shook his head.

"I know," said Lloyd.

"What is it, Lloyd?" said Stephen, curiously.

"He admitted it to me," said Lloyd. "He was half dark elf."

"What's a dark elf?" said Stephen. "I've never heard of them."

"I have," said the female elf. "My people wiped them out long ago. They were a cursed race."

"There's more," said Lloyd. "He was a bastard as well. His father, you see, his father was just a child when the dark Elves were massacred. He was sold into slavery. And later on he was bought by a noblewoman in Teirm. She took him as her lover. And the day after Scott was born they were both executed."

Stephen was astonished. "He admitted all that to you?"

"Yes. He trusted me. It was his best-kept secret for a hundred years."

"I knew it already," Bernice suddenly put in. "Pat told me while we had her imprisoned in Farthen Dûr."

"Why didn't you tell me?" said Stephen.

"It, I didn't think it was important," said Bernice. "But how did his being a half-breed give him the power to resist Vervada?"

"The dark Elves had psychic abilities above and beyond those of any other race," said the female elf, whose name was Eivah. "He must have inherited them from his father. You are blessed for killing him, Stephen. Not only is Elfthade rid of a tyrant, but now the last remaining dark elfish blood is gone."

"And the riders have been avenged," said Stephen, basking in a warm, smug glow. But in reality he felt a little sad. He'd spent all his young adult life striving for one thing, the death of Scott and the destruction of the Empire. And now Scott was dead and the Empire was at his mercy. It would probably all be over by the end of the month. He couldn't help but feel that, afterwards, he would never find anything half as meaningful to do with his life. Still, it was more than most people would ever manage to do.

Either way, his own feelings were, somehow, rendered unimportant. He was barely aware of it himself, but a layer of cold numbness overlaid his thoughts and emotions, linking him to a mind that was not Bernice's; a mind stronger than his, one that would never be out of his head. It had been there for so long that he never noticed it any more. Neither did his followers. Only Lloyd was aware of some vague feelings of uncertainty, as if he'd forgotten something important. But these too were being slowly smothered by that chilly, calculating presence.

Hidden in the shadows, Vervada shifted slightly and hissed. True to what Stephen had said, her empty eyes never blinked at all. They stayed fixed on the fourteen riders and their dragons. This was what she had been made for, what she had been born to do, to watch and to wait. And to bring destruction upon the one she hated above all others, even if it took her a thousand years.

And now it was two days later. The wounded man had spent those days in his cave, resting and eating as much as he could. His injuries had begun to heal, albeit very slowly, and he did his best to move around at least once every two hours, so that his arms and legs wouldn't seize up. Paradoxically, his hands were the worst of all. They had scabbed fairly quickly, and whenever he moved his fingers they cracked and bled. And he was beginning to realise that his leg would never be the same again. The bone sticking through the skin just below his knee was a very bad sign. It meant that his shin-bone wasn't just broken but out of place, and even if it healed he would probably be crippled for life. His arm was a little better. He could still move it a little, and the hand still worked, though it was clumsy. He'd made a crude sling for it out of a piece of canvas from the torn pack. But by the end of the second day he began to realize that he couldn't stay much longer. His food was running out, and there was little water available, so far he'd made do with a few puddles which the rainstorm had left behind, and those were drying up. He would have to get out of this place somehow, and find a healer to deal with his injuries properly. Otherwise, he would die.

He delayed his departure for a while, not liking the prospect of a long walk one little bit. But there was something stubborn and determined inside of him that made him face up to reality, and he resignedly started to prepare himself for what he had to do. He took off his robe and put it aside, then unstrapped his breast and back-plates and put them aside. They would only weigh him down. He'd already removed the leather arm-braces from his forearms, and he was tempted to tear the sleeves off his robe to make it lighter, but decided against it, he would need it to keep warm. He sighed and picked up the now ragged and filthy garment in order to put it back on. But before he did so, he noticed that there was a tattoo on his right shoulder. It was black and depicted an odd triple-spiral design. He touched it, wondering what it signified. Was it some kind of magical symbol? He shrugged and pulled the robe back on.

So far he hadn't really considered the question of how he had ended up where he was and why. He'd been running more-or-less on automatic, dealing with the problem at hand without thinking much beyond that. Now that he did think about it, he realized that he didn't know anything at all. There was plenty of knowledge in his head; he'd known how to tend to his injuries, how to avoid hypothermia, how to make fire appear out of nowhere, and he knew the names of everything he saw. But where there should have been other knowledge – knowledge of where he had come from – there was nothing but blank space. He didn't know how old he was, where he came from, whether he had a family... anything. He didn't even know his own name.

He tried to remember, delving into his own mind for the knowledge that should be there. When that didn't work, he tried talking to himself, hoping that the sound of his own voice would bring his self back. "I am," he said. "I am... someone. Who am I? What's my name? My name is..." he tried saying "my name is" several times, hoping that his name would emerge, but it didn't. He tried concentrating on the idea of a name, his name, as hard as he could, and, suddenly, Berniceble fear swept over him, and he knew that he did know who he was, deep down. But was keeping the knowledge from himself. For some reason, he didn't want to know the truth just now. He shuddered and stopped thinking about it. There were other things to do. He had to leave.

He stood up, gathered his belongings, and half-walked, half-hopped outside. There he checked for anything else he might have missed, and found a small dagger, which he tucked into his robe. The white-bladed sword was still there, but he only made a cursory attempt to pull it free of the rocks before he gave up. He dumped the armor beside it, and went to have one last look at the dead dragon. Nature was already beginning to take its toll, and the dragon's scales were flaking away from the skin. He took one from its flank and examined it. It was very tough and hard, and still shiny. He put it in his pocket. He wasn't sure why he wanted to keep the scale. Perhaps because it would be a link between him and this dragon, who he had mourned for without knowing why.

He hobbled over to the dragon's head and touched it one last time, murmuring; "I don't know who you were. But I'll remember you. I swear." Then, feeling a lump in his throat, he turned and left the dead dragon behind.

It took him an entire day to get out of the mountains; a slow, painful day. He kept close to the wall of the canyon, supporting himself with a hand on it, his broken leg dragging. Some dogged perverse spirit drove him on, overriding his exhaustion and pain. By noon most of his mental functions had simply shut down altogether, and he entered a strange dreamlike state where there was no past or future, or indeed any time at all. There was only an endless now, and in it there was only him and the stone, and the only sound was that of his own heavy, dragging steps. He felt nothing at all then, not even pain. At long last he saw open country ahead, and he sped up a little. He was nearly there.

But before he had reached his goal he was disturbed by a strange sound. It was a sound of wind; but he didn't feel any wind. No, it wasn't wind. It was a sort of slapping noise, and he was puzzled by what it might be. But again information arrived in his head without his bidding. The noise meant that someone was coming. And they might not be friendly. Instinctively he moved back a little way to where there was a heap of stones, and sat down awkwardly in their shadow where he wouldn't be spotted. He was just in time. Less than two minutes later, an enormous shadow moved over the ground where he hid. He looked up in time to see a dragon fly overhead. He gaped at it, astonished. He'd never seen anything so amazing in his life. Or, at least, he didn't remember it if he had. The dragon was much smaller than the dead one in the canyon, but it too was black. Its wings were blood-red. The dragon was gone as suddenly as it had appeared, but the surprises for that day weren't over. Right behind it came four other dragons of about the same size, and they too were black. One had black wings, the second had blue, the third was grey and the fourth had gold. They were all so beautiful and majestic, and he watched them go with admiration, wondering where they were all going.

Once he was sure they'd gone, he came out of his hiding-place and resumed his journey. On and on, out of the mountains and onto a plain. He would have stopped there for the night, but it was too exposed. He rested briefly and then, hurried on by the sight of the sun reaching the horizon, continued. This time he moved more slowly, having nothing to support himself on, but by a stroke of luck he found a piece of tree-branch not far from the foot of the last mountain, and was able to use it as a makeshift crutch by jamming it under his arm. It was fortunate, he thought, that he'd broken his right leg and left arm rather than having two broken limbs on the same side of his body. The crutch would have been extremely unpleasant if he'd had to use it with a broken arm.

He laughed at that, the sound more of a dry, cold snicker than one of true amusement. But the idea that he was counting a broken arm as 'lucky' struck him as more than faintly comical. He forged on as the sun went down, and kept on going into the night, crossing the plain by the light of the half-moon. There was a stand of trees up ahead, and he was bent on reaching them before he stopped.

It was a fine ambition, but in the end it turned out to be a little beyond him. He kept walking, pushing himself beyond exhaustion in order to reach his goal. By the time the plain ran out and dead leaves and twigs crunched under his boots, he could hardly see. He moved into the shelter of the trees, and then collapsed in a heap, barely even noticing the agony of his broken arm when he landed on it. For what felt like hours he lay still, too worn out to feel anything or hear anything but the pounding of his heart in his ears. Eventually he was recalled to his senses by a distant rumbling. He rolled over onto his side and looked back over the plain, which looked like a snowfield with the moonlight shining on it. He saw that a storm had blown up over the mountains. There was a patch of darkness there, with lightning flashing at its heart, and he could just hear the thunder. He was doubly glad to be out of there now. Rain would only have made things worse.

He watched the storm for a while, and then pulled himself into a sitting position and tried to make himself comfortable at the base of the tree. It was warmer here than in the mountains and, better still, there was wood here. He gathered as much of it as was within reach and heaped it on a bare patch of earth, being careful to clear away the leaf-litter from around it. Once he was satisfied, he held his hand over it and said; "Brisingr."

It worked. The wood caught alight and began to burn steadily. He huddled by it, savoring the warmth, and used his crutch as a poker. After a while he started to feel much better. He took the last of his food-packets out of his pocket and ate the contents, washing it down with the last dregs from his flask. That was it. He was out of rations. Tomorrow he would have to find some other source of food, though just how he would do that he didn't know. But he knew what he really had to do. The less time he spent in the wilderness like this, the better. Like it or not, he would have to seek out other people. He needed help. And if the other people he found were friendly or not... well, he had no choice but to take that risk. It was that or death.

Chapter Four ~ The Herbalist

One week later, the inhabitants of the small town of Furnost were surprised when a man emerged from the forest at dawn. The man had long, filthy hair and a ragged beard, and wore the remains of what had been a black robe. He was badly hurt, with one arm bound up in a makeshift sling and his leg dragging behind him while he supported himself with a length of tree branch. The man limped slowly into the town square, and there he fell over. People ran to help him straight away, lifting him to his feet and asking questions.

"Who are you? What happened to you? Do you need help?"

The man was still conscious. "A healer," he mumbled. "Take me – to a healer. I can pay."

"A herbalist just moved in not far from my house," one woman said. "We'll take him to her."

"Thank you," the man said, overhearing her. "I... thank you."

He said no more, and they half-led, half carried him to where the herbalist lived. Someone had gone ahead to alert her, and she was ready for them. She appeared in her doorway when they arrived, and immediately touched the stranger's face, saying; "What happened to you?"

"I fell," said the man, raising his head with surprising strength. "My right leg and left arm are broken, and I think I might have some internal injuries. I haven't... haven't eaten for a week, but I took water from the lake. If you'll help me, I can pay you."

The herbalist nodded. "Help me take him inside."

The man was duly carried into her home and laid down on a spare bed, after which the people who'd brought him left, though with many curious backward glances. Once they were alone, the herbalist handed her patient a bottle of green liquid.

"Here," she said. "Drink this. It'll numb the pain."

Once he'd drunk it, she carefully removed the crude splint from his leg and examined it, breathing in sharply when she saw the bone sticking out through the skin. "This is a bad break," she told him. "Very bad. I'm not sure how much I can do to fix it. It'll heal, but it won't heal cleanly. You'll have a limp for the rest of your life, most likely."

The man sighed. "I thought I probably would. Are you sure you won't just cut it off? I'd prefer you not to."

"No, I can save it," said the herbalist. "This sort of thing is my specialty. It's just your bad luck there isn't a rider here."

"A rider?" the man repeated blankly.

"Of course," said the herbalist, getting up and fetching some clean bandages from a cupboard. "If there was one here, he'd be able to heal you with magic in seconds. I've seen it done. It's really quite an astonishing thing to watch. But enough of my rambling. No point in complaining about something we have no control over, is there?"

"No," said the man, lying back, his chest heaving.

"My name's Sabriel," said the herbalist. "And you?"

"I'm... Arren," said the man.

The herbalist paused. "A good solid name, Arren," she said eventually, her eyes lingering on his face. "Try and relax. This will hurt."

"I'm used to that," said the man.

For the next few days Sabriel cared for the man who called himself Arren, cleaning the dirt off him as best she could without moving him more than was necessary, and then seeing to his injuries, which were extensive. As well as a broken arm and leg he had several sprains, massive bruising on his back, a cracked skull and a choice selection of cuts and grazes. He was also severely undernourished and dehydrated, and suffering from exhaustion brought on by his journey to Furnost. He slept most of the time, too weak to even eat, but she forced him to drink as much water as he would take, along with various potions intended to build up his strength and fight infection.

For a time it was uncertain whether he would recover, and once or twice she thought he was about to die, but his heart kept on stubbornly beating against all the odds, and on the fifth day he was sitting up in bed and asking for food, though at first he couldn't handle much, and she knew he would pull through.

She wasn't sure if she was happy about that.

At the end of the first week, Arren was awake and alert, and able to speak coherently. "Thank you," he said, accepting the bowl of soup which she offered him. "For your help. You saved my life, Sabriel."

Sabriel, sitting by his bed on a chair she'd brought in, watched him eating. "You're welcome," she said at length, not taking her eyes off his face.

He glanced at her over the bowl. His own eyes, sunken and with dark smudges under them, were black and unreadable.

"You were very lucky," Sabriel told him. "Most people I've treated who were as far gone as you only lived a few days."

Arren smiled. "Oh, I'm tough. Hard to kill."

"I know," said Sabriel in a low voice.

Arren paused. "Do you now."

Sabriel was silent for a while, watching him closely, her expression unreadable. The silence became uncomfortable, and then Sabriel looked away. "You'll be strong enough to leave by the end next week, if I'm any judge," she said. "I suggest you find a tavern and stay there for a few months before you leave town. The immediate danger is over, but you'll need to let that leg heal enough so that you can walk on it again."

"How long will that take?"

"At least four months," said Sabriel.

Arren nodded resignedly. "I see. Thank you for the advice."

"I hope you decide to take it," said Sabriel. "I wouldn't want to see all my hard work go to waste."

Arren smiled. "You won't."

The end of the following week duly arrived, and, true to what Sabriel had said, by then Arren was strong enough to start walking around again, albeit using a pair of wooden crutches. His recovery had been amazingly fast, although he didn't seem aware of the fact. He seemed keen to get going, and once he had wrapped his few belongings in a piece of cloth which he hung from his uninjured arm, he left. At the door he handed Sabriel ten gold coins from the leather bag of them in his pocket.

"For your help," he said.

Sabriel accepted the money, saying; "Thank you, Arren. And good luck."

Arren nodded formally and went on his way, moving slowly on his crutches but with determination. Sabriel watched him go, and then went back inside, where she slumped into a chair, her head in her hands. "What have I done?" she moaned.

She was watched by her cat; a large, tawny orange thing with a magnificent ruff of white fur. The cat was grooming idly, seemingly unbothered by her distress.

Sabriel looked up at the cat. "That was him," she said. "I know it was, Solembum."

The cat paused in the act of rubbing his forepaws over his head. "It was," his voice said in her head. "I recognized his smell. How did he come to be here?"

"He must have survived what happened in the mountains," said Sabriel. "I should have known the boy wouldn't be able to kill him."

"But what about Isis?" asked Solembum.

"He must be dead," said Sabriel. "Otherwise..." a look of wonder came into her face, and she said; "He survived it, twice. It's incredible."

"Not so incredible," said Solembum. "That man is physically and mentally tougher than anyone I've ever met. He survived a hundred years, didn't he? A hundred years and he stayed sane and fit. That always impressed me."

"It's astonishing," said Sabriel. She paused. "I found two arrow-wounds in him, you know. One was right over his heart. And the broken bones... he must have fallen from Isis's back."

"If you were so sure it was him, then why did you not kill him?" the cat asked in lazy tones.

Sabriel hesitated. "I'm... I'm not sure. Maybe if Stephen can't kill him, I don't have the right to even try."

"That's the most ridiculous thing I ever heard," said Solembum. "You're afraid of him."

"Maybe I am," said Sabriel. "But I think... well, if he died, what would the alternative be? Who would rule Elfthade then?"

"Stephen would," said Solembum.

"Precisely," said Sabriel. "And I don't want that to happen."

There. She had finally said it. And, she decided, she wouldn't back away from having said it. It was what she really believed. To emphasize her point, she glared at Solembum, who stared at her out of his green eyes.

"You're right," the cat said eventually. "It would... not be good if he were to take control. The boy has changed. I could see it in him long before we left. What did you see, Angela?"

"I saw that he's lost his mind," said Sabriel. Or, rather, Angela.

"He never had much of a mind," said Solembum. "But now he has lost his heart. Once he talked of freedom and equality, but suddenly it was all about power. He wants power now, nothing more. And you can be sure that he would bring chaos to Elfthade in order to get it."

"Exactly," said Angela.

"So you would prefer to let the traitor remain in charge?"

"I'm not sure what I want," said Angela. "But he's the only one who can stop Stephen. No-one else in Elfthade has the prowess in magic and fighting, or the leadership ability."

"No-one would follow him now," Solembum scoffed. "The man is crippled and his dragon is gone."

"Not just his dragon," said Angela. She sat back in her chair, feeling the warm sunlight from the window on her face. "His power, his empire... everything he had. And he doesn't even know it. He's lost himself as well."

The sky over Umhlanga was red. Not from the sunset, which was just beginning to burn on the horizon, but from fire. Up on the battlements of the castle, Pat stood and watched the battle being fought overhead. The silver elf was wearing polished armor, and strapped across her back was a white-bladed sword. In her arms she held a small bundle.

It had been three weeks since Scott's disappearance. Three weeks since she had found Isis's body in the mountains. Three weeks since she had picked up the white sword and sworn to avenge her Pat. She and her adopted children had fought Stephen and his rebels in the mountains that day, and it had been a fierce fight. But it had ended in defeat for Pat and the dragons she led. Myrkyr had suffered a crippling blow to the legs which had left her unable to walk without help, Steve had been blinded in one eye, and Doug had nearly died when a cruel blow from Bernice's claws tore his belly open. Pat had been able to partially heal them, but she did not have the skill to complete the spell, and she knew that all three would be affected for life. They had returned to Umhlanga, and she knew full well that they were not journeying but fleeing, and that they would be pursued.

They were. As soon as Pat was back in the castle, she had set to work, heedless of the fact that her time was near. She had organised the Imperial army, and sent Sanesha and Peter away to act as her messengers. Sanesha had gone to the outer cities to alert the local governors and tell them to prepare for war. Peter, however, had gone to the Spine. He had taken a message to Kullervo, leader of the wild dragons, one which begged for his help. But Kullervo had not come. Peter returned with the news that the reclusive warrior dragon had turned his back on Pat, who he blamed for the death of the rider he had once had, and that he had instructed the wild dragons to take no side in this new war. Last time they had taken part in the affairs of Elves, they had paid a heavy price, and Kullervo was determined to keep it from happening again. Pat was on her own.

Almost. There were two wild dragons who responded to her need. Now they, along with Peter, Sanesha, Steve, Myrkyr and Doug, flew over Umhlanga, locked in battle with Stephen's followers. Flames billowed into the sky, and the air was full of screams and roaring. Pat could only watch. She had given orders to the soldiers in the city below, and they were doing their best to fight back against the rebel riders, manning the huge ballistae – giant crossbows designed to take down a dragon. They had managed to injure one of the enemy dragons, but Stephen had planned for this, and the ballistae were being taken out one by one by blasts of fire and magic. Pat could only watch, and hope with all her might that they would win. She had no illusions. She knew perfectly well that if the city was overrun they would not spare her. And they would not spare her child, either.

The child stirred in her arms. He had been born a week ago, after a long and difficult labor. Pat murmured to soothe him, and he clutched at her hair with a tiny pink hand. He was just as silent and calm as his father had always been, and the wispy hair on his head was silver. Of course, the fact that she'd successfully brought him into the world didn't mean much. If the riders got hold of him they'd kill him. It didn't matter that Scott's claim to the throne had been legitimized... he was dead. Pat had no illusions about that either. She knew that she would never see him again. All that remained for her to do was protect their child and do what she could to keep the Empire safe. And she would kill Stephen, if she got the chance. She had vowed it.

But it did not take her long to see that they were losing. Large portions of the city were on fire, and the soldiers on the ground were beginning to withdraw into the relative safety of the castle. The civilians had long since been evacuated to Dras-Leona for their own safety, and it had been a wise move – it looked as if the city was going to burn to the ground before the day was out.

Pat's personal bodyguard appeared at her elbow. "My lady, you shouldn't be up here now," he said. "Come on; we have to go inside."

Pat didn't look at him. The guard hovered anxiously, too well-trained to be more forceful with her. A huge blue dragon hurtled overhead, her dangling talons inches from Pat's head. The guard ducked in terror, but Pat didn't move an inch. She was staring impassively at the burning city below. The guard pulled himself together. He took hold of her arm and hauled her away. She went with him placidly enough, carrying the child in her arms, but it was already too late.

The blue dragon had circled around, and now she came in to land on the parapet between Pat and the door leading into the castle. Pat and the guard stopped dead, and then Stephen jumped down from Bernice's back, his sword in his hand. The boy advanced on her purposefully, murder in his eyes.

The guard reacted quickly. He turned and began to hustle Pat toward the other end of the wall, where there was a second door, shouting; "Run, my lady! Run!"

But Pat would not move. She stopped and turned to face him. "No," she said. And when he persisted, "No! Stop it. Here." She gave the child to him. "Take him inside and keep him safe. This is my fight."

"But my lady-,"

"Go, Bergholt," said Pat more gently. "You have done well."

Bergholt accepted the child and did as he was told, but with great reluctance. Pat did not watch him go. She faced Stephen steadily as he came on toward her, already raising the blue-bladed sword, Íssbrandr.

Pat felt no fear, only hatred. She drew the white sword, snarling; "So you've come back, brat."

"I have come for my throne," said Stephen.

"The throne will never be yours," said Pat. "What you will find here is death. And this time it will be yours."

"I know what you are," said Stephen. "Lloyd told me what you are... Pat, daughter of the Night Dragon. You killed Arya. I will avenge her."

"You killed Scott," Pat accused.

Stephen laughed harshly. "So I did. And you should have seen how he suffered. How he pleaded with me to finish him off."

Pat attacked. It was exactly what Stephen had wanted her to do, and he was ready for her. The two of them began to duel, neither sparing a thought for the magic they could have used. This was a fight for vengeance, and nothing else mattered now. Not the city, not the Empire. There was only the will to kill.

Stephen fought noisily, but with the ease and grace of a born swordsman, dodging and striking like one who has been schooled in the art for most of his adult life, his handsome face alight with passionate hatred.

Pat was less disciplined. She fought like the wild creature she was, putting her full weight behind every swing she made with Scott's sword, Hvítr Atganga. Its name meant "white violence", and violence was all Pat had in mind. She was oblivious to any notion of defense, and plunged forward recklessly, swinging the sword as if it were an axe, her sharp dragonish teeth bared. Stephen was a little surprised by the sheer ferocity of her onslaught, and for a time he was actually driven back by it, unwilling to press on with his attack lest he take a serious injury. A direct hit from the white-bladed sword while it was being wielded so powerfully would do a lot of damage, even taking his armour into account.

Bernice took no part in the fight. She stood and watched over her rider, her face impassive. She felt nothing. Not fear, not anger. Her mind was empty and blank.

Meanwhile, Stephen pulled himself together. He halted his retreat and began to fight back, blocking Pat's attacks and getting in his own as fast and hard as he could. And it worked. The fact of the matter was that he had far more experience in swordplay, and more natural talent as well. Pat was not a swordswoman. Hand-to-hand combat was where her talent lay, and she was simply not suited to weapons. Nor was she suited to the body she was in. Pat had only been an elf for five years, but Stephen had been human for twenty-two. And he was winning. He took advantage of her reluctance to defend herself, and hit her several times on the arms and chest. Her arms were unarmored and were soon badly cut, although the sword simply bounced off the breastplate she was wearing. But her lack of self-control was already beginning to have consequences. She began to tire, the white sword and the armor weighing her down. Stephen spotted this, and started to grin horribly.

"No-one can beat Stephen Shadeslayer in swordplay," he boasted. "Especially not you."

"Scott beat you," Pat retorted.

"And now he's dead," said Stephen. "Just-," he kicked her in the stomach, knocking her over. "-Like-," he flicked the white sword out of her grasp. "-You." He rested the tip of his own sword on Pat's throat, and it was all over. He had her at his mercy.

Or so he thought. Pat grabbed hold of the sword blade and wrenched it sideways, simultaneously rolling over onto her front and leaping upright with a quick thrust of her legs. In the same movement, she whirled around and leapt at Stephen, so fast that the young rider was taken by surprise. The next thing he knew, Íssbrandr had been knocked out of his grasp and he was tussling on the ground with a snarling, berserk silver elf.

Pat wasted no time. She slashed at Stephen with her claws, several times, very fast, tearing his skin open all over his face and neck. He punched her hard on the chin, and her head snapped back, but she bit his hand, crushing one of the bones.

Stephen screamed, and at once Bernice darted forward. She flicked Pat off her rider with a blow of her paw, and Stephen got up and retrieved his sword, blood dripping from his hand.

Pat struggled to stand up, reaching vaguely for her sword, but she was stunned by her landing. But she was not the only one who had a dragon on her side. There was a roar from overhead. Bernice turned sharply to see what it was, and then a massive silver dragon swooped toward her from out of the sky. His hind legs smacked into her head and flank, and the blue dragon toppled sideways, demolishing a portion of the crenulations on the top of the wall before she fell from it.

"Bernice!" Stephen shouted.

Pat had recovered the white sword. She staggered toward Stephen, still intent on killing him. But it was at this point that Bergholt returned. The heavy-set bodyguard lifted her off her feet and ran for it, carrying her away and back through the door he had emerged from and away.

When Pat's head cleared, she found herself lying on her own bed. Several healers were attending to her injuries, and Bergholt was there, holding the child. The silver elf sat up sharply. "What happened?" she demanded.

"The city's lost, my lady," said Bergholt. "We're preparing to surrender."

Pat climbed out of bed at speed, ignoring the protests of the healers. "Surrender?" she said.

"Yes, my lady," said Bergholt. "But not without your permission, of course." He added this disclaimer respectfully but with very little conviction, and Pat knew just how serious the situation must be.

"We're not going to surrender the Empire," she said, striding over to her clothes-chest and taking a fresh gown from it. She pulled it on, heedless of any concept of modesty, and began to put her armor back on over the top.

"It's no good, my lady," said Bergholt, discreetly signaling to the healers to leave. "The war's lost. Half the outer cities have gone over to their side. We just don't have the numbers to win."

"I had their leader down," said Pat. "I could have killed him if you hadn't stopped me. Why did you do that?"

"It's hopeless, my lady," said Bergholt, not looking her in the eye. "I'm sorry. I'll help you and the child get out of here, but after that you're on your own."

Pat stared at him. "You mean...?"

"Yes. I'm sorry."

Pat walked toward him, her golden eyes burning. Bergholt, big though he was, looked decidedly nervous, but Pat only took the child from him. She placed it on the bed, and set about packing a bag. She slung that on her back, and then went to the bedside table, where she picked up a small stack of fairths. These were pieces of slate which had pictures magically imprinted on them – pictures captured from the maker's mind. The topmost one had a picture of Scott, captured in a moment of thought, his hand in the act of touching his beard. Pat touched the image with her fingertips, her face suddenly losing its look of fierce determination. Then the moment passed and she wrapped the fairths in a piece of cloth and stuffed them into her bag.

She picked up Hvítr Atganga and strapped it to her back, and then picked up the child, hugging him to her chest. "Where are the dragons?" she asked Bergholt.

"I'm not sure," he said. "I think most of them fled. One or two of them are still in the city."

"Take me to them," said Pat. "Now."

In the city outside, it was chaos. Half of the buildings were simply gone, reduced to heaps of blackened rock and smoldering wood, and most of those still standing were on fire. It was now night time, but the air glowed with fire lit smoke, blotting out the stars. Stephen's followers were everywhere in the city. He had brought in an army of ordinary foot-soldiers – Elves, Elves and dwarves – the remnants of the Zulus which had escaped the battle at Farthen Dûr. They worked their way through the city, looting and destroying. Even now others were in the castle, searching every room. They were looking for Pat. But the silver elf was already gone. She and Bergholt made their escape through a back door along with a number of Bernicefied servants, and slipped away through the city.

Pat, hugging her son to her chest, saw Berniceble things in those ruins. And the worst among these were the bodies of two black dragons, lying where they had fallen. Doug was close to the castle walls, his wings torn to shreds, his spine shattered by his fall from the sky. Not far from him was his sister Myrkyr, burned to death where she had tried to protect him.

There was no time to mourn. Stephen's followers were circling overhead, on the lookout for any sign of their enemies. Pat and Bergholt kept under cover wherever they could, running from house to house, from one source of shelter to another. Once they ran into a stray soldier, but Bergholt ran him through without pausing and they continued on without even waiting for the body to hit the ground. Bergholt led Pat to the spot where he had seen one of the two wild dragons who had fought for them. She was still there.

The big dark-blue dragon was surrounded by dead or dying soldiers. She herself was wounded. Her face and neck were covered in sword-cuts, and her flank was peppered with arrows. One wing hung limply by her side, the delicate membrane torn and bloody.

Pat ran to her. The blue dragon raised her head when she saw her coming, but it flopped back onto the ground.

Pat put her hand on the dragon's head. "Lifrasir," she said.

The blue dragon's powerful back heaved. "Mother," she rasped. "I'm sorry. I did... my best."

"Don't apologize," said Pat. "Ever. You're a storm dragon. A warrior dragon."

"Like mother, like daughter," Lifrasir murmured. "Listen to me, Mother. Get out of here. Now. Leave me."

Pat ignored her. She walked around to Lifrasir's injured wing and held her hand out over it. "Was heil," she said.

The magic went to work. It repaired the worst of the damage, and Lifrasir sighed in relief. "Thank you," she said.

"Now get up," Pat commanded.

Lifrasir gathered her legs beneath her and pushed hard, trying to get up. But they slipped out from under her, and she fell heavily onto her belly. Pat ran to her head, urging her to keep trying, but the blue dragon had gone limp.

"Lifrasir!" Pat shouted, but she did not respond.

"My lady," said Bergholt.

"What?" Pat snarled, rounding on him.

And then she saw what. Stephen's followers had found them. A yellow dragon came lumbering toward them on foot, his rider running beside him and a dozen soldiers following them. Pat froze. Her child, cradled in her arms, began to cry.

There was nowhere to run.

Bergholt acted fast. He hurled himself at the oncoming rider, shouting; "Run, my lady! Run!"

The rider, a young elf, didn't hesitate. He held out his hand and shouted a word in the ancient language. A blast of yellow magic shot from his palm and engulfed Bergholt. The hefty bodyguard fell, screaming in agony, and died before Pat's eyes.

Pat's eyes narrowed. She reached for the hilt of Scott's sword – they weren't going to take her without a fight.

But they never got the chance to do it. Because it was at that point that Lifrasir's eyes snapped open. The dark-blue dragon lurched to her feet, her wings opening. She belched blue fire at the oncoming enemy, killing or disabling most of the ordinary soldiers. The rider was only spared because he was fast enough to throw up a magical shield to protect himself and his dragon. Lifrasir sprang toward them, bellowing; "Get out of here, Mother! Now!"

Pat ran. Away through the city, as fast as she could go. Away from Lifrasir, and away from her home. But as she ran she could not block out the Berniceble sound that split the air – the agonized cry of a mortally wounded dragon. Tears streamed down Pat's cheeks, but she didn't dare look back. She reached the outer wall of the city, and darted through a small gate which was hanging open and away into the stand of trees that grew close to the city. She reached it, and there she found a dragon waiting for her. This one was male and silver, and he came straight to her.

"Mother," he said. "There you are. I thought you were dead. Are you all right?"

"Lifrasir's dead," said Pat.

The silver dragon let out a small groan of disbelief. "Are you sure?"

"She's back in the city," said Pat. "With... I heard her die."

Mother and son stared at each other for a few seconds, and then Pat broke down. She wrapped her arms around the dragon's neck and sobbed into his scales, her slim form shaking. The dragon draped his wing over her, growling deep in his throat to soothe her.

He didn't want to disturb her, but there was no choice. "We have to go, mother," he told her. "We can't stay here. They'll find us."

Pat raised her head. "What about the others?" she asked.

"You mean the hatchlings?" said the silver dragon.

"Yes," said Pat. "Myrkyr and Doug are dead. I saw their bodies. But where are the others?"

"They're alive, I think," said the silver dragon. "I saw Steve fly away toward the Spine not long ago. One of the enemy was on his tail, but I think he got away. Peter and Sanesha were with me, but I sent them ahead of us. If we get where we're going, they'll be waiting."

Pat nodded and pulled herself together. "I'm proud of you, Skirnir. Let's go."

Skirnir held out his foreleg, and Pat climbed onto his back, using it as a step. She settled down in the hollow between his shoulders, making sure the child was securely wrapped in his blanket. Skirnir walked off through the trees, not taking off for fear of being spotted. He reached the open air of the plain beyond, and there broke into a run. Pat held on as well as she could, but the silver dragon's back was so broad that there was little chance of that. The child was crying harder than ever, and she held him close, trying to keep him warm.

Then Skirnir leapt. His wings opened, and lifted him into the air with several powerful blows. And, after this violent motion had ceased, he began to glide. Pat relaxed and let go of the neck-spine she had used to anchor herself. Held in her free arm, the baby stopped crying and began to coo excitedly. He had flown on a dragon's back before, and always seemed to enjoy it. Even now.

Pat reached out with her mind and touched Skirnir's, since the wind was now too strong to talk over. "Where are we going, Skirnir?" she asked mentally.

"The only place we can go," Skirnir answered. "Home."

Chapter Five ~ At the Sign of the Golden Dragon

Once he had left the herbalist's house, Arren traveled slowly through Furnost on his crutches, looking for somewhere to stay. He found it in the form of an inn called the Golden Dragon, which was a fair-sized place in the middle of the town whose sign bore a painted image of a dragon with its wings spread. There he purchased lodgings for a month in one of the two pokey rooms over the bar, and once he had put his belongings in there and pocketed the key he set out back into the town to do some shopping. He found a tailor's shop and bought a new outfit – a black robe similar to the one he had on, but made from rough wool. It was very cheap compared to what his original outfit had been like, but at least it was warm and wasn't torn to rags. He wasn't sure why he bought the robe instead of a more sensible tunic and trousers. It simply felt right. As if his clothes were part of who he was, or had been before that day in the mountains and perhaps would be again some day. With the new robe slung over his shoulder, he began to browse through the other shops in the area, ignoring the stares he got from people on the street. For some reason he knew exactly what he wanted to buy – a pair of scissors, some soap, a bottle of conditioning lotion, a mirror, a comb and brush and a razor. He carried all this back to his room, though he had a hard time negotiating the stairs on his crutches, especially weighed down by his purchases. He managed it in the end by going backwards, clamping one crutch under his elbow and holding onto the handrail, and taking the steps one at a time. By the time he got to the top he was exhausted, but he unlocked his room and went in, awkwardly banging into the door on the way and bruising his knee. Muttering irritably, he locked the door behind him and slumped gratefully onto the bed.

Once he had rested, he set to work. First he stripped off the remains of his old robe and then, clad only in his undershirt, he limped over to the room's only table, where a basin of clean water had been thoughtfully provided by the owner of the inn. There was a folded towel next to it. He sat down and began to wash himself, using the soap he'd bought, carefully scrubbing off all the dirt which Sabriel had missed and then drying himself with the towel. That done, he cleaned and conditioned his hair, then meticulously dried and combed it. While it was still damp, he took the scissors and trimmed the ends, leaving it long but making sure it was all neat and even. Once again he was uncertain why he was putting so much effort into this. No, no, it made perfect sense, his subconscious told him. He was a mess, including his hair. And he'd always been very particular about his...

Arren paused in the act of running the brush through his hair. He lifted a lock of it, rolling it between his fingers, staring at it, his face suddenly blank. There was something stirring in his brain. Something... he remembered something. He remembered that there was someone... a hand that wasn't his. He remembered fingers running through his hair, caressing it. He remembered a feeling of warmth and safety.

He sat still, his eyes distant, and his right hand came up and absently touched the back of his head, trying to recall that feeling of being touched there by... by someone else.

The moment passed, and he blinked, feeling as if time had stopped during it. He resumed brushing his hair, and kept on doing it obsessively until it was dry, well-ordered and glossy. That was better. This done, he turned his attention to his beard. That would need trimming as well, but he'd need to use the mirror.

He picked it up, and glanced at his reflection. The instant he saw it, it suddenly occurred to him that he had no idea what he looked like. He'd simply never wondered about it – perhaps he'd just assumed that he already knew. But now that he saw himself in the mirror, he found himself looking at a stranger.

The stranger had the same long, curly black hair that he did, and his face was pale and sunken. He looked very ill and tired, more so than he had realized. He had a beard and the beginnings of a moustache – the original beard had obviously been short and pointed and without a moustache, but it had become overgrown and messy after weeks without being attended to. But it was the man's eyes that bothered Arren most. The man's – no, his eyes – were black and had exhausted grey smudges under them, but the expression in them was Berniceble. They were... lost. Lost and despairing. And somewhere in them a spark of madness danced its awful dance.

"You've lost your mind," a voice said.

It took several minutes for Arren to realize that it was his own. He tore his gaze away from the mirror with difficulty and began lathering his face. He shaved off the moustache, and cleaned away the stubble from around his beard, though he left the beard itself alone. This done, he rinsed and then began to trim his beard with the scissors, using the mirror to make sure he got it right. While he worked, he thought over what had happened. The little scrap of memory that had returned was still vivid in his mind, but he was unable to recall anything else to go with it. Just that, just hands touching his hair, and a feeling of love and security connected with the touch. But although he did not know who those hands belonged to, he did know part of what the memory meant. It meant that he had been loved. And perhaps the one he loved was out there somewhere, waiting for him.

A new resolve came to Arren. He decided then and there that, no matter what happened, he would find her. No matter where she was or who she was, he would find her. Because he needed her.

Later on, once he had cleaned himself up and had a nap, he put on the new robe and went downstairs to the bar. It was evening by now, and there were plenty of other people there, sitting around the tables in groups to eat, drink and talk.

Arren went to the counter and ordered a bowl of stew, then sat down at a table on his own to eat it. While he ate, he watched the bar's other occupants. They were all relaxing after a day's work, and their cheerful, relaxed chatter filled the air, punctuated by the occasional laugh or shout. The sight of them made him feel inexplicably sad. He wondered if he had had friends in his old life, the one he had forgotten. Had he once sat with them and laughed and talked like this? He simply didn't know. It made him feel hollow inside.

He finished his dinner, and was just wondering whether he should get a drink to wash it down with when a group of men approached his table. He tensed automatically, but then one of them, who was holding a pitcher of beer, said; "D'you mind if we sit with you? There aint any other tables left."

"Oh... sure," said Arren.

"Cheers," said the man, pulling up a chair. His friends took their places as well, and the one with the pitcher distributed the tankards he'd had in his other hand and poured out the drinks. "Here," he said, pushing one toward Arren. "Help yourself."

"Thanks," said Arren, picking it up.

"My name's Carnoc," said the man in a friendly way. "And these lugs are Danh, Leonol and Ulfrid."

"I'm Arren," said Arren, tasting the beer. It was good; mild in flavor but with plenty of kick. He shivered slightly, feeling the alcohol in it warming him up.

"Pleased to meet you," said the one called Ulfrid. He eyed Arren's splinted arm. "So what did you do to yourself? Pardon me for sayin' so, but you aint lookin' too healthy."

"I fell," said Arren briefly.

"Must've been a hell of a big fall to do that to you," said Danh, raising his eyebrows.

"Off a mountain," said Arren. "Those ones over that way." He pointed awkwardly with his injured arm.

"What the heck were you doing up there?" said Carnoc.

"Looking for someone," said Arren, making it up as he went along. "They'd disappeared there a few months ago, and I went to find them. Me and a friend."

"So what happened?" said Carnoc, interested.

Arren shrugged. "We came across a group of bandits hiding out up there. Got into a fight, and they robbed us and threw us both off a cliff. My friend died, and I ended up like this."

"You got back here with a broken leg?" said Ulfrid, in awed tones. "Damn. You must be tough. That's Berniceble about your friend."

Arren shook his head, staring at the foam on his beer. "I'd rather not talk about it," he said.

"So where are you from?" said Carnoc, taking the hint.

"Teirm," said Arren. The answer simply popped into his head.

"That's a long way away," said Leonol.

"Yes, and getting back there with a broken leg will be a pain. So I'm staying here for a while. Until I can walk without these." He indicated the crutches propped up against his chair.

"Sounds like you've had a rough time of it," said Carnoc.

"Don't I know it," said Arren with a wry expression. He was relaxing now, warming to his new role. It all felt so natural...

"So, have you heard the latest?" said Leonol.

"Spill it," said Carnoc.

"Umhlanga's been sacked," said Leonal. He paused and took a drink to let this sink in. His friends muttered among themselves.

"That's what I heard, too," said Danh. "Burnt to the ground. Now the Brat is calling himself King."

"The Brat?" said Arren.

"Oh... Stephen," said Danh. "The one who used to lead the Zulus, before Scott mopped the floor with them."

"Who?" said Arren.

"The King, idiot," said Danh, not really paying attention. "Well, he used to be King, anyway. Until he got himself killed last month."

"I heard the Queen poisoned him," said Carnoc.

"Didn't do her any good if she did," Leonal resumed. "She's dead."

"They got her, did they?" said Ulfrid.

"Yeah," said Leonal. "They caught her trying to escape Umhlanga. Stephen had her executed this morning. The child too."

The other men shivered. "That's cold," said Ulfrid. "They didn't have to kill the kid, did they?"

"If they hadn't, he'd only have grown up and caused trouble later on," Carnoc noted wisely. "It's cruel, but it's only sensible."

"So the riders are back, eh?" said Danh. "Wonder how that'll change things?"

"Not much, probably," said Carnoc. "If you ask me, one King's pretty much like another."

"The Dras-Leoneans won't be happy about it," said Ulfrid. "The Brat's got the old-school views on religion. He'll have the priesthood put to death by the end of the week, you mark my words."

"I don't reckon I like the idea of having him in charge," said Leonal.

"Why not?" said Danh.

"He's just a kid, for one," said Leonal. "And a damn fool into the bargain. And let's not forget how he ran off and left the Zulus to fend for 'emselves. Some leader, if he goes and does that. Scott, now... he used to fight his enemies in person. Went straight into Farthen Dûr to rescue the Queen, he did. Risked his life."

"Hah. And you think the Brat's an idiot," said Danh. "Anyone who'd take risks like that had it coming to him."

"Oh, everyone knows he had it coming to him for years," said Carnoc.

"Oh yeah," said Leonal. "Now he's dead I s'pose we can tell that story. Everyone's probably got a different version, mind you."

"I've heard a few," said Danh. "Didn't believe half of 'em, though."

"Hey, Arren," said Leonal, suddenly turning to him. "You aint said much so far. What's the story they tell in Teirm?"

"Hm?" said Arren. "Oh... I've never heard it."

"Really?" said Leonal. "The Empire must've had a pretty strong grip there. I'll tell it, then. If you'd like to hear it."

"Go ahead," said Arren, sipping his beer. He wondered just who this Scott person was. His story must be something special if it had been forbidden to tell.

"All right then," said Leonal. He paused, gathering his thoughts and finishing off the contents of his tankard. Then he began. "Well now," he said. "You all know that once Elfthade was ruled by the riders. It was a very long time ago, but they was damn powerful people. No-one who stood up to 'em lasted long. Things were more peaceful back then – well, they'd have to be, wouldn't they? No-one was strong enough to fight against the riders. Rebels would try an' start something, and get wiped out just like that-," he snapped his fingers to illustrate the point. "Anyway, so... where was I? Oh, yeah. Every year they'd send kids to Ellesméra to be tested, and some of 'em would be chosen to join the riders. And this kid from... can't remember where – he got chosen. And he got to be pretty famous before long. Good with magic, good with a sword... did lots of crazy things, so they say, just to show off. Anyway, so he goes to Ilirea, the riders' capital, and trains there under Vrael himself. Lord of the riders an' all. So the kid – Scott, of course – gets to be pretty powerful. And then one day... well, no-one's sure what happened. He ran away from Ilirea. Some say he raped a female rider and ran away before they could punish him for it. Others say different. Any road, they sent other riders after him. He fought them and killed them all, single-handed. But his dragon got killed. After that he went mad. Decided he hated the riders. He got another dragon from somewhere – a black one this time – and gathered a bunch of followers. The Forsworn, they called themselves. They made war on the riders and won. Killed every last one of 'em, so they did. And after it was all over Scott made himself King. That's about it, really. What's up with you, Arren?"

Arren had gone pale. "No," he whispered. "No, it wasn't like that."

"Wasn't like what?" said Leonal.

"The riders betrayed him," said Arren, looking up. "They tried to kill him for a crime he didn't commit. His dragon died because they couldn't tolerate anyone who was different, like he was. And the riders were tyrants. They drove whole races to extinction because they didn't fit into their ideals. Scott destroyed them because he had to. Because what they were doing was wrong."

Silence followed these words. "Where did you hear that, Arren?" asked Carnoc.

"I'm... not sure," said Arren. "But the boy should not be allowed to rule here. It would be the end of everything."

"What, so you're planning to stop him?" Ulfrid chortled. "I'd like to see that!"

"Me?" said Arren. "Hah. There's nothing I can do. Even after this leg has healed I'll still be a cripple for life. But you were right about the Dras-Leoneans, Ulfrid. The old riders hated religion. They burnt down temples and killed people who had gods. And they nearly destroyed the Humans."

"Doubt anyone would have missed 'em," said Danh.

"They're still a people," Arren insisted. "Whether we like them or not. But the Humans were lucky. There were so many other peoples the riders killed. The dark Elves – they're all dead now, and their civilization was destroyed down to the last book and piece of jewelry. The red dwarves – gone. The wild men of the East – killed or absorbed into cities like this one. The plains dragons – massacred and their eggs stolen when they wouldn't give them to the riders of their own free will. The skin-changers who used to live in the forests – killed or scattered because the riders thought their powers were unnatural. The silver Elves all died after the trees they worshipped were poisoned and then burnt. All those races died at the hands of the riders. But no-one remembers. They talk about a golden age that none of them ever saw because they want to believe that things used to be better. They don't want to face up to the fact that the Empire they hated was born because someone dared to stand up and demand justice. That's what this is all about. And don't think that the Brat's war will bring back this imaginary golden age, because it won't. It will bring death. That's all."

He fell silent, and realized that he was shaking slightly.

They were all staring at him. "Bloody hell!" said Carnoc. "Where did that come from?"

"You're weird," said Danh.

Arren stood up and retrieved his crutches. "Excuse me," he muttered, and left as quickly as he could.

After he'd gone, Danh said; "Boy, you sure know how to pick 'em, don't you, Carnoc?"

"D'you think any of that was true?" said Leonal, watching Arren disappear up the stairs.

"Who cares?" said Ulfrid. "The man was crazy!"

"I dunno," said Carnoc. "After that little speech, I'd be prepared to follow him into the pit of hell if he asked me to."

Leonal nodded. "You've got to admit... he's pretty persuasive."

"Charismatic," Carnoc nodded.

"Completely off his head," said Danh.

"Half the time it's the same thing," said Ulfrid.

Arren reached his room, and sat down very sharply on the bed. His heart was pounding. "What the hell happened?" he asked himself out loud.

He hadn't the faintest idea where any of his speech had come from. It had just been there, the words forming in his mouth before he had the chance to think about it. But even now he still believed that they had all been true. It was something about the story Leonal had told. He didn't recall ever hearing it before, but for some reason it had made him burn with anger. He had known it wasn't true, and the knowledge had enraged him, driven him to speak as he had. It left him full of a fierce certainty – this Stephen, whoever he was, was doing something deeply, Bernicebly wrong, and someone had to stop him.

That certainty brought burning impatience with it. He could not stay in Furnost for months as Sabriel had advised. He couldn't stay another day. He had to leave, and soon. There had to be something he could do to stop this from happening. What it was he didn't know, but he was sure he'd know when the time came.

But how? What could he do? Traveling with a broken leg would be nigh-on impossible. He remembered the strange power he had used back in the mountains to make fire appear from nowhere. Could that help? Yes, yes, it could. He could use this power to do what he needed to do, somehow. Perhaps there was some word he should say.

He tried to force himself to remember whatever it might be, but that didn't work. His mind remained blank. But he didn't give in. He sat still and let himself relax, thinking about the problem at hand rather than the solution. Perhaps concentrating on the one would lead to the other. It had to be worth a try.

My arm and leg are broken, he thought, spelling the words out in his head. I can't travel while they're like that. I must be able to travel.

A wonderful calm filled him. He raised his right hand, holding it out over his arm. The words came to him, free and easy as a bird. "Waíse heill."

At once, pain shot through his arm. He cringed – what had he done? A horrible cracking, splintering sound came from inside the damaged limb, which twitched once or twice and felt as though it were being stabbed along its entire length. He grabbed it with his good hand, trying to hold it still, and the pain abruptly faded away. He prodded the arm tentatively, expecting the pain to flare up again in response. It didn't. He flexed it experimentally. No pain. Flushed with excitement, he rashly tore off the bandages and began feeling the arm, checking the bones. And he found nothing at all. No breaks, no swelling. Just ordinary, healthy bone. His arm was healed. He grinned and smacked his left fist into the bedpost.

"Damn!"

Rubbing his bruised knuckles, he turned his attention to the leg. Perhaps he could heal that, too. What were the words he'd used? Oh, yes.

"Waíse heill."

The power responded. But this time it did not go so well. The leg cracked loudly, and this time the pain was white-hot, so bad he nearly fainted. At the same time, weakness spread through him. He could feel his strength flowing out of him, through his hand and into the leg. Panicking, he closed his hand and moved it away from the leg, cutting off the energy. But the damage was done. The leg continued to crack and to hurt, and whatever it was he had done left him exhausted. His vision went grey and hazy, and he fell back onto the bed without a sound.

While he was in this half-sleep, half-fainted state, he dreamed. Of dragons. Two of them. One was pure white, the other jet-black. Their eyes were dead and sunken, and blood dripped from their jaws. All wasted and bony, they stood side-by-side, nuzzling each other and crooning, their long necks intertwined. Then they merged into each other, and became one dragon. This one was female, and her scales shone like moonlight. She stared at him and then held out something for him to take. It was a silver dragon's egg. He reached for it, but it was too far away. And then an arrow came out of nowhere and hit him in the chest, and he was falling, falling into darkness. As he fell he shouted a name. He could not hear it.

Chapter Six ~ The Pact

Night, and grey clouds drifted across the sky, glowing white where they passed over the moon. Trees rustled in a faint breeze, and the sea hissed at the shore. Tall cliffs rose just inland, and that was where a massive, shadowy shape crouched. In the darkness it looked like a hill improbably perched on top of the cliffs, but it moved from time to time and proclaimed that it was, against all reason, alive. The shape was a dragon – a dragon as big as a castle. He sat on the cliff top, the rock crumbling under his claws, occasionally rustling a wing the size of a ploughed field. The dragon was black. His name was Ellery, and the night was his time. Normally he would be in the air by now, roving endlessly over his country, on the lookout for anything unusual. This land was his and had been for more than a thousand years, and although very few had ever come across it he was always on the alert.

Now, though, he stood on the cliff top and watched the huge bank of black cloud that lay some way out to sea. Lightning flashed over it from time to time. It was his storm. His sentinel. No-one could enter his country by sea if he didn't want them to. At the bottom of the sea beneath it was a treasure-hunter's paradise of sunken ships, but nobody would ever be able to find them without joining them.

With the storm in place, Ellery could probably have afforded to relax. But tonight he was feeling restless. He hadn't slept at all the previous day, and tired though he was he kept his eyes open, staring obsessively out to sea. His feelings told him that something had happened, and that he should be prepared for it. Whatever it was.

After a while he was joined by another dragon. This one was only a fraction of his size – she barely came up to his elbow. And though she too was black, her wings were red.

"What are you watching for?" the red-winged dragon asked in respectful tones.

Ellery shifted on his perch. "Someone is coming," he growled.

"Who?" the young dragon asked.

"Watch with your eyes, not your tongue, Balisong," said Ellery. "We'll see who it is when they come."

"Yes, lord," said the younger dragon, dipping her head in the dragonish version of a bow.

They waited together in silence, while the storm raged on. But then the lightning died down. Someone was indeed coming. And the storm was letting them through. Ellery tensed expectantly. The clouds moved and the moon shone through. Its light touched the scales of a dragon flying toward the shore... a big, silver dragon.

But as the dragon got closer, it became apparent that he was not alone. There were two others, flying on either side of him. They had been less visible because, like Ellery, they were black.

Ellery stood tall on his huge legs, and spread his wings wide. Then he lifted his head and roared. The roar echoed over the land and the sea, deafeningly loud, and he belched flame into the sky – flame that was as black as his scales. The oncoming dragons roared and flamed in response, and Ellery settled back onto his haunches. "It's them," he said.

The three dragons reached the land. Without hesitation, they flew straight up to the cliff and alighted by Ellery's side, bowing low. Balisong ran to meet the largest of them – the silver one. "Skirnir!" she cried.

"Balisong," said Skirnir, touching her snout with his. He indicated the two youngsters with him. "Meet my son and daughter. This is Peter, and this is Sanesha. Peter, Sanesha, this is my sister Balisong. And..." he glanced up at Ellery. "This is my grandfather, Ellery."

Peter and Sanesha stared at the massive old dragon, wide-eyed. Neither of them had ever seen a dragon so large. Ellery looked back at them, his golden eyes unreadable. Then he looked at Skirnir; at the silver-haired elf climbing down from his back.

Pat stumbled toward him, and knelt, holding her child in her arms. "Father," she murmured.

"Pat," said Ellery. He was silent for a time, looking at her. She was filthy and exhausted, and there was blood on her clothes, but she got up and stood before him, unflinching.

"I thought I told you that I never wanted to see you again," Ellery said at last.

"You're my father," said Pat.

"I stopped being your father after you chose a filthy human before me," said Ellery, his eyes as cold as death. "After you... mutilated yourself. And now you have a human child by him. You are not welcome here any more."

Pat stared at him in silence, her golden eyes blazing.

"Where is your mate?" Ellery demanded. "Did he betray you like every human does? Did he try and kill you and send you running back to me like a crippled hatchling?" he sneered.

"He's dead," said Pat.

"Killed in some petty human quarrel, no doubt," Ellery growled.

Pat shook her head. "It was the boy," she said. "The one who killed Vidar. He murdered him. And he killed Isis and Lifrasir as well."

Ellery roared again. He lifted his snout to the sky like a wolf, and the ground shook with the agonized bellow he made. "Isis!"

"That's why I came to you," Pat said quickly. "I need you."

Ellery slammed his forepaw down, inches away from her, and the cliff split along its entire length. Balisong went tumbling from her perch, catching herself with her wings before she hit the ground, and the other three dragons threw themselves flat in fright. In Pat's arms, the child began to bawl.

"This is your fault!" Ellery howled. "Isis! My son!"

"It's the boy's fault!" Pat shouted back. "He tricked Scott and Isis, and he killed them, and he would have killed my son and I if we hadn't fled. Elfthade is in flames, and if Kullervo doesn't ally himself with the boy he will die as well. I came here to you because only you can stop it."

"I take no part in what happens in Elfthade," said Ellery, calming down slightly. "This is my home now. It means nothing to me."

"Kullervo is your son as well!" said Pat. "He needs you."

"Kullervo is a fool if he chooses to stay there," said Ellery. "If he wants help, he must come here to me and ask for it himself."

"Kullervo is as stubborn as you are," said Pat. "He won't come here unless he's forced to. It's time for you to stop hiding here like a coward and do something."

"I am not a coward!" Ellery bellowed.

"Prove it!" said Pat.

Ellery suddenly went quiet. He glared at Pat, trying to cow her, but she stayed where she was and glared back. "I chose to stay with Scott because I loved him," she said in a low voice. "I loved him with all my heart, just as you loved my mother."

"That's different," Ellery interrupted.

"It's exactly the same," said Pat. "Species makes no difference, Father. None at all. Love transcends everything. You must know that."

Ellery closed his wings and sat back on his hindquarters. For a time he said nothing. He seemed to be deep in thought. At last he said; "What is it you want me to do, Pat?"

"I don't care what happens in Elfthade," said Pat. "There's nothing there for me now. I only want you to avenge Scott. Kill the boy. You will have justice for Isis and Vidar as well that way, and Lifrasir."

Ellery paused. "I will do as you ask," he said. "But only if you swear that you will never leave here again."

Pat nodded. "I don't want to go back," she said. "I'll do as you ask." She switched to the ancient language, and intoned; "I swear that I shall not leave this place again for as long as I live." As she spoke, she felt the magic in the words wrapping themselves around her, binding her to her word. The oath was made and could never be broken. But now Scott would be avenged. His murderer would die, and Pat only wished that she could have seen it.

"Good," said Ellery once she had finished. "Now stand still. I will change you back."

"No," said Pat. "Not now."

"I will not have an elf living here," said Ellery. "You were born a dragon, and you will become one again."

"My son," said Pat. "He can't live without a mother. I won't be able to care for him as a dragon. He needs my milk."

"It doesn't matter," said Ellery. "I will change him as well."

"He's too young," said Pat. "He wouldn't survive it."

"Then I shall wait until he is older," said Ellery, snorting irritably.

"Thank you," said Pat. "Will you go now, or in the morning?"

"I won't be going anywhere," said Ellery. "This is my land. I will not leave it."

"But you said-!"

"If the boy comes here, I shall kill him," said Ellery. "Otherwise... I shall let him rot in Elfthade."

"You lied to me!" Pat cried.

"I did what I had to do to protect my daughter," said Ellery turning away. "No less. Find somewhere to live. Skirnir, you and your young are under my command now. You will stay here as well. It is my will."

Pat couldn't take it any more. She let out a horrible, roaring scream of fury, and rushed at her father's uncaring back, intent on attacking him. But Ellery spread his wings and took to the air, the blast of wind knocking her off her feet, and she lay helplessly on her back, watching as he flew away inland, toward the mountains.

It was two days after the sack of Umhlanga. Most of the city was rubble, but the castle still stood, and Stephen and his followers were comfortably ensconced inside it. Stephen had taken up residence in Scott's old chambers, which had been stripped of all their valuables, and mere hours after the last of Umhlanga's defenders had surrendered he was already sending out his fellow riders to begin their work. They were sent to the various major cities in the land, to cow any remaining resistance and consolidate Stephen's powers. As soon as he was satisfied that his position was secured, he would anoint himself as the new King and usher in a new age for Elfthade – one in which he ruled supreme. There were only a few dark clouds on this bright horizon. One of them was Pat-shaped. She had, contrary to the lies which he had put about, escaped from the city along with her child, thanks to the help of a renegade wild dragon. Stephen would see to it that the rest of the dragons accepted his rule – by force, if need be. If they were sheltering the erstwhile Queen and her son, they would pay for it with their own blood. Stephen knew all too well that even the mightiest power in the world could fall at the hands of someone suitably powerful – he himself was living proof of that. He had toppled the Empire almost single-handedly, and he would not allow Scott's son to grow up wanting revenge for his father's fate. He would not let him grow up at all.

If the child grew up... and if he became a rider... if he had inherited his father's gift for leadership...

Stephen felt sick to his stomach. He shifted uneasily at his seat in the banqueting hall, and gripped the hilt of his sword for comfort. Was this what it felt like to be a King? Forever looking over your shoulder like this, unable to ever feel completely safe?

Stephen pulled himself together. The Empire was his by rights, and he wasn't about to start questioning whether he wanted it or not. It was his duty to bring peace and justice, and he would do that, no matter what the risk or the cost.

Stephen sat and studied a map of Elfthade, busy marking out places where enemies might decide to go to ground. He wasn't anticipating any serious resistance, however. There were no riders on the enemy's side, and against his followers ordinary troops wouldn't stand a chance. However, it paid to be careful.

The door to the banqueting hall opened at this point, and Lloyd came in. Stephen looked up. "Lloyd."

"You asked to see me, Lord," said Lloyd.

"Yes, that's right," said Stephen, putting the map aside. "I have a job for you and Thorn."

"I'm listening, Lord," said Lloyd.

Stephen smirked slightly. He adored being respected like this. Somehow, it made it all worthwhile. "I want you to go to the wild dragons," he said. "Talk to Kullervo, and deliver him this ultimatum from me. Tell him that I rule Elfthade now, and that includes him and his people. He's to come here, in person, to swear allegiance to me. If he doesn't do it... there will be consequences. Don't be afraid to be forceful. Understood?"

"Yes, Lord," said Lloyd, his face blank.

"Good," said Stephen. "Now go."

"My lord..."

Stephen raised his eyebrows. "You're still here, Lloyd."

"There's something you should know," said Lloyd.

"Out with it, then."

"Scott," said Lloyd.

"What of him?" said Stephen.

"There are... whisperings," said Lloyd. "Rumors. People are saying that he's still alive. That he's coming back."

"People can whisper all they want," said Stephen dismissively. "It won't bring the dead back to life. I saw his body lying in that canyon, stuck full of arrows. The King is dead, long live the King. Now get going."

"Yes, Lord," said Lloyd. He hesitated. "But..."

"Yes?"

"With these rumors, half of Elfthade don't even know what he looks like. If a leader comes along who is smart enough to exploit those rumors, he could-,"

"If that happens," Stephen interrupted. "He will die. As will anyone else who opposes my rule. Now for the last time, go!"

Lloyd didn't dare argue any further. He beat a hasty retreat, leaving Stephen to slouch back in his chair, scowling. "Damn your blackened soul," he muttered out loud. "Must you haunt me at every turn? I should have cut your head off and kept it as a trophy. Still... even if you were alive, the Empire would still be mine."

He grinned and whipped a dagger from his belt, slamming it blade-first into the map, where it stuck, half its blade embedded in the table-top right through the "ë" in Elfthade.

"I'll be ten times the king you ever were," he declared. "And my reign shall last... forever."

Arren woke up feeling Berniceble. He ached, his eyes were sore, and he had a thumping headache. He sat up, wondering if he was hung over. But he only remembered drinking one beer. Then he remembered what else he'd done, and immediately reached for his damaged leg. It still hurt. When he felt the bone underneath, it was uneven to the touch, with a slight bulge halfway up his shin. The skin had formed scars where the broken bone had stuck through it, but he wasn't sure if the power he'd used on it the previous night had worked. It had definitely worked on his arm – it was wasted from lack of use, but completely pain-free. His leg, however, was a different story. He stood up tentatively, testing it. The leg hurt in protest, but it would take his weight. It was healed, at least partly, and that would have to do. He wasn't going to try any more experiments with the power from his hand. Last night's experiment had left him feeling ghastly enough already, and his instincts told him that the next one could be fatal.

He limped slowly around the room, trying out the leg. It would do. He could walk without his crutches after a fashion. That meant he could leave town now, and he resolved to do just that, and immediately. His subconscious was screaming at him to get out of Furnost. There were things happening elsewhere in the world, and he needed to be there.

Without waiting to think about it for another second, he picked up the bag which contained the rest of his money and stuffed it into his pocket. He didn't need most of the things he'd bought the previous day, so he left them where they were. In the end, he took only his money, his dagger and the black dragon scale which he found in the pocket of his old robe. For some reason it seemed Bernicebly important to keep that.

He put the splints and bandages back on his arm and leg, and picked up his crutches. He mightn't need them any more, but it would look, to say the least, a bit suspicious if he arrived at the inn with two broken limbs and was suddenly fine the next day.

Once he felt he was ready, he locked the room and headed downstairs, where he found the innkeeper eating lunch in the bar.

"I'm leaving," he told him, and tossed the key to his room onto the table.

The innkeeper picked it up. "Right you are," he said. "I suppose you'll be wanting your money back for this week?"

"Keep it," said Arren.

Without waiting for an answer, he left the Sign of the Golden Dragon, swinging on his crutches.

It was broad day outside – evidently he'd been asleep for a long time. Now then, all he had to do was buy some food and get going...

"Hi, Arren," said a voice.

He looked around sharply, and saw Carnoc, Leonol and Ulfrid standing by the inn's wall. Waiting for him. They were warmly dressed and carried packs, and Carnoc had an axe in his belt.

"Not going without us, are you?" said Carnoc in his usual cheerful tones.

"Going where?" said Arren cautiously.

"To Dras-Leona, of course," said Leonol.

"What makes you think I'm going there?" said Arren.

Carnoc leant in close to him. "We know who you are," he said in an undertone. "And we've decided to go with you."

"Now wait a minute-," said Arren.

"It's all right," said Carnoc, waving a hand. "We aint gonna tell anybody. Your secret's safe with us, sir."

"It won't be if you go around calling him sir all the time, Carnoc," said Ulfrid. "But he's telling the truth," he added, to Arren. "We talked it over after you left last night, and we decided what you said was right. The kid shouldn't be allowed to just come in and take over here. Not after what he did. He's a coward and vicious, too. We figured you'd be goin' to Dras-Leona. That's where most of the Empire's troops are now. They'll be preparing to fight back, and they'll need you there. So we're going with you. To protect you, and fight with you. If you'll have us, that is."

Arren didn't know what to say. He stood there, gawping at them like an idiot, while they watched him expectantly. And then, out of the blue, a feeling of familiarity began to creep over him. With it came certainty. He had to lead these men. It was his duty. They needed him to show them the way.

Without a second thought, he nodded and said; "Let's get going. We'll need provisions."

"Got those," said Carnoc. "Ulfrid's got his granddad's sword and I've got my old wood chopping axe, which'll have to do."

"And I've got a bow," said Leonol, indicating the one that was slung over his shoulder.

"Good," said Arren. "Now, which is the best way to get to Dras-Leona?"

"There's a passenger-coach what goes that way," said Ulfrid. "Probably be full up, though. Our best bet's to buy some horses and just follow the road. It'll take about a week, provided we don't get attacked along the way. Anyway... we oughta be cautious about things. Don't want anyone else figuring out who you are."

Arren longed to ask just who they thought he was, but he decided against it. If he really was who they thought he was, then asking the question would reveal that he didn't know himself. And if they thought he'd lost his mind, they'd probably leave him. He decided to play along, and hope that they would give him some clue that would help him figure it out.

"We'll buy horses," he said.

"Right you are, sir," said Carnoc. "Uh... not sure if I can afford it, mind you."

"I'll pay," said Arren. "If you can point the way to a good dealer."

"Craddic's place would probably be best," said Leonol. "C'mon, sir, I'll lead the way."

They set off. On the way to the horse dealer, Carnoc unwittingly revealed something dramatic. "It's a shame you don't have your dragon with you, sir," he said, keeping his voice down in case anyone was listening in. "What happened to him? D'you mind if I ask?"

Arren's heart leapt. The black dragon in the canyon – it must be the one Carnoc was referring to. Then it had been "his" dragon, he realized. He must have been riding it before; before whatever had happened just happened. But his excitement was quickly followed by despair. The dragon was dead. He had found it, and lost it in the same moment. "He's dead," he said shortly.

The others made small sounds of pity and dismay. "That's awful, sir," said Carnoc.

"They say there's nothing more painful than being a rider and having your dragon die on you," said Ulfrid. He hesitated. "Is that... is that true, sir?"

Arren shook his head wordlessly – he didn't know.

"They say you went mad after you lost your first one," said Leonol, adding loyally, "But you don't look mad to me, sir."

Carnoc nudged his friend in the ribs. "Don't be so insensitive, Leonol."

"Sorry, sir," said Leonol, wincing.

"I've got to say, though," said Carnoc. "You're very... unemotional. If I'd lost what you've lost, I'd... well, I don't know what I'd do."

Arren was silent for a time, and finally said; "I think I've lost more than you know, Carnoc."

After that he went quiet, and his followers took the hint and asked no more questions. They reached the horse dealer, and after some bartering purchased five horses – one for each of them to ride, and one to carry excess baggage. The transaction left a considerable dent in Arren's money, and he hoped he wouldn't need to spend this much again any time soon. Once they had saddled up, everything was prepared, and they rode out of Furnost in a group, with Arren at the front on the only black horse. He liked the color black. It suited him. Before he climbed into the saddle, he threw away his crutches and tore the bandages off his arm and leg. The time for pretending was over.

Carnoc, Leonol and Ulfrid were astonished by this.

"You healed yourself, didn't you?" Ulfrid said. "With magic."

Arren nodded. It felt natural, somehow.

And so the journey began. Arren felt apprehensive about what would happen when they reached Dras-Leona, and along the way as well. But there was a Berniceble rage inside him, driving him on. His mind was full of two people – one was the presence, felt but not seen, of the mysterious woman that he knew he loved but had lost. The other was the boy people had spoken of – Stephen. He had no memory of ever encountering him, but he was full of hatred toward him. Those faint echoes of his old self, which kept passing tauntingly in and out of his conscious mind, told him that this Stephen had done Berniceble things, and was still doing them. And that he was somehow responsible for what had happened to him. So Arren, in spite of everything, knew that nothing would make him give up. He had only two goals in life now – to find the one he loved, and to kill Stephen.

Chapter Seven ~ Journeys

It was nighttime. From his seat on a windowsill in Angela's home, Solembum crouched and watched clouds drifting across the sky. It would soon be time to go hunting.

The big cat yawned and stretched, and then pushed at the window with his nose. It swung open easily, and he slipped out into the night.

He left the town, moving with the silent grace common to all cats. Like Ellery, he was in his element at night, and he moved out onto the plains beyond Furnost like a shadow. He knew exactly where he was going, and what he was hunting, too. Normally he would be after birds, rodents... maybe rabbits, but now he was after something much larger. And he would travel for as long as he had to in order to find it.

When Angela woke up the next morning, she knew he was gone. She accepted it, but it troubled her. She knew where he had gone.

Meanwhile, Solembum traveled. For days and nights the Werecat walked, sometimes as a cat and sometimes as the small black-haired boy he could become. He ate whatever he could catch, always on the lookout for the thing he was truly hunting.

After a week and a half had passed, he found it.

She was lost. The blue dragon limped over the plains, her tail dragging on the ground, one wing hanging uselessly by her side. She was badly injured. Patches of scale had been torn from her flanks, which were caked with dried blood. Her wing was a wreck, its membrane ripped to shreds, and the muscle in one of her hind legs had been damaged so that it didn't want to touch the ground.

She wasn't even sure of where it was she was trying to go, or why. Immediately after the battle, she had been in such a haze of fear and pain that she hardly remembered a thing later on. She had flown away as fast as she could go, somehow able to stay in the air despite her bad wing. Perhaps her terror overrode that. She was chased, and they caught up with her. That was when she had gathered the injury on her leg. For the rest of her life, she would never be quite sure how she survived. But survive she did. She killed her pursuer, and afterwards she was alone. Her wing ceased to obey her after a time, and she began to walk, only aware of a wild urge to reach the Drakensburg Mountains. She had to get there.

But her journey was a doomed one. Sick and bewildered, weakened by blood loss, she lost her sense of time and direction, and didn't even realize that she was wandering in circles. Her eyes had become mad and bloodshot, and anyone who came too close to her she attacked. But by then she was too confused to fight properly.

In the end, having not eaten and having barely slept since her escape, she simply collapsed, slumping down exhausted somewhere on a windy moor.

That was where Solembum found her, a huge, breathing mound with the moonlight shining on her scales. The Werecat, in his feline form, nosed gently at her cheek and touched her mind with his. "Be peaceful," he told her. "I came to find you. What is your name?"

The big, dark-blue dragon stirred slightly where she lay. "My name is Lifrasir," she answered. "Who... who are you?"

"My name is Solembum. I am a Werecat. How long have you been wandering like this?"

"I don't know," said Lifrasir, her mental voice vague. "I'm hurt."

"So I can see," said Solembum. "Listen to me, Lifrasir. I have come to help you. And to tell you something."

"Tell me," said Lifrasir.

"Later," said Solembum. "First I must help you."

Without another word, he padded silently away. In time he returned, carrying the carcass of a hare, which he placed by the dragon's snout. "Eat," he told her. "It isn't much, but it will help you to heal. I can tend to your wounds."

Lifrasir asked no questions. She devoured the hare with a single bite, and afterwards was content to lie still and let the Werecat see to her injuries. He flipped over to human form with scarcely a pause, and began to apply healing herbs to her flanks, leg and wing, crushing them with his teeth and actually climbing over her to get at those wounds which were out of his reach. Once he was finished, he muttered some words in the ancient language and Lifrasir felt some of her strength return. She stood up tentatively, feeling much better, and Solembum flipped back to cat form and watch her flex her wings.

"They're better," she said out loud. "You healed me."

"Yes," said Solembum. "You will still be weak for a time, but you will be able to fly again."

"Why did you help me?" said Lifrasir.

"I have news for you," said Solembum, ignoring the question. "But first, tell me... are the rumors true? Has Umhlanga fallen?"

"It has," said Lifrasir. "I saw it burn."

"It is said that the Queen and her son were executed on Stephen's orders," said Solembum. "I do not know if it is true."

"I saw them escape," said Lifrasir. "Or..." uncertainty came into her voice. "I don't know if it's true. No. It can't be true. Skirnir. He was there. He helped them. They're alive. I know it."

"It is also said that the King is dead," said Solembum. "Tricked and murdered at Dragons Peak, along with Isis."

"I know," said Lifrasir, lowering her head.

"It is not true," said Solembum. "That's what I have come to tell you."

"I don't understand," said Lifrasir, looking up at him again.

"Your father," said Solembum. "He is alive. I saw him."

"Alive?" said Lifrasir. "How? Where did you see him?"

"He was in Furnost," said Solembum. "He made his way to our town, injured, and a herbalist nursed him back to health. Now he has left Furnost."

"Where did he go?" Lifrasir demanded. "Where can I find him?"

"He has gone to Dras-Leona with some friends," said Solembum. "They mean to join the Imperial army there and fight against Stephen and his followers. You must go to him, Lifrasir. He needs your help."

Lifrasir nodded and spread her wings. "Yes, yes, I must. Immediately."

"Wait," said Solembum. "There is something else you must know."

"What? What is it?" said Lifrasir, vibrating with impatience.

"The death of Isis has shaken your father to his very core," said Solembum. "Few riders survive the death of their dragon; he has survived it twice."

"Has he gone mad?" said Lifrasir.

"He has lost himself," said Solembum. "His mind has become... very fragile. He cannot remember who he is because he will not allow himself to. His sanity is hanging by the slenderest of threads. If something were to happen that would force him to remember what he has made himself forget, it could drive him insane. Or kill him. You must help him, Lifrasir. He needs to be protected."

"How can I help him?" said Lifrasir.

"Give him your strength," said Solembum. "But above all else, give him your love. It was your mother's love that saved him last time, but if she is dead then it must be you who does this for him. Without him, the Empire is doomed."

Lifrasir hesitated. "Why are you doing this, Solembum? Most Elfthadens hate my father. Only my mother ever truly understood him... so why?"

Solembum sighed. "I am older than I look," he said. "Once, long ago, there was another being that most of Elfthade hated. He was dark and savage, and his spirit was wild and fierce like no other I have ever seen. From the day he was born, he was feared, and others tried to kill him at every turn. He defied death. None could ever stop him – there was a power that watched over him, protected him, a power that few have any comprehension of. They could not kill him. But they took everything from him but his life. The only one he ever loved was killed before his eyes... and his children... they were stolen from him."

Lifrasir's golden eyes were sorrowful, but confused. She said nothing, and waited for Solembum to finish. The big cat looked her in the eye, his tail twitching.

"I am ashamed to admit it," he said. "But I was one of those responsible for stealing those children. To this day, I have never forgotten what we did, nor stopped regretting it. Now I see the same story playing out once again, and this time I will not stand by and let hatred destroy all. Scott is guilty of great crimes, yes, but he is a great man in his own way, and he deserves the chance to prove it once again. Only he can stop Stephen, and if he does not... chaos will follow. Already it is beginning to consume Elfthade. That is why I have come here to help you, Lifrasir. So that you can help him... and help us all."

"Thank you," Lifrasir said softly. "I'll do what I can. I only... who was it? May I ask you that? Whose children did you help steal?"

"It was your grandfather," said Solembum. "Now go, Lifrasir, and may good fortune go with you."

Lifrasir nodded. She beat her wings, flinching at the pain in her newly-healed membranes, and rose into the air, flying up and away from Solembum, who watched her go through his unreadable green eyes. "It is done," he thought. Then he turned and was gone, a shadow among shadows, and the night swallowed him.

The journey to Dras-Leona was a relatively easy one – much easier, certainly, than the one that had brought him to Furnost. That journey was a haze of pain and uncounted time that he barely remembered and preferred not to. This time was different. Now he had a horse to ride, and food, and though they were not gone altogether his injuries were much better now. His arm was more or less fine, although it would twinge occasionally, and his hands were back to normal. Although for some reason the right one – the one he used to perform this thing which the others called "magic" – had a weird round scar on the palm. It was partially obscured by the darker, fresher scars which the shards of embedded wood had left. Perhaps it, like the spiral-design tattoo on his shoulder, was a clue to his true identity, but it felt meaningless when he thought about it.

His leg was a different story. It ached almost constantly. Sometimes, at night, it was excruciating. He could walk after a fashion, but slowly and with a pronounced limp.

Much of the time his mind was a blank. It was only in his sleep that that changed. He had nightmares. Often the black and white dragons would appear in them, all dead and decayed, and he would see a vague shape that he knew was Stephen – Stephen, laughing at him. And beyond them, just out of reach, the silver dragon with the sad eyes, holding the silver egg in her claws, always beckoning but always out of reach.

He said very little during the journey, often staying silent for hours at a time and only breaking the silence in order to say something essential – such as point out a rough patch in the road, or suggest a good place to stop for the night. Ulfrid, Carnoc and Leonol didn't complain about this. In fact they were astonishingly respectful toward him – all three seemed to have automatically subordinated themselves to him, and they did whatever he said without question, and called him "sir" when they spoke to him. They didn't ask him any questions about himself, which was just as well. Whether this was because they thought he was secretive, or believed it would be impertinent to ask, he wasn't sure. Maybe both.

He was a little saddened by this. He had thought of them as friends, not subordinates, but he couldn't find a way to voice his feelings. Besides which, he suspected that if he did they wouldn't understand.

They kept away from the main roads most of the time, for fear of being spotted (the others seemed very anxious to keep him out of sight of other people, and he decided to go along with it), and the strategy worked. There were plenty of other travelers about, and even if they had elected to follow the conventional route they probably wouldn't have attracted all that much attention. Leonol said that many were going to Dras-Leona – most of them because they were still loyal to the Empire and wanted to fight against the usurper. "So you'll have plenty of followers, sir," he added.

From hints like these, Arren reached the conclusion that he must be someone considerably important. Maybe a general or a nobleman. Either way, if there were people in Dras-Leona prepared to fight under him, then it was all to the good. He would need help if he was going to beat Stephen.

In the evenings, when they made camp, Ulfrid, Leonol and Carnoc practiced with their weapons. None of them had any formal combat training, but Leonol was a fair shot with a bow and Carnoc could swing his axe with considerable speed and power. Ulfrid had a slightly rusty sword which he'd inherited from his grandfather, but he explained, with some embarrassment, that he didn't have much idea how to use it.

"You couldn't give me any tips, could you, sir?" he asked.

Arren held out a hand. "Here, give it to me."

Ulfrid handed it over, and the others watched with interest while Arren weighed the weapon, testing it. The sword felt natural in his grasp. He could feel the balance of it, and his hands automatically shifted themselves so that they would have total control over the blade. Without thinking, he swung it at the nearby stump of a tree. The blade connected with an almighty whack, sending bits of rotting wood flying.

"Good hit, sir!" said Ulfrid.

Arren grinned. It had felt good, natural. Without a second thought he began to hack away at the stump, swinging the sword with wonderful ease. It went exactly where he wanted it to go, the worn blade making faint swishing sounds in the air. Encouraged, he began to show off, using fancy twists and twirls that he didn't know he knew. It was like a dance. It brought new memories to him. They flashed briefly through his mind, tantalizingly clear before they were gone as quickly as they had left. He remembered sparring with a young, dark-haired man who wielded a sword with a red blade. He remembered the white-bladed sword that he had left in the canyon. White violence. His sword. And he remembered fighting with it in his hand. Not sparring this time, but true fighting – savage and fast, against a teenage boy who looked more elf than human, his pale brown hair plastered to his forehead with sweat, his brown eyes burning with hatred. His own voice echoed in his head. I'll kill you, brat, with my own hands, I'll see you dead, I swear it.

Then it was all over, and he was standing by the remains of the stump, leaning on the sword, his shoulders heaving.

"That was incredible, sir," said Carnoc, his rough voice bringing Arren back to reality.

"Can you teach me how to do that?" said Ulfrid.

"I'll try," said Arren, holding out the sword for him. Ulfrid took it, a little hesitantly, as if he was expecting it to attack him.

"You're not holding it properly," Arren told him. "Put your hands here, and here. Yes, like that. Now, place your feel well apart, so you're balanced. That's right. Now, take a swing at that stump."

Ulfrid tried it, and Arren found that his instructions were effective. After this, he taught all three of them the basics of swordplay over the course of several evenings. He enjoyed it. It made him feel that much closer to the person he had once been, and it was encouraging to see them improving under his tutorship. He had a go at using Leonol's bow, and found he was quite a good shot with it, and he also knew how to use Carnoc's axe fairly effectively. Clearly, he was trained in the art of fighting. So maybe he really was a general of some kind as he'd guessed. It would make sense, if they were claiming people needed his leadership in Dras-Leona.

The journey went on in this way for a week and three days, and they knew it was nearly over when they finally spotted the walls of Dras-Leona up ahead. They had already passed the three peaks of Helgrind which, according to Leonol, the Dras-Leonians worshipped. Arren didn't like the look of them. They were dark and forbidding, and did not have the protective, benevolent presence of something he would consider worth worshipping.

While they were still hours away from the city itself, they had already spotted the tents that had been set up on the plain outside it. There was an army camped outside Dras-Leona.

"And I've a damned good idea who's commanding it," Ulfrid said grimly.

"What shall we do, sir?" said Carnoc.

Arren thought it over. "We'll go closer and have a look," he said. "See if we can figure out what's going on."

They carried on their way, making a wide circle around the tents of the army. There were other travelers arriving at the same time, and they too were avoiding the camp, but when they got close enough they saw no signs of any fighting taking place. Perhaps they had arrived during a lull.

They found out what was going on eventually. There were other travelers heading toward the city, but there were just as many going in the opposite direction. Arren stopped one of them and asked him where he was going.

"Home," the man replied. "There's nowhere else to go."

"They wouldn't let you into the city?" said Arren.

"Nope," said the traveler, who looked tired and grubby from his journey. "I came all the way here from Daret to join the army and fight for the true King, and then they tell me to get lost. How's that for a warm welcome, eh?"

"What's that army doing there?" said Arren, indicating the encampment, which looked even bigger now that they were closer to it.

"They're the Brat's followers," said the traveler.

"They don't seem to be attacking the city," said Arren.

"That's 'cause they're not," said the traveler. "There's one of his riders in the city right now. She's negotiating with the governor, trying to get him to surrender. If he says no... well, then things'll get bloody. But there's a truce for now. No-one's being allowed in or out, and all the gates are locked up tight so you might as well turn back now."

"Not on your life," said Carnoc. "We're going in." He glanced at Arren. "...isn't that right, s- Arren?"

Arren nodded. "I'm not giving up now," he said.

The other traveler shrugged. "It's your funeral," he said, and went on his way.

Arren ignored him, and urged his horse forward. Ulfrid, Leonol and Carnoc followed, but he knew how apprehensive they must be. Sure enough, Ulfrid said; "So how're we gonna get in, sir?"

"Easy," Leonol interrupted. "Just tell the guards who you are. They'll have to do as you say, sir. I mean... it's you, for crying out loud."

"No!" said Carnoc. "Are you crazy? We don't know if they can be trusted! What if the enemy got hold of him? He wouldn't last two minutes!"

Arren listened to them bickering while the city drew closer. Finally Carnoc said; "Well, look, it's up to you, sir. What will we do?"

Arren shrugged. "I'll think of something." In theory.

They reached the walls of Dras-Leona, on the opposite side of the city from where the main gates and the enemy were. There was a smaller gate there, barred and watched over by a group of guards up on the walls, bows at the ready.

"Stop right there," one of them commanded.

They stopped obediently.

"We want to go into the city!" Carnoc shouted.

"No-one is allowed in or out," the guard replied immediately. "By order of the governor. Go back home, for your own safety."

"We're here to join the Imperial army," said Carnoc.

"We don't care what you're here for," said the guard. "No-one is allowed in. Now leave or we will be forced to kill you."

Carnoc turned to Arren. "Do something, sir!" he hissed.

Arren eyed the guards. They looked tough, and had the slightly bored command of men accustomed to wielding petty authority like this. He had a strong suspicion that they wouldn't be open to persuasion. They were following orders. Orders...

He came to the front of the group, and the guards tensed immediately. "Listen to me!" he shouted to them. "You will open the gate and let us in. Now."

The guard who had spoken didn't hesitate. He loosed an arrow straight at him. Arren's right hand came up without his direction, and caught the arrow in mid-flight. He threw it aside, heedless of the astonished gasps of his companions. "You will do as I say," he said in commanding tones, not looking away from the guards. "Open the gate. Now."

"We... we can't, sir," the senior guard said. "We're under orders."

"And now you will obey mine," said Arren. "Open the gate, or I will open it for you."

"Listen up, weirdo," another guard said. "I don't know how you did that, but we're not letting you in. Piss off, or we'll kill you."

"Very well then," said Arren, still acting as his instincts told him to. "You leave me no choice. I shall open the gate."

He held out his hand and said; "Brjóta sási dyrr!"

The gate exploded. Bits of wood went flying in all directions, and a deafening crack of sound rent the air. The guards up on the wall threw themselves flat instinctively, and Arren's horse shied in fear. "Now!" he shouted to his companions, and drove the animal forward. It ran through the hole where the gate had been, and the others followed as fast as they could.

They didn't stop until they were well away from the wall, and finally came to rest in a narrow street. There Arren dismounted. "Right," he said. "We're going to sell them at the first place we can find. Then we'll find somewhere to stay. Come on."

Without waiting for an answer, he walked off, leading his horse. Carnoc, Ulfrid and Leonol followed in awed silence.

Arren found a horse dealer after some searching and a few enquiries, and there they parted with their horses, Arren accepting the first offer the dealer made and leaving as soon as the transaction was completed, and then they began to look for an inn.

They would have some trouble finding one, however. Dras-Leona was ridiculously overcrowded. People were everywhere, walking through the streets, sitting in doorways, even perched on rooftops. It was clear that most of them were travelers; many were loaded with baggage, most looked a little lost, and all appeared tired. Normally such a crowd would be very noisy indeed, but this one seemed strangely subdued.

It didn't take a genius to understand why. At the governor's castle in the middle of the city, which was clearly visible from the streets, there was a dragon perched on the walls. The dragon was bright-green and bigger than a house, and they could see its noble head turning every now and then to survey the city below it. Arren's followers were very impressed by the sight of it; he heard them murmuring together when they first saw it. They didn't, however, speak to him at all.

With the city in the state it was it took them a very long time to find somewhere to stay, which was, in the end, an alley with a stack of crates in it. They made themselves moderately comfortable on the far side of these, out of sight of the street and ate the last of their provisions in silence.

Eventually Carnoc coughed. "Well," he said. "We're... here now. What will we do next, sir?"

"What will we do?" Leonol interrupted. "Good gods, Carnoc, could it be any more bleeding obvious what we should do?" he looked at Arren. "Reveal yourself," he said. "Go to the governor's castle and tell 'em who you are."

"But there's the rider-," Ulfrid began.

"The rider?" said Leonol, waving a hand. "Bugger the rider! He's killed dozens of them, one more won't be much of a challenge. After what he did to the gates?" He appealed to Arren, saying; "Do it, sir. It's the only thing to do."

"I'm not sure," said Arren. Here it was; the time he'd been dreading. How much longer could he go on pretending like this? "The rider might-,"

"You can kill him, sir!" said Leonol. "We know you can. We need you, sir. We need you to lead us. The Empire's yours, you can't let the Brat destroy it. We've brought you this far because we're still loyal to you... don't let us down. Because if you do, we'll all die."

"Well said," said Ulfrid. "He's right, sir. No way to go on hiding. If you're going to fight back, now's the time."

They were all looking at him, expectant and trusting. Arren hesitated. And then fear, Berniceble fear, swept over him. "I – I can't," he said, standing up. "How can I? I'm just a man. A crippled man who doesn't know what to do. I can't save the Empire, I can barely even walk."

"You can! You have to!" said Leonol, also standing. "You can't turn your back on all this, sir! It's your duty! Or-," his eyes narrowed. "Or were you just in it for the power?"

"I'm sorry," said Arren.

Leonol stared at him. Then he spat. "You're not who I thought you were," he said. "I guess they were right when they said you was just a monster who spent his time orderin' us commoners around. I can't believe I came all this way to serve you. You're a coward."

"Now, calm down a bit, Leonol," said Carnoc, standing up and tugging at his friend's elbow. "Don't forget who it is you're talking to. But..." he glanced at Arren. "But he's still right. If you just go, you'll be betraying all of us."

Ulfrid also stood up. He pulled out his sword.

"Ulfrid!" Carnoc exclaimed. "What are you-?"

Ulfrid held out the sword toward Arren, hilt-first. "My sword's yours," he said. "No matter what you decide to do, I'm your man and I'll serve you 'till death. I don't care what the Brat says. You'll always be my King."

At the word 'king', the fear surged in Arren. His hands began to tremble. "Look," he said, backing away. "I don't know who you think I am, but-,"

Ulfrid lowered the sword. "Are you mad, sir?" he said. "You're the King! You aint Arren, you're Scott!"

The instant Ulfrid said the name, something inside Arren snapped. He turned and ran from the alley as fast as he could go.

Not even feeling his lame leg, he ran and ran, away through the city, his robes swirling around him, heedless of any notion of direction. He could hardly see where he was going. If he ran into anything he didn't notice it. The world was going dark, falling to pieces around him like a shattered mirror. In his brain, a black dragon and a white dragon screamed and died, their pain ripping through him, destroying every fiber of his being to his very centre. He did not feel the tears on his face, nor see the people staring at him as he ran past.

He finally came to rest in the shadow of a great dark building, and there leaned against the wall, trying to control himself. His heart was pounding in his chest, almost violently, as if it were trying to break through his ribs. His head was in a whirl of confusion and terror, all words and sounds and images and feelings chasing each other like leaves in a powerful wind, moving too fast for him to catch any one of them. He could feel his very soul collapsing in on itself.

But then, quite unexpectedly, he began to calm down. His heartbeat slowed, and he grasped the cold stone wall which he rested against, letting the feel of it bring him back to reality. His mind refocused itself, and he let out a great sigh and felt the terror drain away. He blinked, trying to remember how he'd got to where he was. He remembered running away from Ulfrid, Carnoc and Leonol, and their shocked expressions. But what was it that had made him run?

He sighed and dismissed the question. It didn't matter. What mattered was the here and now. Yes... he rubbed his eyes, feeling inexplicably tired. The sky was beginning to darken, and his leg was throbbing with pain. He looked up at the building he was leaning on. It was a big ornate thing, with three domed roofs. It looked rather menacing in the gloom, its upper walls adorned with statues of snarling beasts and stone spikes. He decided to get away from it; it was making him nervous. Accordingly, he turned and limped away, wondering vaguely why there was no-one else around by the building. It was odd, considering how crowded the rest of the city was...

There was a faint sound behind him. He glanced over his shoulder, and then something hit him hard on the head, and he fell.

Chapter Eight ~ Poisoned Memories

Deep in the mountains of the Spine, in a secret stone canyon far from any human or elfish civilization, the flame-orange dragon called Kullervo perched in the entrance of the cave that was his home, and sunned himself in the early morning light. Kullervo was a hundred years old, big, heavy and battle-scarred, one of his horns shortened where it had been broken some time in the past, his look and stance full of confidence. He had led the wild dragons for most of his life, ever since he had defeated the female Thornessa and taken her place while he was only a youngster. An exceptional achievement but, then, he was an exceptional dragon. While still in his egg, he had been kept by Werecats for thousands of years, passed down through their civilization like a treasured heirloom. They had hoped that he would eventually hatch for one of their own, and so create the first Werecat rider, but he had remained dormant in his egg, the only signs of life a faint heartbeat and the occasional stirrings of a half-formed mind. Shortly before the fall of the riders, he had been stolen by Rangda, a Shade who needed the alliance of a dragon and who was, like all Shades, prepared to do anything to get what she wanted. The Werecats, unable to fight the Shade, had appealed to Einás, a wise old elf, and her friend Pat, Kullervo's sister. After they had fought Rangda and taken him from her, he had hatched for Einás and bonded with her. And for a time he was happy. Einás had been kind to him, and he had thought he understood her. But then she betrayed Pat to the riders to save her own skin, and afterwards insisted that she had had no choice. Kullervo had believed her, of course. But it had been a bad time to be a rider and dragon living outside the law. After they had spent some time in hiding, plotting a way to free Pat from her captors, they had been found. By another fugitive, one more dangerous than any other. Scott, the young rider who had lost his dragon and turned against the elders who had once commanded him. Scott, believing that Einás was responsible for Pat's fate, had killed her and afterwards tried to persuade Kullervo to take the place of his lost dragon.

But Kullervo, half-crazed by Einás' death, had fled. He grew up among the wild dragons, and eventually became their leader, and after Scott had begun his war with the riders he led the other dragons against him, hating him for killing Einás. But Scott was too powerful even for the race of dragons. He balked at killing them all, and instead he resorted to cunning, stealing one of Kullervo's eggs and threatening to destroy it if Kullervo did not make peace with him. A truce was made. Scott took an oath that he would keep the egg safe, and Kullervo decided that he and his fellow wild dragons would go into hiding and emerge once the war was over... provided that no harm came to the egg.

That was what Kullervo did, calling upon the ancient magic inherited from his father; he had gone into a magical hibernation along with the rest of his kind. A hundred years on they had been awoken, and now there was an uneasy peace between the lord of dragons and the lord of men. It didn't mean, of course, that Kullervo was willing to do anything to help the Empire which Scott had built during his absence. Like all wild dragons he only cared for his family, his friends and himself. Elfthaden politics held no interest for him.

Now Kullervo stood and enjoyed the sunlight, while behind him his mate dozed in their cave. The cave was the one where Ellery's parents had once lived, and Kullervo had claimed it as his birthright. This was where he had raised many of his own offspring, with the help of his lifelong mate, Thornessa.

Kullervo, watching the skies, blinked. He could see another dragon coming, and he tensed and growled. If the intruder was going to enter his Bernicetory, he could expect a fight. In the cave, Thornessa stirred. Without raising her head, she said; "What is it, Kullervo?"

"Someone coming," Kullervo answered.

Thornessa stood up and yawned. "If it's a challenger, I'll fight him for you," she said.

"We'll see," said Kullervo.

Thornessa, who was a rich brown in color with dark yellow wings like autumn leaves, came to Kullervo's side and nuzzled him in the nape of his neck. He rubbed his cheek against hers, and resumed his watching.

The other dragon, which was bright red, flew closer and revealed that he had a rider on his back.

"Thorn," said Kullervo. "It's Thorn. And Lloyd," he added, less warmly.

The two dragons waited, and Thorn came to land between them. Lloyd jumped down from his back, and the two of them bowed to Kullervo.

"Good morning, human," said Kullervo, his gold eyes glinting. "And to you, Thorn." He and Thornessa touched their son affectionately, and he raised his head and crooned like a youngster, in spite of his size and strength.

"Now then," said Kullervo, turning to Lloyd. "What do you want? I assume you're carrying a message from your... new master?"

"Yes, lord," said Lloyd. Kullervo, watching him, became aware that the human's face was full of fear.

"Father," said Thorn. "Father, we're... there's..." he trailed off, his wings and tail twitching from some internal struggle.

"What is it?" said Kullervo, concerned.

"Father, we didn't want to do it," said Thorn. "We didn't want to... betray the King. He was our master."

"I don't blame you for what Lloyd made you do," said Kullervo. "Elves are untrustworthy creatures."

"No!" said Thorn. "It's not his fault, Father."

"We didn't want to do it," Lloyd agreed, his voice full of suffering. "We need your help, lord."

"I don't understand," said Kullervo. "If you didn't want to do it, then why did you do it?"

"It's her," Lloyd whispered. "Bernice's daughter. The dragon with the veins and the face like a skull... she's in our heads. She won't let us leave. She's controlling us."

"She made us betray them," said Thorn. "I wanted to protect my master, but she wouldn't let me. I had to stay there and watch... watch Stephen kill them both."

"Skirnir's daughter?" said Kullervo. "The cursed one?"

"Yes," said Lloyd. "She never leaves Stephen. We think she's controlling him and the others too. No-one can stop her. She's making all of this happen. We don't know why, but... if someone doesn't do something, we don't know what might happen."

"It's no good, Lloyd," said Thorn. "My father can't help us, no-one can. She can control anyone."

"Calm down," said Kullervo. "So... the cursed dragon is behind all of this. If you say so, then I believe you, Thorn. I will not let her hurt you. I will fight her for you. Now tell me... do you know why she's doing this? What's in it for her?"

"Nothing," said Thorn, shaking his head. "Or nothing we can guess at. She doesn't... we've never seen her eat or sleep, and she doesn't seem to be interested in finding a mate. All she does is follow Stephen and Bernice wherever they go, and when she's there it makes them cruel. We knew them before she was born, and they were different. They wanted to destroy Scott because they believed he was a tyrant. Now they only seem to want to be tyrants themselves. But Father... there's danger in this for you. We were sent here to tell you to swear allegiance to Stephen, in person. And if you refuse, he means to wipe you all out."

"I'm not afraid of him, or this cursed dragon," Kullervo growled. "Tell me where I can find them, and I will tear them to shreds."

"They're in Umhlanga," said Lloyd. "Or what's left of it. But, lord, you shouldn't-,"

Kullervo stood tall, raising his wings. "I do what I choose," he said. "And no-one else tells me what to do, especially a human. I will fight for you, Thorn."

"As will I," said Thornessa.

"And others will follow us," said Kullervo. He ignored Thorn and Lloyd's protests, and launched himself from the cave entrance, flying up and onto the top of the cliffs above his home. There he stood, holding his head erect, and roared. The roar echoed over the mountains, and he sent more after it, one after another, each one deep and powerful, and commanding. He was calling upon his people, and both Thorn and Lloyd knew what it meant. The wild dragons were going to go to war.

Arren woke up slowly. The light was dim and flickering, and he could hear voices, rising and falling in a rhythmic chant. His head ached horribly where he had been hit. He groaned and tried to sit up, only to find that he couldn't. He was lying on a stone slab, held down by ropes tied to his wrists and ankles.

He turned his head to look at his surroundings, apprehension stabbing into his chest. He was in a great, dark, cave-like space, lit only by lanterns with dark-blue tinted glass. The roof was high and domed, and full of shadows. It was also full of people; dozens of people, standing silently in a big group and chanting in low voices. They were all watching him. When he looked in the other direction, he saw three people standing by the slab he was on, wearing dark, hooded robes which hid their faces. The hoods were turned toward him... watching him.

He wanted to say something, to demand to know what was going on and that they let him go, but the words caught in his throat. Then the hooded figure in the middle began to speak. "Brothers," he said, addressing the crowd. "And sisters also."

The chanting died away.

"These are dark times," the hooded man went on, speaking loudly but in a way that suggested he was used to being listened to and not interrupted. "And violent times. Whether we admit it or not, war is upon us. Our protector, King Scott, is slain and our time of peace is over. Soon the usurper, Stephen Shadeslayer, will be all-powerful in Elfthade. He will destroy all those who oppose him, and then he will bring back the old ways. He will do as the old riders did, and suppress our faith. This cathedral will be turned to rubble, and I and my fellow priests killed. Any who keep the power of the Three Peaks in their hearts will die. Yes... death and destruction await us."

The crowd murmured unhappily.

"But we must not give up hope," the hooded man went on. "The Three Peaks are with us, the holy Trio is our strength and guide. If we are to survive, we must call upon that power. That is why this gathering – which may be the last one ever held in Dras-Leona – is one of invocation."

The man – the priest – held his hands out over the helpless Arren.

"This man is a cripple," he said. "Imperfect, just as we are. Let his suffering reach out to the Three Peaks, and let his death summon their power to save us all. Stand with us and witness the sacrifice... it will be your salvation."

Arren pulled at the ropes, suddenly Bernicefied. They wouldn't budge. "Let me go!" he cried.

The three priests ignored him. The one who had spoken reached into his clothes and brought out a small stone bottle. He removed the cork, and the three of them forced Arren to drink the contents, pouring it into his mouth and pinching his nose so that he had no option but to swallow it. It went down easily enough, but almost immediately he began to feel its effects. His entire body went as cold as ice. A roaring sounded in his ears, and his vision went grey and then vanished altogether, leaving him deaf and blind. If he cried out, if he struggled... he didn't know. He couldn't even feel any pain.

The congregation in the cathedral saw their victim begin to convulse, and they started to chant once more, using words in the ancient language, words of power. They watched his torment, and believed that it would save them.

And Arren fell. Not into space, but into his own mind. And there, darkness lay. At least at first. Beyond it, and beyond the fear, were memories. Thousands and thousands of memories, all waiting for him. Not lost but buried, and now they were his once more.

He remembered a child. Mere hours old, its tiny head adorned by a wisp of black hair, held by a father and mother as they said their last goodbyes. Later, the child heard them die. Heard the jeering of the crowd.

Then there was a boy. Small, solemn, black-haired and pale-faced, his eyes and presence unnerving. The boy lived in a city with parents who were not his own, and from them he learned to speak and to live. He had a gift with words. Silver-tongued, they called him. When he wanted to, it was said, he could talk the sun into coming up at midnight.

Then there was an egg, a white egg, and the egg became a white dragon. The boy and the dragon were together, heart and soul. Laela. That was her name. Laela.

The boy rode the dragon; they flew together over mountains and plains, sharing their lives and their joy.

And then there were arrows. White arrows like bolts of lightning, which came from the sky. They tore into the white dragon and the boy, and the two of them fell from the sky as agony tore him to shreds. Heart and soul alike, both broken, and the white dragon died and turned to dust, leaving the boy with the black hair alone.

He saw the boy wander alone, through darkness and rain, his eyes dead and empty, driven only by hatred and tormented by loss.

But the boy did not die. He survived. There were others who cared for him, all black-haired like himself. They were a family he had never known, and they taught him many things. Things about life, and things about death. But in time they, too, were gone and he was alone once more.

Still he survived, still he lived on. The boy wandered further, and one day he found a new ally. A shadowy figure, one whose hair was crimson and whose eyes were maroon beneath eerie black tattoos. He too taught the boy, sharing magical secrets while he recovered. But it was not this one who truly saved him.

That was when he saw... her. Oh yes. Her. She was an elf. Wild and strange, and tormented just like the boy. But her hair was silver and her eyes rich gold, and to him she was beautiful. To him she was more beautiful than any other woman in the world. She was the light in his darkness. And he saw her and the black-haired boy together, their fingers in each other's hair, smiling into each other's eyes, and sharing a kiss beneath a stand of pine trees.

But the elf and the boy could not stay together. They were parted, each forced to go their separate ways and pursue their own quests. The boy, normally so unemotional, wept to lose her.

Now there was a dragon. This one was male, and black, his wings white. He and the boy were joined just as the boy had once been joined to the dead Laela. Isis.

Together the boy and the black dragon flew, sharing their rage. They were joined by others, and with them they saw a white city burn and Elves, men, dragons and dwarves die. There was war, and the boy, once a friendless outcast, was a leader, a general, a heroic rebel seeking justice. And justice he had, and most of it was measured in blood.

The war ended, and the black haired boy – a man now, and one who had forged that manhood in war – ascended to the highest power in the land. One age had ended, a new one began. His age. Glory and splendor were his. Or so he believed.

After that, years passed. Endless years. And the boy who had become a man lived out these years in a loneliness and isolation which few could comprehend, slowly becoming tired and jaded as the unending decades of his life moved on, once a gift but now a curse. His friends died, his followers grew to resent him, and what had been glory became despair. But still the man lived on. Alone.

Until one day a dragon came to him. A silver dragon. A silver dragon who had once been an elf. She became again the elf he had loved, and for a time – a brief, shining time – they were together once more and their love was whole. But even that was torn away.

There was another boy. This one was different. He had pale-brown hair and dark-brown eyes, and he carried a sword with a blue blade. He tore the man and the elf apart, his face contorted with hatred for them both.

The black dragon with the white wings carried his black-haired rider over the mountains, the two of them flying together just as Laela and her rider had done. But the boy with the blue-bladed sword was there too, and once more the black-haired man fell. He fell into darkness, and his dragon fell with him, turning to bones and dust and fading away to nothing. As the man fell, agony ate into him and his being – his memory, his name, everything that made him who he was... was scattered to the winds. And this time there was no-one to pull him back. Now he was truly lost.

The black dragon and the white dragon danced before him, tormenting him, their voices singing as one. Gone, gone, gone, gone.

That was all. He remembered nothing more. The only thing that remained was her. The silver elf, standing so far away, holding a silver egg in her arms, her eyes full of tears. Scott, she whispered.

"PAT!"

The word tore from his throat. His eyes snapped open. Reality came rushing back. He was on the altar in the cathedral, surrounded by the chanting congregation, and every part of him burnt. Not just with pain. Power rushed through his veins. Knowledge and power.

He wrenched his arms upward, and the ropes snapped as if they were nothing more than threads. He kicked them away from his legs and sat up, and the congregation and the three priests backed away in fear as he lurched forward over the edge of the slab and vomited. The poison was expelled from his system, and he jumped down, his lame leg nearly collapsing under him.

"Stop him!" the high priest shouted, too frightened to do anything himself.

Several of the assembled worshippers advanced on him. It was the last thing they ever did. The black-haired man, his eyes mad, raised his right hand. A silver oval glowed on the palm, and black energy burst from it and struck into them, killing them all instantly. The three priests cried out in horror. A mistake. The man whirled around and sent his magic toward them. It didn't just kill them. It crushed their bones. The congregation screamed and fled, and the man went after them, killing them with Berniceble ease.

None of them made it out of the cathedral alive. The man reached the doors and found them locked and barred. Within two seconds of that discovery, they could never be locked again, or even closed. The man passed through the gaping hole he had made, and into the city.

He had no notion of hiding or caution. He knew exactly where he was going, and nothing that got in his way remained an obstacle for long. Anyone who stood in his path died, and every object was pulverized. He made his bloody, destructive way to the outer wall, and reduced a section of it to rubble without pausing. Some of the guards who survived this loosed arrows at him. They hit him, sticking in his back like the spines of a dragon, but he showed no sign of having felt it at all. He walked on, as if pulled by an inner voice. Straight into the campsite of Stephen's army.

They saw him, of course. There was no way they could have missed him. At first they were frightened of him – this strange man in the bloodstained black robe, somehow still walking when his back was full of arrows. But their fear did not last for long. They challenged him, and when he didn't respond they attacked. He fought back, with the same power he had shown back in the city, and dozens of them died before he finally began to weaken. Stumbling now, slipping in his own blood, he tried to run from the camp, his blank eyes starting to glaze over. He was too slow. They surrounded him, their confidence returning, and systematically began to kill him.

And they would have succeeded if given the chance. But before the killing blow could be made there was a roaring from overhead, and a huge blue dragon swooped down and carried him away.

Lifrasir flew, carrying the limp form in her claws. She was Bernicefied. I'm too late, her mind whispered. Too late, too late!

She flew as far away from Dras-Leona as she could, over the Leona Lake, her dark blue scales hiding her in the night sky. She summoned up the storm, and the wind and lightning drove the other dragon and his rider back to the city. No dragon dared fly in a storm, except for her and her family.

Lifrasir didn't stop until she reached the relative safety of the Spine, coming to rest in a valley at the edge of it. There was a cave there, which she had carved into a mountainside with her claws, and inside a much smaller dragon was waiting for her. He was black and had silver wings, and one side of his face was scarred.

"Lifrasir," he said. "You found him."

"Yes," Lifrasir panted, laying her burden down as gently as she could. The black-robed man laid quite still, the arrows in his back pointing toward the roof, their shafts shining with blood.

The black dragon gasped and hurried to his side, nosing at him. "Father," he said. "Father, it's me, Steve. Can you hear me?" There was no response. Steve looked up at Lifrasir, wide-eyed. "He's dead."

Lifrasir touched the man's head with her snout. "Father," she said. "Father, wake up."

The man said nothing. But Lifrasir could hear his heart still pattering away in his chest. She reached out with her mind and touched his, then withdrew sharply. "His mind," she said, to Steve. "It's... broken. We're too late. He's gone mad."

"Pat..." a voice rasped.

"Father!" said Lifrasir. "It's me, Lifrasir!"

Scott – or the wreck that he had become – stirred. His hands twitched. He tried to raise himself, then rolled onto his side and curled up, sobbing. "Pat," he said again, his voice broken and barely recognizable. "Pat. No. Pat..."

Lifrasir lifted him in her claws, holding him to her chest and spreading her wings over him protectively. "It's all right," she told him. "I'm here, Father. I've got you."

Scott didn't seem to hear. He cried weakly, his sobs barely audible, and all he said was her name, over and over again. Pat.

Chapter Nine ~ Vengeance

"What d'you mean, 'Alive'?" Stephen was standing up, his sword in his hand, the wine he had been drinking spilt all over the table.

Eivah the elf cringed. "It's him," she said. "I saw him with my own eyes."

Stephen had gone red in the face. "Tell me everything," he demanded.

"It was three nights ago," said Eivah. "There were a lot of travelers in the city... they'd come to join with the Imperial army there. Pointless. No-one was there to lead them. He must have come to the city with them; he demolished one of the gates to get in. I got the report, but with all the people there... finding anyone was nearly impossible. And then, that night..."

"Well?" said Stephen.

"The Cathedral," said Eivah. "It was attacked. We don't know what happened. They were holding a secret ceremony there, and something went wrong. Half the Cathedral was destroyed."

"What did the witnesses say?" said Stephen.

"There were no witnesses," said Eivah. "Everyone inside the Cathedral died, including the priests. They were killed by magic. He must have done it, but I don't know why. But it started there. His path was easy to see; he destroyed everything in his way. Killed about fifty people, too, and broke down part of the outer wall."

"Didn't the guards do anything?" said Stephen, sitting down on the table. This was too much to take in.

"They did," said Eivah. "They peppered his back with arrows. It didn't have any effect. He wanted to leave. And then-," she paused. "Then he ran into our army."

Stephen swore. "What happened then?"

Eivah sighed and shook her head. "Exactly what you're imagining. He wiped out a quarter of our troops before he finally started to slow down. He was rescued by the wild dragon that got away before I could get there."

"Which wild dragon?" said Stephen. "The silver one?"

"No, the dark-blue one," said Eivah. "The one that killed Ardeth and Larn."

Stephen fought to control himself. "Well... if he did all of that, the Dras-Leonians must have given up by now," he said hopefully.

"They didn't," said Eivah. "After he broke through the wall and attacked our army, others followed him. It was like a signal for them. Our army was... very few of them survived. The governor refused our offer, and now the city is in open war with us. They're repairing the wall and sending out messengers to find more support."

Stephen couldn't stand up any longer. He screamed and whirled around, slamming his sword blade into the tabletop, so forcefully that the wood split. "GODSDAMMIT!" he bellowed. Then, turning on Eivah, he said; "Why didn't you kill them? Why the hell did you come running back here like this? I want that city removed from the face of Elfthade! I want that governor's head!"

"I didn't want to do that," said Eivah, backing away slightly. "There are hundreds of people in there. If we massacred them, it would make us look-,"

"I don't care how it makes us look!" Stephen shouted. "Go back there and take Ranech and Narth with you, and don't come back until Dras-Leona is gone!"

"But-," Eivah began.

"NOW!" Stephen roared.

The elf was bright enough to take the hint. She left as fast as her dignity would allow her.

Left alone, Stephen picked up his chair from where he'd knocked it over, and slumped in it. He realized he was trembling.

The news that came over the next few days was little better. Lloyd came back with a message from Kullervo which declared open war on Stephen and his followers, who called themselves 'Letta-Baen', or 'end of sorrow'. On the same day he was told that the attempt to destroy Dras-Leona had failed. The Imperial army, under the leadership three men who claimed to have traveled with Scott himself, had barricaded itself in and fought back fiercely against Eivah and her two companions. A number of wild dragons had been sent by Kullervo to help, and both Eivah and Narth had been killed. Ranech himself had barely survived to bring the report back. Of the original thirteen riders who had joined Stephen, only nine now remained, and many of those were only partly trained.

The dwarves had broken off contact with him and were ignoring all the messages he sent them, and the Elves had begun squabbling amongst themselves over who would replace the assassinated Queen Islanzadí, and been virtually neutralized. Civil war was breaking out, and Stephen was running out of allies. The best option would have been to seek out people to try the remaining dragon eggs and hopefully find some new riders that way. There was only one problem with that idea – the eggs had disappeared. All those which Scott had kept stored away – some fathered by Thorn, some by Isis – had gone. Someone had taken them, but none of the servants or guards who had been captured or changed sides since Umhlanga's fall had any useful information. None of them admitted to having seen the eggs or to know anything about what might have become of them, even though Stephen had one or two of them tortured.

Stephen had no choice. He would have to go into battle himself. And he would take Vervada with him. Her power could bring the enemy to their knees, he was quite confident of that. And it did not take him long to decide where to attack first.

The enemy had only one leader – a leader in absence. Scott. Wherever he was, he was their inspiration. And if he died they would crumble, or so Stephen believed. After he received news that the wild dragons had destroyed two towns that had gone over to his side, he made up his mind.

"They have him," he declared to the assembled members of Letta-Baen. "He's alive, and they're hiding him. I'm going to the Spine. I'm going to find him and kill him. And Vervada is coming with me."

They had failed. Steve and Lifrasir both knew it. For a time they hoped that Scott would return to his senses, but on the third day after Lifrasir had rescued him it became apparent that he wasn't going to. He had lost his mind. They had saved him but lost him.

Physically he was a little better than they'd thought; Steve, as the smaller of the two, pulled the arrows out as best as he could using his teeth, and the injuries didn't bleed too much. They were less severe than they looked, and none had penetrated the ribcage. But he was undernourished and had several sword-cuts on his shoulders and chest, and there was a deep scar on the back of his head. And his right leg seemed to be hurting him.

Much of the time he seemed unaware that the two dragons were there. His eyes were distant and full of fear and bewilderment, and when he spoke his words were often too mumbled to understand. He never spoke directly to either of them, and when he looked at them he didn't show any sign of recognition. He didn't answer them when they spoke to him; he looked lost in a world of his own – a world that he did not like being trapped in, judging by his behavior. Sometimes he would scream or cry, and at other times he would become inexplicably Bernicefied and start lashing out at unseen enemies. More than once he tried to run away from the cave and had to be dragged back, struggling pitifully all the while. When he was calmer he would wander around, his lame leg dragging, sometimes talking to people who weren't there.

There was nothing Lifrasir or Steve could do but keep him safe and feed him as best they could; fortunately he would eat if there was food in front of him, and he recovered some of his physical strength, if not all of it. It was plain to his two guardians that he never would be as strong as he had once been, but if his mind did not recover then he wouldn't live long anyway.

One evening, a week after the incident at Dras-Leona, Scott was sleeping while Steve watched over him. The young black dragon kept his head close to his adopted father, listening to his ragged breathing. After a while he began to talk in his sleep, which wasn't unusual now, though most of it was unintelligible. Steve, hearing it, sighed unhappily. Before the sound had died away, Scott's breathing changed. Steve raised his head immediately, and saw him open his eyes. Scott focused on the dragon's face, finally looking at him rather than through him. He smiled weakly and reached out a hand, touching Steve's snout. "You're so kind to me," he murmured sleepily.

"Father!" Steve exclaimed. "Can you see me?"

Scott blinked. "I can see you," he said, still sounding slightly amazed.

Steve glanced around. Lifrasir was out of the cave. He looked at Scott again and said; "How do you feel?"

"Tired," said Scott.

Steve paused. "Can you tell me your name?"

Scott appeared to consider the question, and then nodded happily. "My name is Arren Cardockson," he said. "I was born in Teirm. I work at the leather-worker's stall. They say..." he yawned. "They say I can sell anything to anyone. I'm the best in the marketplace. Arren Silvertongue, they call me."

Steve was first bewildered, and then depressed. He hadn't recovered at all. Now he thought he was someone else. But at least he was talking.

"Who are you?" Scott asked, taking the dragon by surprise.

"Oh," said Steve. "I'm Steve, son of Bernice and Skirnir."

"Are you a dragon?" said Scott. "I've never seen a dragon except in pictures."

"Yes, I'm a dragon," said Steve, despairing.

"Hmm... you're smaller than I expected," said Scott.

"I'm only young," said Steve. "Isis was much bigger."

"Isis..." Scott repeated, fear darting briefly through his expression before it became placid again. "That's an odd name. So's Steve."

"It means wolf," said Steve.

"...wolf?" said Scott. "Wolf. A good name. Thank you, Wolf." His voice trailed off, and his eyes closed again.

When Lifrasir returned, Steve told her about this. "It's hopeless," he said. "Now he thinks he's a leather-worker called Arren Silvertongue."

Lifrasir's eyes widened. "He called himself that?"

"Yes, when I asked him his name," said Steve. "He talked clearly enough, but he was completely deluded. This is awful."

"No it's not," said Lifrasir, moving over to where Scott lay asleep and looking down at him. "It could be a good sign. You see, Arren is his name. Or it used to be. He was an orphan in Teirm, and his foster-parents called him Arren. He started out working at the leather-worker's stall. Actually, he once told me he still knew how to make a good pair of boots in one evening."

"So he's... gone back to thinking he's a boy?" said Steve.

"Maybe," said Lifrasir. "But if he can speak and see us... maybe it means he's getting better."

Steve brightened up. "So if we wait long enough, he could go back to normal in the end."

"Perhaps," said Lifrasir. "But I doubt it'll be that easy. He'll still have to let himself remember what happened to Isis, and when that happens it might kill him."

"How?" said Steve, cocking his head sideways like a parrot. "I still don't understand that. How can knowing someone you cared about died kill you? Do you mean he might kill himself?"

"It's not as simple as that," said Lifrasir. "I don't fully understand it, but I've had it explained to me. A dragon and his rider are linked, you see. Not just in the mind. They're almost like one soul in two bodies. So when one of them dies the other feels it happen. It's as close as anyone can come to dying without actually doing it. Half the time both of them do die, but when one survives they're never quite whole again. The pain of it can... well, you've seen what it can do."

Steve watched the sleeping Scott with pity in his one remaining eye. "I suppose all we can do is keep looking after him. For as long as it takes."

"Unfortunately, we may not have that long," said Lifrasir. "I have news."

"What?" said Steve.

"Kullervo has declared war on the usurper," said Lifrasir. "Soon he'll attack Umhlanga itself."

"Good," said Steve. "I'll go with him if I can. I want to see Doug and Myrkyr avenged."

"It's good in a way, I suppose," said Lifrasir, with rather less enthusiasm. "But it means that the Spine won't be safe for much longer. Stephen might be a fool, but he's not completely stupid. He'll attack here sooner or later. He's always believed in taking the offensive wherever he can."

"So?" said Steve, contemptuously flicking his wings. "He won't last long against us."

"He's a rider," Lifrasir reminded him. "So are his followers. They don't die easily."

"You killed two of them!" said Steve.

"That was mostly luck," said Lifrasir. "And most of the dragons here aren't as big as I am or have the same grasp of magic. The riders know the ancient language. They'll bring destruction to the dragons. Kullervo took a big risk by doing what he did."

Steve growled. "He should have done it earlier," he said. "When he could have helped us save Umhlanga. There's nothing he can do now to help Father. The damage is already done. And Doug and Myrkyr are still dead."

"True," said Lifrasir sadly. "I don't know why he delayed so long or what changed his mind. But we have to be on the lookout, and make plans. We can't be caught unprepared. If they find out that Father is here, they'll tear the mountains apart to get at him. You know what they're like."

Steve did, all too well.

During the next few days they saw more changes in Scott's condition. He was talking to them now and was relatively coherent most of the time, although he acted sleepy and bewildered and didn't seem to be aware of where he was – or, at least, he never asked where he was or how he had come to be there. He accepted the presence of Lifrasir and Steve with the same placidity, and was fondest of Steve, who he called 'Wolf' and preferred to sleep near. He took a black dragon scale from his pocket one day and proudly told them that it was his lucky charm, but in spite of all this childishness there were no more panic attacks and only occasional signs of fear, which Lifrasir and Steve took as a promising development.

He also seemed more aware of the need to look after himself, and began gathering firewood every evening in order to build a fire, which Steve lit for him. He also went foraging for fruit and edible roots to supplement his diet, and even attempted to comb his hair with his fingers. And then, not long after they received word that Kullervo himself had left the Spine with the intention of attacking Umhlanga, he did something stranger still.

Steve and Lifrasir woke up one morning to find that he was gone. He wasn't in the cave, or in the forested area just outside it, and once they had discovered this, the two dragons began to panic. They argued, and Steve prepared to set out to look for him when he returned just as quietly as he had come. He was carrying a long, straight branch which he'd obviously just torn off a tree, and had a determined look on his face. Steve and Lifrasir, both massively relieved, stood still and watched him, curious to see what he was going to do next.

He lugged the branch over to the back of the cave, where the coals of the previous day's fire were still smoldering. There he sat down on the rock which he preferred to use as a seat, took the dagger from his belt and began to strip the bark off the branch with it. He worked methodically, frowning in concentration, and once the branch had no bark or twigs left on it he trimmed the ragged end and then began carving slivers of wood off it, occasionally pausing to sight down it and check its straightness. This took some time, and once he was satisfied he added more fuel to the fire, blowing on it until it was burning again. Once this was done, he held the thin end of the branch in the flames, turning it slowly so that the heat dried and hardened it. Then he pulled it out and began to whittle away at the slightly blackened tip, sharpening it.

He spent several hours carving and treating the branch, and when Lifrasir eventually asked him what he was doing he said; "I'm making a weapon."

"What for?" Steve asked.

"To fight," Scott answered simply, and that was all they could get out of him.

They left him to his work, since he seemed happy enough doing it, and Lifrasir went off to hunt. While she was gone, Steve settled down next to Scott and watched him practicing with his crude spear. "It's got a good balance, hasn't it, Wolf?" he said, and his look and voice were so rational that for a while Steve could almost believe that he was back to normal again.

"It's a good spear," the dragon said, hiding his despair.

"My sword was better," Scott remarked, balancing with the spear in his hand as if to throw it.

Steve tensed. "What sword?"

Scott paused, and shrugged. "I don't know."

"Oh," said Steve, his hope fading again.

Scott looked at him, lowering the spear. Then he came closer and touched the scarred side of Steve's face. "What happened to you?" he asked. "Who did this?"

"It was my own mother," said Steve.

"But why would she do that?" said Scott. "Does she hate you?"

"She hated me ever since I was born," said Steve.

"Why?" asked Scott again. "Did you do something?"

"No," said Steve. "I'm black. People hate black dragons."

Scott sighed. "People hate me, too," he said.

"What was that?" said Steve sharply.

"I said people hate me," said Scott, going back to his place by the fire and sitting down. "They always try to kill me. But I'm not going to let them. I'm going to fight back."

Steve stood up. "Fight back against whom?" he asked, watching the dark, hunched man intently.

Scott looked toward the entrance. "They're coming," he said simply.

"Who is?" said Steve.

Scott didn't answer. He stood up and limped out of the cave, spear in hand. Steve followed him, taking his place beside him just beyond the entrance, and the two of them stood there in silence while Scott stared up at the sky with an intent expression. Steve followed his gaze, wondering just what it was he was looking for.

Then his heart turned to ice. He had seen something. He had seen something he had hoped never to see again. A patch of sky, blue among blue... a patch of sky in the shape of a dragon. A female dragon, flying straight toward the cave. His mother, Bernice. And, flying close behind her, was another, smaller dragon – a dragon with silver scales, a dragon who was twisted and ogreish and foul, her wings ragged and diseased-looking.

Stephen had found them.

Scott hadn't moved. He stayed watching Bernice's approach, still holding his spear. Steve spread his wings. "Climb on my back," he said. "Now. We have to get out of here, Arren."

But Scott shook his head. "I'm not running," he said. "I don't run. I fight." His grip tightened on the spear.

Steve wasted no more time. He made a grab for him with his claws. Scott dodged, and smacked him on the neck with the shaft of the spear. "No!" he snapped, his voice taking on that commanding tone that Steve remembered so well. "Leave me alone, Wolf. I'll deal with them."

Steve opened his mouth to protest, but it was already too late. An arrow hissed down from the sky and embedded itself in his shoulder. He yelped in pain, but moved to stand in front of Scott, protecting him with his wings.

Bernice swooped in low, eerily silent, and slammed her claws into her son's head. Steve toppled forward, stunned, and the blue dragon circled round and came in for another attack. On her back, Stephen could see the dark figure of his enemy, and he notched another arrow onto his bow, screaming his hatred.

Below, Scott climbed onto Steve's back, standing there with his spear raised. His face was utterly calm. Stephen loosed his arrow, but Scott dodged it with scarcely a pause. "Get him!" Stephen yelled.

Bernice dived. Below her Steve stirred and moaned, lifting his head. He was in time to see the snarling shape of his mother bearing down upon him and the man he was bound to protect.

"Mother!" he screamed.

Too late. Bernice slammed into Scott, the force of her dive carrying her right over Steve and into the stone wall behind him.

A howl of agony split the air, followed by a horrible crunch.

Steve, struggling upright, turned, a single thought screaming in his mind. He had failed.

He saw Bernice lying at the base of the cliff by the cave entrance, head-down, her legs uppermost. Standing over her was Scott, unharmed, holding the broken spear in his hands. The other half was in Bernice.

Stephen had been thrown free by the landing. He lay a short distance away, spread-eagled, his wide-open eyes fixed on the sky. He was alive.

Scott stood where he was, looking down at Bernice. The blue dragon was breathing, but the sound gurgled in her chest. She was dying. Scott watched her, and for a moment his black eyes showed a hint of sorrow. Even compassion. But then his expression hardened and he thrust the broken spear into the blue dragon's body, snuffing out her life.

Nearby on the ground, Stephen screamed and began to writhe in pain, one hand slammed into his chest. "Bernice!" he howled.

Scott looked around at him, then jumped down from Bernice's body and advanced on the boy, taking his dagger from his belt. But before he reached him, Vervada finally acted. The monstrous dragon landed by Stephen so that he was between her forelegs, and snapped her jagged teeth at Scott, missing him by inches. He slashed at her face with his dagger, leaving a cut across her snout, but she swung her head sideways at him, knocking him down, then flew away, carrying Stephen with her.

Scott jumped upright and ran to the edge of the clearing by the cave, shouting after them; "Now you know, brat, now you know! Now you know!"

And then it was all over, as suddenly as it had begun. Steve ignored the triumphant Scott, and went instead to Bernice. The blue dragon was dead. Steve touched her still face with his claws, and laid his head over hers. "Mother," he whispered, and, in spite of all she had done to him, he cried for her.

Chapter Ten ~ Into Darkness

Although he didn't notice anything at first, when Bernice knocked him down, Scott had taken a heavy blow to the head. After Stephen and Vervada had made their escape he suddenly started to feel dizzy. Ignoring the mourning Steve, he staggered away down the slope to the stream that ran through the forest below the cave. There he drank and splashed water on his face, trying to clear his head. It didn't work. He blinked several times and rubbed his forehead, wondering why everything was going grey. He felt sick and cold. Frightened, he started to make his way back up the slope, staggering blindly this way and that. He made it back to the clearing where Bernice lay, and then fell down in a dead faint.

Steve carried him inside, and waited in silence until Lifrasir returned. She saw Bernice's body and rushed into the cave, shouting Steve's name. Steve ran to meet her. "It's all right," he said. "We're safe."

"What happened?" said Lifrasir. "Is that...?" she wordlessly indicated the cave's entrance and what lay just beyond it.

"Yes," said Steve. "We were attacked. They caught us by surprise. I'm sorry, Lifrasir. If I still had both my eyes..."

"But how did you survive?" said Lifrasir, glancing over at Scott. "And what happened to him? Is he hurt?"

"No," said Steve. "He fainted. I think he's all right. But..." he shuddered and pressed himself against Lifrasir's leg. "I can't believe it," he said. "Any of it."

"How many were with him?" said Lifrasir. "How did you fight them off?"

"There weren't any," said Steve. "He came alone. Him, and Bernice, and – the creature."

"Alone?" said Lifrasir. "He must have been mad, coming here alone! How did Bernice die?"

Steve turned his snout toward the unconscious Scott. "He killed her," he said simply. "With the spear he made."

"Did Stephen survive?"

"Yes," said Steve. "The creature carried him away."

Lifrasir shook her head, like a horse worrying at flies. "But if she was there, why didn't she do something to help him before?"

"I don't know," said Steve. "It was... weird. It all happened so fast, but she just stayed there. Hovered up there and watched it all happen. She stood by and let her mother die. She could have killed me, and him, too. He was right there in front of her. But she just knocked him over. She didn't use her teeth, or her fire. It was like... like she wanted us to survive for some reason."

Lifrasir rustled her wings disgustedly. "That monster of a dragon doesn't seem to be on anyone's side but her own," she said. "I don't know what she's trying to do, but..."

There was a groan from Scott. The two dragons hurried over to him and saw him sit up. He rubbed his head, mumbling, and then squinted at the two dragons.

"Are you all right?" Lifrasir asked.
Scott blinked. "Lifrasir?" he said. "Is that you?"

"Yes, it's me," said Lifrasir. "How do you feel?"

"I've got a headache," said Scott. "How did you find me, Lifrasir?"

"I didn't," said Lifrasir. "I've been here all along. What are you talking about, Arren?"

"Arren?" said Scott. He looked puzzled for a moment, and then smiled. "Oh. No-one's called me that in years, you know. Not since I was a boy. I suppose I changed it out of pride, really. I was always very full of myself back then. Could you help me up, please?"

Lifrasir, her heart pounding, held out her snout toward him. He grabbed it, and she lifted him to his feet. He held onto one of her horns for support, and looked over at Steve, who was wearing a disbelieving grin.

"Steve," he said. "What are you grinning about, then? And what happened to your eye?"

"Father?" said Steve, slowly and cautiously.

"Yes?" said Scott, tentatively letting go of Lifrasir's horn and standing unaided, though shakily.

"Are you... all right?" said Steve.

Scott paused to think about it, and then said; "No, not really. My head hurts, my leg hurts, I feel like I haven't slept in a month, and I probably couldn't squash an ant right now, let alone run an Empire." His voice broke. "And Pat. And the child. And Isis. I've lost them forever." He slumped back into a sitting position, his head in his hands.

Steve sat down next to him, wrapping his tail around him protectively. Scott seemed comforted by this. "Still," he said after a while, rubbing his eyes with his fingertips, "Life goes on, I suppose. I'm still alive. And I have an enemy who needs dealing with."

"You mean Stephen?" said Lifrasir.

"Yes," Scott growled. "Stephen. He killed Pat, and Isis, and Vidar, and so many others. I'll kill him with my own hands, I swear it. No matter how far I have to go to do it. And I'll kill the dragon first. So that he knows what it felt like for me."

"You – what?" said Steve. "But she's – how much do you remember?"

"A few things," said Scott. "I remember Isis dying... I was hurt, I walked to Furnost and a healer looked after me... I went to Dras-Leona and... not sure what happened there. And then I was here. Why?"

"My – Bernice is already dead," said Steve. "You killed her."

"I did?" said Scott. "I don't remember doing it. When was that?"

"Just now," said Steve. "Can you walk?"

Scott stood up, supporting himself on the dragon's tail, and Steve led him outside. There Bernice's body lay, already beginning to stiffen. Scott limped toward it, examining the empty face and the bloodied wooden stakes sticking in the chest.

"It's her," he said. "And... I killed her, did I?"

"Yes," said Steve. "She and Stephen came here. They were after you. But you killed Bernice."

"What, with a bit of wood?" said Scott. "I didn't use magic?"

"Just that," said Steve. "She swooped on you, and you got her in the chest. But I think something strange was going on. The creature was with them. Vervada. But she did nothing. She carried Stephen away afterwards, but she never attacked either of us. You were right there in front of her, and all she did was knock you over."

"So Stephen survived," said Scott. "And Vervada... she has her own agenda. She always has. I don't know what it is, but... maybe she wanted Bernice to die. I know I did." He kicked Bernice's body viciously. "Now you know what it feels like, brat."

Stephen knew. He knew very well indeed. He hung limply from Vervada's claws, lost in a fog of agony in which he saw nothing but Bernice. He saw her die, over and over again, saw the wild man Scott had become stab the life out of her with a shattered piece of wood. He heard her last scream, echoing in his head, and felt her pain, tearing into his chest. Bernice. He wanted to cry out her name, but it refused to form in his mouth. Bernice. Bernice was dead and he had felt her die, and all he wanted to do now was die himself. Or, failing that, he wanted his mind to fall into the void. He wanted to go mad, so that he wouldn't suffer any more. So he let his mind crumble around him, feeling his very self drain away.

But there was a presence inside him that wasn't his. And it wasn't Bernice. She was gone forever. It was Vervada. The cold, smothering presence of the warped dragon was still there in his head, and it wrapped itself around his mind, holding it together. Vervada was still controlling him. And she would not allow him the release which madness offered. He made a few feeble attempts to fight back, but she easily overpowered him. She forced him to stay sane. But she did nothing to lessen his pain. She let his suffering continue. In fact, she actively sought to make it worse. Lifrasir had been right when she had said that Vervada was on no-one's side but her own and that she had an agenda of her own – she was and she did. It was she who had directed much of what Stephen had done recently, and it was she, and she alone, who had made him and Bernice go after Scott on their own. And she had been the one who directed Bernice's last swoop, straight onto the spear. She didn't feel any sadness for her mother's death, and nor did she feel guilt. Vervada had very little in the way of emotions.

She flew away from the Spine on her ragged wings, heading not toward Umhlanga but into the wilds up North, passing over numerous cities, villages and small towns on her way. She did not stop once, but flew on steadily, not taking the time to hoist Stephen onto her back but leaving him hanging from her claws as if he were a fresh kill she was taking to her young. But, of course, she had no offspring and never would do either.

She flew for several days, her energy keeping Stephen alive, and when she finally came to rest it was at the very Northern end of the Spine, in an isolated valley with great cliffs rising at the end of it. She landed there, in a muddy field. Here and there, curious humps stood out from the otherwise flat ground, their surfaces covered in new grass. They were the remains of a village, burnt to the ground years before. Vervada put Stephen down and let him wander shakily over ground where buildings had once stood.

"I know this place," he muttered. "This is... home."

Vervada watched him through her dead eyes for a time, and then called him back to her. He came immediately, long since accustomed to doing as she willed him to, though his walk was more like a lurch and his face had gone pale as a corpse. Looking very much like a zombie, he stood obediently by Vervada's side. She walked off through the ruined village, and he followed her uphill, through a forest of pine trees and to the cliffs. There was a cave there. Not a very big one, its entrance half-obscured by loose rubble. Vervada cleared the obstruction away with a few sweeps of her claws and entered the cave. Stephen followed.

Inside the cave a small fire was burning, its light flickering over the wet, moss-covered walls. And by it sat a tall, lithe woman clad all in white. Her skin was pale and she had long, ash-white hair. When Vervada appeared in the entrance, the woman stood up and came toward her, smiling coldly. "Hello, Vervada," she said.

Vervada lowered her head, and the white-clad woman touched her snout with a long-fingered hand laden with rings. Then she looked at Stephen, and her silver eyes blazed with controlled hatred. "So," she said, advancing toward him. "Stephen Shadeslayer, we meet at last."

Stephen stared at her, wanting to flee but unable to.

"My name is Rangda," said the woman. She leant in close to him, and he saw a strange tracery of faint black veins on her face. His hand wanted to grab the hilt of his sword, but it wouldn't move. All he could do was stand still, completely helpless, and watch Rangda as she looked him up and down. He could feel her sweet-scented breath on his face, and though she did not look dangerous he was Bernicefied of her.

Once the silence had drawn out to agony pitch, Rangda abruptly turned her back on him and strode away to the other side of the cave. There was a small heap of items there, and one of them was a sword. Rangda picked up the sword, then turned to face Stephen, the fire burning between them and reflecting in her eyes and on the blade she held. The sword had a finely-crafted golden hilt, and its long, straight blade was bright yellow like sunlight. Beautiful. Rangda ran her finger down the blade, and licked the blood off with relish. "A fine weapon, isn't it?" she said, advancing slowly toward him. "Never rusts, never needs sharpening or polishing... a true rider's sword. I'll show you how well it works."

She brought the blade around in a powerful, one-handed blow, and hit Stephen in the shoulder. He toppled over sideways, crying out in pain, and almost instantly blood started to soak into his shirt. Rangda gave him no time to recover. She stood over him and hit him again and again, not to kill but to injure, making great slashes in his arms, legs and chest. Stephen curled up, screaming, trying to protect himself, but Rangda was merciless. She tossed the sword aside and began to kick him, aiming for his gut, where it would hurt him the most. She showed no pleasure in doing it – rather, she was cold and methodical, her face blank. She even looked slightly bored, as if she were doing something as uninteresting as stacking boxes. Stephen, bleeding in a dozen different places, tried to crawl away, and Rangda finally stopped. She picked up the yellow-bladed sword again, and stood calmly while Stephen dragged himself over to Vervada. The silver dragon had sat and watched the whole thing without moving once, and when Stephen reached her she turned her head toward him and then turned it away again and yawned, showing her jagged, broken teeth. Stephen collapsed by her foreleg, and lay there, gasping, while Rangda walked toward him, sword in hand. She bent and lifted him to his feet by the scruff of the neck, as easily as if he weighed no more than a bag of peanuts, and slung him over Vervada's shoulders. Vervada shuddered a little, but didn't move.

Rangda pulled Stephen into a sitting position, but he was too weak to stay upright and slumped over Vervada's neck. Rangda put her mouth to his ear and whispered; "You will not remember me, or this place. The one who did this to you was Scott. He killed Bernice, and then he did this to you. The wild dragons are working for him, and so are the Elves. Once your power is secure, you will drive the Elves to extinction, using any means necessary. You will fight the wild dragons until they take oaths to serve you forever. You will make yourself King in Elfthade, and your power will be absolute. And..."

She spoke on for a time, and Stephen listened, his eyes half-open and glazed. Once Rangda had done, she walked around to Vervada's head and touched her on the snout. Vervada closed her eyes and hissed softly. Then she stood up and lumbered out of the cave, Stephen lolling pathetically on her back, only just strong enough to hold on. Vervada took off and flew away from the ruins of Carvahall, leaving Rangda behind. The white-clad woman sat down by her fire, feeling the dark spirits inside her rushing through her veins like molten metal. They were impatient. They had sensed Stephen's presence. The Shade pressed her hand to her chest. "Soon, Durza," she whispered. "Soon."

Lifrasir and Steve were nervous. It seemed illogical, in a way. They had got exactly what they had longed for – they had the old Scott back. From the moment he woke up after killing Bernice, he was speaking and acting exactly like the man they remembered and thought they had lost forever – he remembered his name, he recognised them both, he could use magic with all his old skill and was just as tough and shrewd as he had always been, but they knew he hadn't truly recovered, and maybe he never would. The apparent recovery had been too sudden and too easy for it to be complete. His mind was still fragile. And, in some ways, he was very different than the man he had once been. He had lost his old vigour and become tired and worn. He walked slowly and with a pronounced limp, and was weak in his left arm. His hair, once as black as a crow's wing, was now shot through with grey, and his once-neat beard was ragged and untrimmed. And there was something about him – a hunch to his shoulders, a quietness in his voice – which gave something else away, something deeper: weariness with life. He was often very depressed, and no wonder, given all he had been through and all he had lost.

But there was one thing he hadn't lost, and that was his quick thinking and decisive way of dealing with problems. Very shortly after his awakening and the revelation that he had killed Bernice – and forgotten that he had done it – he took charge, limping back into the cave and announcing that they were no longer safe where they were and had to find a different place to shelter. The two dragons were quick to see the sense in this, and in short order they relocated to a different part of the Spine, finding a temporary shelter in a forest at the base of some cliffs.

"We can stay here for a day or so," said Lifrasir. "But after that we'll have to move."

Scott jumped down from her back and limped over to the cliff, where he sat down.

"What shall we do now, Father?" Steve asked him.

"I don't know," said Scott in a tired voice. "I mean... what do we have? There's only three of us, which isn't much of an army. Stephen might have lost his dragon, but he still has followers, and now they know I'm alive they won't stop hunting me until they've found me and killed me. And I'm not sure I even care about what happens to the Empire any more. They wanted me gone, and now I am gone they'll have to deal with the consequences themselves. Because I've had enough."

Steve and Lifrasir glanced at each other. "You don't really think that," said Steve.

"Maybe I do," said Scott, resting his head against the rough stone of the cliff and closing his eyes.

There was silence for a time, and then Lifrasir said; "You know... we don't really know that Mother is dead. I saw her escape from Umhlanga with the child. Skirnir was waiting for them... for all we know she found him and they got away."

"They were caught," said Scott, his face creasing in pain. "I heard it. While I was... lost. The Brat had them executed."

"It could be a lie," said Lifrasir.

Scott tilted his head forward again and looked at her miserably. "Don't torment me, Lifrasir. Where could she possibly have gone that they didn't find her? A silver elf with a dragon's teeth? Everyone would notice her. I stayed anonymous because I look like just another human. But no-one ever forgets an elf. Especially one like Pat."

"You should scry her," said Lifrasir. "Just to be sure. I can't bear not being certain."

Scott stood up. "No," he said. "I don't... don't want to think about it any more." He limped away through the trees, his head bowed.

Lifrasir watched him go. When Steve began to follow him, she caught the younger dragon's eye and shook her head.

Over the next few days, the three of them didn't dare stay in one place for long. They moved constantly, keeping to the fringes of the Spine where only the weaker dragons had Bernicetories. Lifrasir went ahead to drive away anyone who might see them, and Steve flew some way behind her, keeping low to the ground, carrying Scott. They stayed somewhere different every night, but much of the time they would move on again after only a few hours, and almost all their time was spent traveling. Their paranoia was more than justified. The members of Baen-Letta were everywhere. On one occasion they were almost spotted, and only Lifrasir's quick thinking saved their skins. During that time they were almost completely ignorant of what was going on in the rest of the world – they had no source of news and didn't dare leave the Spine to find out for themselves. It was only when Lifrasir risked seeking out another wild dragon and asking him for information under cover of being interested in pairing with him that they learnt anything. She came back with the news that Kullervo's assault on Umhlanga had failed. Dozens of wild dragons had been killed, and Kullervo, seriously wounded, had fled back to the Spine with the help of Thornessa. The wild dragons were still fighting, and it was largely thanks to them that Dras-Leona was still standing, but it was being said that Kullervo was considering surrender. And if the wild dragons gave up, Stephen would be able to consolidate his power with very little effort and a new Empire would raise – one ruled by him and his new riders. One that the descendants of Ellery would have no place in, and where Scott could never hope to ever be safe again.

Once Lifrasir had given this news, both she and Steve turned automatically to Scott. "What do we do?" Lifrasir asked. "We have to make a decision."

"We can't just do nothing," Steve added when he didn't answer straight away. "You've always known what to do. You've never let us down before. Elfthade needs you."

"Needs me?" said Scott. "Hah! It never needed me, and never wanted me either. And what good could I do?"

"You're a leader," said Lifrasir. "One of the greatest this land has ever known. You built an Empire when you were hardly more than a boy. You brought justice."

"Justice?" Scott snorted. "What I did back then was in the name of some juvenile revenge fantasy. All I did was kill thousands of people and create a dictatorship no-one wanted. And besides... that was a long time ago. The mighty warrior you seem to think I am is dead. I'm just a tired, crippled old man, and I've stopped caring."

Lifrasir, looking at him, noticed for the first time that there were faint lines on his forehead. "Is that what you really think?" she asked quietly.

"Yes," Scott answered.

Lifrasir sighed, raising and refolding her wings in a nervous gesture. "Well, we can't force you to do something," she said. "But you should think it over for a while." She saw him open his mouth to refuse, and added; "Just for a while. Please. You owe us that at least."

"All right," said Scott. "For you." He turned and left, and they could see that he had lost his old grace. He moved slowly now. Like an old man.

Chapter Eleven ~ Madness and Love

Scott walked downhill, through a thicket of small birch trees, and found a spot where there was a small pool of still water. It was quiet and secluded, ringed by silver birch trees and chunks of loose stone. He sat down on a boulder overhanging the pool, and stared down at his reflection. He looked older. His face had become thin and lined, and his matted hair was graying. He had recovered from the madness, more or less, but he knew in his heart that he would never be the same again.

Maybe he was cursed. It would explain all the misfortunes in his life. His parents had died the day after he was born, executed for their crime of loving each other. His first love had betrayed him. He had been a rider, but his dragon had died. He had sought justice, but the riders had denied it to him. He had fought to make the world a better place, but only death had resulted. His only reward for all he had done and all he had sacrificed were a hundred years spent living in an isolation few could comprehend, while others plotted his downfall and sought endlessly to bring it about. Only one had stuck by him for all that time, and that was Isis. And later Lloyd too. But Isis was dead, and Lloyd had betrayed him – just another in the long line of people who had turned on him.

The only time when he had ever been truly happy was when he was with Pat. Five years they had had together, after their long separation. Five all too brief years of happiness. And now she too had been taken away forever, along with his home, his child and all his power. Even his sword, White Violence, had been lost.

So much lost. It was a cruel world that had kept him alive after all this, and had seen him here, mourning for Pat while the Empire he had built collapsed around him. And he had no will to fight. Time had finally caught up with him. If Stephen wanted the Empire so badly, then perhaps he may as well have it.

It was no wonder, really, that the boy hated him so much. How could he not? Brom and the Zulus must have filled his head with horror stories about all the things that he, Scott, had done. And there were so many things he had done that were crimes in the eyes of others. Destroying the riders, consorting with Shades, giving land to the hated Humans. Even making Pat his consort was probably considered unnatural by some, given than she had once been a dragon.

No, Scott understood Stephen's hatred toward him. And though he couldn't forgive him for what he'd done, he simply had no interest in fighting against him any more. What was the point? It wouldn't bring back Pat, and nor would it bring back Isis or Vidar, or the child.

Scott shuddered, fighting back tears. He had lost everything. Everything. So far he'd kept himself from truly confronting it, but now he was alone and there were no distractions he couldn't avoid it. Here there was only himself and his reflection, and the knowledge that Pat was gone forever.

With a violent motion, he took his dagger from his robe and pulled back his sleeve, resting the blade against the inside of his wrist. He pressed hard, drawing blood, his breathing ragged. All he had to do was drag the blade over his wrists and open the veins and it would all be over. A few minutes of pain, and then death.

He pulled the dagger up an inch, gritting his teeth, and then stopped. He wanted to die.

But he couldn't do it. In spite of everything he just couldn't bring himself to complete the cut. He let out a brief shout of frustration and slammed the dagger into the dirt beside the rock, where it stuck. Dabbing tenderly at his injured wrist, he glanced at the pool below him. His own face stared back through sunken eyes, and he snatched up a loose stone and hurled it into the water, shattering the image.

The pool and its reflection rippled crazily, and Scott sat back and cried, burying his face in his hands so that his tears mingled with the blood on his wrist, his thin form shaking with sobs. They were the first tears he had really shed since coming out of his madness, and they lasted for a long time.

Much later, when he had calmed down a little, he sighed and looked into the pool once more. It had calmed by now, and the ragged, wild-eyed madman stared at him from its surface again. Without thinking, he held his hand out over the water and said; "Draumr kópa."

Immediately the water went dark, and his reflection vanished. He watched it, wondering who he should scry. For some reason the first person he thought of was Stephen. Where was the brat now? He concentrated on him, and an image appeared in the pool. It showed him Stephen, tossing and turning in a bed somewhere, his face contorted with agony. He could hear him shouting something, and realized it was Bernice, over and over again.

Scott sighed. In spite of himself he felt sorry for the boy. He made him think of another boy, black-haired, who hurled himself at a stone wall again and again, screaming a different name, punching the solid stone and laughing when his fingers broke.

Scott's fingers twinged, and he banished the image. But there was more he wanted to scry. He wanted to know what was going on in Elfthade.

His mind turned toward the three men who had accompanied him to Dras-Leona. Carnoc, Ulfrid and Leonol. They had all been so loyal, and protected him. He had been extraordinarily lucky that he had been recognised by people who weren't his enemies. If they had been Zulus sympathisers, they would have undoubtedly killed him or, worse, handed him over to Stephen. But instead he had been found by three men – brave and honest in spite of their simple background – who had given up their old lives in order to serve him. And he had repaid them poorly, running away and abandoning them to... to whatever fate had befallen them since then.

The least he could do was find out what that was, and so he concentrated on them, willing the pool to show him where they were.

Sure enough, the black surface of the water formed a new image. It showed him all three men – by good fortune they were in the same place. Which was sitting at a table, with a number of other figures, these all shadowed and anonymous. It was only possible to scry someone you had seen before. Scott listened closely, and heard Carnoc's voice.

Listen to me, it said. We can't. I don't care what you say, we just can't. We're going to keep on holding out here, for as long as it takes.

The voice paused for a time as one of the shadowed figures spoke, but his or her words were inaudible to Scott.

No, Carnoc replied. He's alive, and he's coming back. I saw him with my own eyes. We must stay loyal to him.

Carnoc's right, said Ulfrid's voice. The King is alive. You all saw him. He attacked the Brat's army for us, gave us a chance. And the ghost dragon saved him from them for a reason. He'll only come back if people keep faith in him.

Another pause, and then Carnoc spoke again. It's true, he said. I tell you, it's true. And even if it's not true, we must keep faith in something. The Brat can't be trusted. He's the madman here, not King Scott.

There was another silence.

The brat had no right to do what he did, said a third voice. This one was Leonol's. Who kept Elfthade safe and stable for a hundred years? Not him, that's for damn sure. D'you really want some beardless boy ruling us? One who led the Zulus so poorly that they were wiped out and the leaders sent to the mines? I sure as hell don't.

We fight on, said Carnoc's voice. Until the King returns. And when he does return, he'll lead us to victory. As for me, I'd rather die than give in, and it should be the same for the rest of you damn cowards.

Scott let the image fade. He could hardly believe what he'd just seen and heard, but see and hear it he had. They were waiting for him. In Dras-Leona. His three companions. They were all there, holding out, refusing to surrender, waiting for him to come back and lead them, believing in him. They had remained loyal. Lifrasir had been right – he was needed. And if he backed out now, it would mean leaving them all to die. Stephen wouldn't spare them.

Scott stared at the blank, black water, stuck in indecision. Perhaps there was more he should see. He concentrated on Lloyd. The pool showed him an image of him, sitting somewhere with Thorn beside him. They were talking, and he heard Thorn say, _We should get out of here. Run away_.

_We could join the rebels_ , Lloyd's voice said.

_We aren't tools to be passed from hand to hand_ , said Thorn. _We can't spend the rest of our lives endlessly changing sides. I say we leave. I've had enough of working for other people all the time. Why not make our own decisions, Lloyd?_

_Quiet_ , said Lloyd. _Someone could be listening_.

"And someone is," Scott muttered. "I'm sorry I doubted you, Lloyd." He watched the two of them as they spoke on, presumably using their mental link now, his face suffused with rage. "Dammit, boy, I released you from your oath because I trusted you," he said, as if Lloyd could hear him. "And this is how you repay me? And now you're thinking of betraying the Brat as well. Not that I'd blame you for that."

He banished the image. But his anger brought new strength to him. He knew why he had scryed all those different people. It wasn't just curiosity about them and what they were doing. It was because he was avoiding thinking about the one person he truly wanted to scry. Pat. Lifrasir had said she might still be alive, but he had ignored the possibility, and he had avoided scrying her because, if he did, it would wipe away all uncertainty. If he scryed her and saw nothing but the void of death, it would confirm that she was, indeed dead. And he wasn't sure if he could withstand a blow like that.

But he couldn't just leave it forever. He had to know sooner or later. And as his anger toward Lloyd brought him strength, he decided not to leave it any longer. He fixed his gaze on the blank pool, and concentrated on her. Pat. Pat Silverscales, daughter of the Night Dragon. Show her to me.

For a time there was nothing, but he concentrated harder. And then a point of light appeared in the water. It widened, and his heart leapt as the pool showed him an image. It was of Pat. The silver-haired elf was sitting somewhere, surrounded by the darkness of a place he didn't know. She was holding a bundle in her arms, and her hair was wet from the rain that was falling. But she didn't seem to notice it. She was sobbing inconsolably, all hunched and wan in the rain with her long, tangled hair falling around her face. But she was alive. Pat was alive. Scott stared at her, drinking in the sight of her, and he felt his heart soaring, bringing back the youth and strength that he had lost.

"Pat," he said, reaching toward her, wide-eyed.

But of course he couldn't reach her. She was miles away. But she was alive.

As he watched, someone came to Pat's side. It was a dragon, a silver dragon.

"Skirnir!" he exclaimed.

Skirnir laid his head by Pat, and she stirred and put a hand on his forehead.

I still can't believe I've lost him forever, her voice said, echoing over the water.

Be strong, Mother, Skirnir's voice replied. For him. And for my brother.

The bundle in Pat's arms moved slightly.

"My son," Scott murmured, smiling.

He watched the three of them for a long time, yearning to be beside them. He wanted nothing more at that moment than to be with Pat, to tell her that he was alive and to bring an end to her tears.

At long last he let the image fade away. He had made his decision. He stood up and left the clearing, pulling his dagger out of the ground and tucking it back inside his robe.

Stephen's return to the remains of Umhlanga, carried on Vervada's back, was not a happy one. Vervada landed at the top of one of the towers, where Lloyd and another rider, who had seen her coming, were waiting. The warped dragon landed, and Stephen toppled off her back, landing in a heap on the stones, and Lloyd and the other rider carried him indoors as fast as they could.

His injuries were easy enough to heal with magic, but his mind was a different story. He was deranged, utterly broken, unable to say anything but Bernice's name. Lloyd and his fellow rider were able to reach into his mind and calm him down somewhat, and Lloyd asked him what had happened.

"Bernice," Stephen whispered, his eyes bulging like a rabbit's. "She's dead. Bernice's dead. I felt her die. Oh gods, I felt her die. Bernice..." he shuddered once, all over, and tears trickled down his face.

Lloyd took charge. "Stay with him, Mnenth," he told the other rider, and hurried out of the room.

Stephen lay on the bed that had once been Scott's, limp as a corpse, his chest moving up and down like a bellows with his frantic breaths. His hair clung to his forehead, dark with sweat. "Bernice," he whispered. "Bernice..."

Mnenth, an elf, stayed by him and kept mind-contact with him, doing all he could to keep his master calm.

Stephen could feel the other rider's presence in his mind. Just. Vervada's mind had finally left his, and without her there, there was just him and his agony. He saw nothing of the room. He saw only Bernice.

Lloyd returned. He had two other people with him. One was a gaunt, bearded man with the same eyes as Stephen. The other was a woman, dark-skinned and beautiful. They went straight to Stephen's side.

"Stephen!" the woman cried, taking his hand. "Stephen, it's me. It's Nasuada. Can you hear me?"

"Silver eyes," Stephen whispered. "Silver eyes, black eyes. Staring at me. I can't... help me!" he screamed and began to convulse.

Mnenth held him down by force, helped by Lloyd, and the bearded man grasped Stephen's hand as well, his big fist engulfing both his and Nasuada's.

"Calm down," he said. "It's Roran, Stephen. I'm here. We're both here for you."

At the sound of his voice, Stephen relaxed a little. He became still again, breathing rapidly.

"I'll leave you," said Lloyd. "Roran, Nasuada, stay with him. Whatever you do, don't leave him. He needs you to be there. If you leave him alone, even for a few hours, he might never recover."

"What good can we do?" Roran asked, not taking his hand away.

"You love him," Lloyd said simply. "He needs love. Without it, he could turn violent, lose control of his magic. Time might heal him, but only with your help."

"How do you know that?" said Nasuada.

Lloyd smiled wanly. "Scott... told me," he said.

For the next few weeks, Stephen stayed trapped in his madness. He raved and screamed, his eyes burning with fever, sometimes trying to escape just as Scott had done, shouting that Bernice was lost and that he had do go to her, save her.

When he was calm he cried most of the time, his ashen face now robbed of its good looks. Nasuada and Roran stayed loyally by him all the while, just as they had promised they would, and they cared for him as best they could, feeding him and keeping him clean, and talking to him. Giving him their love.

Until at last there came a day when Stephen slept, and woke up to see a face looking down at him. It was Nasuada's. She had aged since he last saw her, but she was just as he remembered.

"Nasuada," he rasped.

"Stephen?" said Nasuada, touching his forehead. "Can you see me?"

"Yes," said Stephen, reaching up and taking her hand. "I see... you. How did you get here?"

"Lloyd brought us back from the mines," said Nasuada. "It's been so long, Stephen. How do you feel?"

Stephen closed his eyes. "I'm glad you're here, Nasuada," he murmured.

"Roran is here too," said Nasuada.

"Was it hard, in the mines?" Stephen asked, keeping his eyes closed.

"Yes," said Nasuada. "They flogged us when we tried to escape. The work was hard. But we survived. We knew you would set us free one day, Stephen."

"I did," said Stephen, opening his eyes. "I did, didn't I? I set everyone free, didn't I? Just like I swore I would. I kept... my oath. I did my best, Nasuada."

"I know you did," said Nasuada, holding his hand. "You always did your best, Stephen. And we thank you for it. I thank you for it. A hundred times, Shadeslayer. A hundred times."

Stephen smiled faintly. "I'm glad you're here, Nasuada," he said.

"Let me help you up," said Nasuada. She put her arms around his torso and lifted him. He weighed surprisingly little. He clung to her weakly, feeling her warmth, and the two of them were caught up in an awkward embrace.

"Don't let go, Nasuada," said Stephen.

"I won't," she promised.

"Nasuada," Stephen said again, looking into her eyes.

"Yes?"

But that was all he said. He held onto her, feeling her heart beating against his. He had been lost, but now he knew where he was. He was with her. Nasuada.

And then, suddenly, he was kissing her. His lips found hers, just for a brief moment, and he felt her start. But her hesitation only lasted a moment. She kissed him back. And for a time there was only them, together. And as Stephen had said her name, Nasuada embraced him, kissing him again, and murmured; "Stephen."

Steve and Lifrasir were both dozing by the time Scott came back. But they were still edgy, and woke up with a start when they heard him coming.

"Oh, it's you," said Lifrasir, seeing his familiar shape limping toward them.

"Yes, it's just me," Scott answered cheerfully. Without waiting for them to prompt him, he said; "She's alive. You two, she's alive! Pat's alive! I saw her! Her and Skirnir are alive, and the child too."

"You scryed them?" said Steve, starting upright with a delighted expression.

"Yes," said Scott. "I don't know where they are, but they're alive, and that's good enough for me."

"I know where they are," said Lifrasir. "They're in the Night Dragon's country. They're with Ellery. That was where Skirnir was planning to take her, and if they got away from the Brat that's where they'll have gone. And Ellery will never let anything happen to her."

"Well, then, we must go to her!" said Steve, already spreading his wings.

"No," said Scott.

"What?" said Steve. "What d'you mean? You can't possibly not want to-,"

"I want to," said Scott. "More than anything else in the world. But I can't. Pat's safe, I know that now, and I can go to her eventually. But not now."

"Why not?" said Lifrasir.

"Well, there's still work for me to do here, isn't there?" said Scott. "There's a war to fight, and I'm damned if I'm going to let the Brat win it. After all the work I put into keeping the Empire strong? Forget it."

At that, Steve threw his head back and roared. He spat a great sheet of silver fire into the air, and both Scott and Lifrasir cringed. Then the black dragon started to laugh. Bouncing on his claws like a youngster, he practically danced over to Scott, and began to run around him, laughing, holding his wings up like banners. "I knew it!" he cried. "I knew it! I knew you wouldn't give up on us!"

"Of course not!" said Scott, laughing as well. "There's life in this old man yet. And I know what we should do."

"You do?" said Lifrasir.

"Oh yes!" said Scott, watching Steve's antics and resisting the urge to dance along with him. "Haven't you heard, Lifrasir? I always know what to do."

Over the next few weeks after coming out of his madness, Stephen's recovery was steady. Physically he was more or less fine, although the sword-cuts which Rangda had inflicted on him had been left too long before they were healed with magic and left scars behind. Stephen, who had always had a streak of vanity, wasn't at all happy about them, but accepted that they couldn't be removed. Sane he might be, more or less, but he was utterly miserable and often sank into a semi-comatose state where he would curl up, staring blankly at nothing, and rock gently back and forth, his shoulders trembling all the while. When he was like this only Nasuada could get through to him, and he was pathetically grateful for her presence, becoming agitated if she left his side for a moment. Although no-one in Umhlanga at the time could have known about it, the situation was eerily similar to one that had taken place a century earlier... when a silver elf and a young human, both lost and persecuted, had found comfort in each other and so formed a bond that would last for the rest of their lives. So it was for Stephen and Nasuada now. Having lost Bernice, Stephen turned to Nasuada for love and stability and she, who had secretly admired him for a long time, was more than happy to give it. Whether their loving bond would last was impossible to tell at this point, but none doubted that it was Nasuada who saved Stephen from falling back into his madness forever, or from killing himself. She brought him back from the edge, and it was to her that Stephen told the tale of what had happened to him.

"It was him," he said. "Scott. He killed... he killed Bernice. It hurt so much... the tearing in my chest, it..." he paused, and shuddered, and Nasuada held his hand until he recovered. "Then he tried to kill me," he resumed. "While I was helpless. He hit me, cut me with a sword, wanted to torture me before he killed me. Vervada, she saved me. Saved me from him. I remember him yelling. While she carried me away. Shouting after me. He said..." Stephen closed his eyes. "He said "now you know, brat. Now you know..." Oh, gods, I can still hear him shouting it. He wanted me to know what it's like, and he killed Bernice, now I know..." his voice broke, and he started to cry.

Nasuada held him. "We'll kill him," she said. "We'll make him pay, Stephen. I swear it. He'll pay for what he did to you."

"He wanted to teach me," Stephen sobbed. "Show me what it's like. What it was like for him. He was so thin, Nasuada. And his leg was all scarred, his clothes were torn... what did I do to him? I took everything away from him. And it still wasn't enough. Oh, Bernice, what have I done?"

"Don't give up, Stephen," said Nasuada. "He must die. We'll see him dead, Stephen. You and I, we'll see him die for what he did. And then Elfthade will be safe and our work will be done. You'll see."

"Yes," Stephen murmured, relaxing. "We'll do it, Nasuada. You and I. Together."

He was silent for a time, and then he added; "I love you, Nasuada. I have for a long time. I just never... realized it until I woke up and saw you."

"I love you too," said Nasuada. "I wanted to... I would have said something, but you were so obsessed with Arya that..."

"I was fooling myself," said Stephen. "I never loved her. I only thought I did. And that's... that's over now, isn't it?"

"Many things are," said Nasuada. "Including Scott's reign of terror. And you made it happen, Stephen. Never forget that. It was you who ended it."

Stephen smiled weakly. "I did, didn't I?" he said. "I... I just never knew it would be so hard."

"Neither did I," said Nasuada. "But we're older now, and wiser."

"We are," said Stephen.

Later, when Stephen felt strong enough, Nasuada helped him out of his room and up onto the tower where Vervada had spent her time since bringing him back. The warped dragon was crouched on the tower-top, unblinking as always, looking not so much as if she were resting as... waiting.

"She never sleeps," Stephen told Nasuada. "Or I've never seen her sleep." He walked unsteadily toward Vervada, and touched her on the head. Nasuada hung back nervously, but he gestured to her to come closer and she reluctantly did so.

"Don't be afraid of her," said Stephen. "She won't hurt you. She's as gentle as her mother was. Aren't you, Vervada?"

Vervada shifted slightly and let out a low hiss. Nasuada patted her on the forehead. "She's grown a lot, hasn't she?"

"She certainly has," said Stephen. "She never speaks, but she's one of my most loyal friends. She saved my life. And you've been waiting here for me all this time, haven't you?" he added.

Vervada turned her head and looked directly at him and Nasuada. Nasuada flinched when she saw those black pits staring at her. Vervada watched them both a moment longer, and then thrust her snout toward Stephen, holding it up level with his chest. Without thinking, he touched her, resting his right hand – the one with the silver gedwëy ignaesia on the palm – to her snout. The instant they made contact, he cried out and fell backward, clutching at his hand as if it were on fire.

"Stephen!" Nasuada cried, immediately helping him up.

Stephen stood, staring at his hand. "That..." he said. "That felt like..." He glanced up, and his mouth fell open. "My gods..."

Nasuada turned, and astonishment grabbed her by the throat.

It was Vervada. The warped dragon had spread her wings and was shaking her head vigorously. Then she became still, and did something that she had never done before. She blinked. And when her eyes opened, they were... eyes. Two bright, sky-blue eyes, just like her mother's. The black veins on her wings and body faded away, leaving bright silver scales and pale blue wing membranes behind. From the twisted monster she had been, she became... beautiful. Her spiraled horns straightened, her jagged teeth became white and neat, her ragged wings smoothed, and her hunched back took on the elegant arched shape that had been Bernice's.

The transformation was over in a minute or so, and when it was done Vervada stretched her new wings wide and flicked her tail, then reached out to touch Stephen. He put his hand on her snout once more. "Vervada..."

Then Vervada said; "Stephen."

"Vervada!" said Stephen. "You... you spoke!"

"So I did," said Vervada, bowing her head.

"But how?" said Stephen. "What just happened? My hand, it-,"

"I have chosen you," said Vervada. Her voice was light and musical, just like Bernice's had been. "You are now my rider, Stephen. I shall carry you just as my mother did. And I thank you, from the very depths of my soul. You have healed me, Stephen. Your purity has cured my curse. I am whole now. Both of us are whole."

Stephen's eyes were full of wonder. "Vervada," he said. "Oh, Vervada. Thank you. A hundred times, thank you."

"There shall be no more pain now," said Vervada. "That time has ended. You are the rightful King here now, and lord of the new generation of riders. I shall stay by your side as I always have done, and together we will bring peace and justice to Elfthade."

"Yes," said Stephen. "Yes, we shall." He put his arms around Vervada's neck and hugged her, and she growled softly.

"We shall find him together, Shadeslayer," she said. "And we shall kill him together, and my mother shall be avenged."

Chapter Twelve ~ The Return of the King

Steve and Lifrasir crouched side-by-side, and listened closely as Scott outlined his plan. "First we'll go and talk to Kullervo," he said. "We need his help; ordinary troops don't have much chance against riders, but with the wild dragons helping us... anyway, if I can persuade Kullervo to ally himself with me, we'll make arrangements with him depending on what he thinks is best. Then I'll go to Dras-Leona, and take command there. With Carnoc, Ulfrid and Leonol in power there it shouldn't be too difficult, but we should make sure it's an impressive entrance. I'll have to try and hide this limp, and I should get hold of some new clothes as well. This robe's practically had it. We'll have to be quick and decisive. The Brat will still be mad after losing his dragon, so if we attack before he's recovered we'll have an advantage. Although..." he frowned. "If Lloyd takes charge it might not be so easy. He's a much more effective leader than the Brat is. Still, it's a risk we'll have to take. Lloyd betrayed me, and I'd dearly like to make him pay for that. Once we've secured Dras-Leona, we'll make plans for an attack on Umhlanga. Is all that clear?"

The two dragons nodded.

"Good," said Scott. "Then let's get to it. First task – Kullervo. I know where to find him. Steve, will you carry me?"

"Yes, Father," said Steve. He held out his foreleg, and Scott used it as a step to climb onto his shoulders. He settled in place, and the black dragon took off with Lifrasir close behind him. Scott, balanced expertly on Steve's back, gave directions, and the three of them made their way through the Spine. They encountered a few wild dragons, but Lifrasir was large enough to intimidate them into letting them pass, and they carried on until they were right in the heart of the mountains. There was a stone canyon there, ringed by cliffs, and that was where Kullervo's cave was. They knew they had found it when there was a roar from below and a large brown dragon flew up toward them, shouting; "My place! Get out!"

"We've come to talk to Kullervo!" Lifrasir called back, hovering protectively in front of Steve.

The brown dragon halted, floating just out of flaming distance. "What is your name?" she asked suspiciously.

"I am Lifrasir, daughter of Kullervo's sister," said Lifrasir. "And this is Steve, son of my brother. We are bringing someone to speak with Kullervo."

"Who?" said the brown dragon, looking around in vain for another dragon. "I see no-one."

Lifrasir moved aside, and Steve turned slightly in the air so that the brown dragon could see Scott sitting just behind his neck.

Scott bowed his head, touching his forehead in a gesture of respect. "Greetings, Thornessa," he said. "I am Scott, King of Elfthade. I have come to offer Kullervo my help."

"You?" said Thornessa, her orange eyes widening. "But... you're dead, murdered by the Brat!"

Scott sighed. "Rumors of my death have been, shall we say, exaggerated. May I see Kullervo?"

"Yes," said Thornessa. Without another word she turned and flew back down toward her home, and Lifrasir and Steve followed.

It was quite dark inside the cave. The space was larger than they had expected, which was just as well, since it meant it could accommodate both Kullervo and Thornessa, and Steve as well. Lifrasir, however, seeing there was no space left, stayed outside to keep a lookout.

Kullervo was lying against the far wall, a huge, hunched shape in the gloom. They could hear his deep, rumbling breaths, but the great dragon made no move even when Thornessa went to his side. "There is someone here to see you," she murmured.

Scott jumped down from Steve's back. "Ljós," he muttered, and light bloomed in the cave. It showed them Kullervo, who was lying on his side with his legs pointing toward the entrance, his head and tail curled around toward his belly. They all knew what that meant. A dragon prefers to lie on his belly, but if he was on his side it meant that all was not well with him. Kullervo was more seriously hurt than they had realized.

Thornessa motioned for the visitors to come closer, which they did, standing by Kullervo's head so that he could see them. The orange dragon opened his eyes and stared up blankly at Steve.

"Well," he rasped. "Hello, young dragon. Have you... come to kill me, then? Come to... challenge me while I'm too weak to fight? Cunning of you to... do that, I'll give you that." Kullervo's voice died away in a fit of coughing.

"Calm down, lord," said Steve. "I haven't come to fight you. It's me, Steve."

"Skirnir's son..." said Kullervo.

"I've brought someone here to see you," said Steve. "It's King Scott. He's here to speak with you."

Kullervo's golden eyes focused on Scott. They widened. "You! What are – you doing here, human? Am I dead? Have you come to – show me the way to the afterlife?"

"I'm afraid not, Lord Kullervo," said Scott, bowing low. "I'm alive, and so are you. I've come here to offer you my help."

"It's a bit... late for that, human," said Kullervo, his eyes closing. "You've... come back from the dead too late. My back is broken. I can't move my hind legs. I'm dying and I know it. After I die, the other dragons will fight each other to take my place. It's our way."

"Our way, too," said Scott. "I mean to take the Empire back from the Brat, by force if I have to. If we join forces, we can destroy him and his followers."

"Are you listening to me?" Kullervo rasped, opening his eyes again. "I'm dying, Scott Silvertongue, and even if I wanted to I wouldn't be able to fight your battles for you."

"It's our battle," said Scott. "If the wild dragons don't agree to serve the Brat – not ally with, serve – he'll kill them. Just as people claimed I did once."

"He doesn't have the strength to do that," said Kullervo. "We are..." he paused, and winced. "We are dragons, not rodents. You didn't have the strength to destroy us, and neither does he. He is... human."

"He has someone with him who can destroy the dragons," said Scott. "She can destroy all of us."

"The monster..." said Kullervo. "I saw her. She... she was the one who hurt me. I would have killed her, she was so small, but... she killed me."

"She's killed a lot of people," said Scott. "I don't know all of what she can do, but she can control people. She's controlling the Brat right now, and when your father was here she brought him to his knees without any effort at all. I'm the only one I know of who can resist her, but I can't kill her or the Brat without help."

"You can't... kill anyone, human," said Kullervo in contemptuous tones. "I know what happened to you. You've lost Isis. Where is your sword? Where are your followers? You can barely stand upright on those tiny legs of yours."

"I can still lead," said Scott. "I still have loyal followers. And I have my magic."

"Listen to me," said Kullervo. "I would fight if I could. The monster and the Brat have my son in their power. He came to me to plead for help, and I went to war in order to save him. If I was able to, I would fight by your side to set him free. But I can't."

"Then it's settled," said Scott. He held out his hand over Kullervo's head, and began to speak the ancient language. Healing magic flowed into the dragon, and he felt his broken back slowly crack back into place. After a time Scott started to draw on Kullervo's own energy in order to complete the spell, but complete it he did, and when he was finished he sat down exhausted. "There," he gasped. "It's done. Maybe we can put our differences behind us now."

Kullervo blinked. Then he stood up, stretching his wings and spine. They were pain-free, and his hind legs would support him again. He let out a great sigh. "You healed me," he said. "Thank you, Scott."

"Don't mention it," said Scott, standing up with some effort. "Now, do we trust each other?"

"We do," said Kullervo at once. "The past is past. We'll fight now, Elves and dragons side-by-side. And we will set Thorn free and kill the Brat and the monster."

"We will," said Scott. And afterwards, he added in the privacy of his head, afterwards he would go to the Night Dragon's country to be with Pat and his son, and he would be able to live in peace and never need to fight again.

In Dras-Leona, the situation was dire. High over the city, a red dragon circled, watching as troops on the ground fought for the city. On the outside were members of the Zulus, led by the elf rider Mnenth, and on the inside were Elves loyal to Scott. The siege had been going on for a long time, and both sides were becoming desperate. Food and other supplies were low, and even with a rider on their side the attackers were having a tough time of it. Mnenth was nowhere near as powerful or practiced in magic as Stephen was, and nor was he a particularly good leader, which was why Lloyd and Thorn had been sent to help him. But they, for reasons of their own, were choosing to watch. Here, so far away from Umhlanga, they were able to shrug off some of Vervada's influence, but they were unable to do what they wanted to do and either help the enemy or flee. Lloyd wanted to help the Dras-Leoneans, still tormented by his betrayal – however coerced it had been – of the man he considered the rightful King. Thorn, however, had become disillusioned and still wanted to leave Elfthade and its troubles behind. The two had argued endlessly, but still could not reach an agreement, and so they stayed, unable to do either but both miserably unhappy.

"Will we spend the rest of our lives like this, Thorn?" Lloyd wondered. "Will we ever stop working for someone else? I didn't want to live like this. I wanted to live my own life, be independent. But here I am, standing around like an idiot and letting Berniceble things happen. I feel so useless!"

"So do I, Lloyd, so do I," said Thorn, and Lloyd could feel the dragon's frustration mirroring his own.

"But there must be something we can do," he said. "There must be some way to stop her, fight back, get her out of our heads."

"I've tried," said Thorn. "Endlessly. Every day, every night."

"I know you have," said Lloyd. "We both have, and you know it. It's useless. And when she hurts us... sometimes it makes me feel like I'm going mad. What will happen to us, Thorn? After all this is over?"

"No doubt Stephen will become the new King," said Thorn. "And we'll have to help him stay in power."

"He knows how to lead, that's certain," said Lloyd. "But he's no King. He's too emotional."

"And too selfish," Thorn added. "He's become so... arrogant. It's maddening. Sometimes I want to knock him down and tell him to grow up or I'll bite his head off."

"Strong he may be," Lloyd agreed. "But he's just a child inside. He'll be a bad ruler."

"The people will love him better than Scott," said Thorn.

"Scott was easy to hate," said Lloyd. "Cold, secretive, dark-looking and everyone said he was mad. But he kept stability, which is more than Stephen could do."

"I didn't like him much," said Thorn. "But I trusted him. I'm surprised you agreed to work for him after he had you brought back to Umhlanga by force. And you say he punished you for running away."

"He shouted at me," said Lloyd.

Thorn snickered. "Always so brave, aren't you?"

And then, suddenly, the sky darkened. Thorn looked up and saw that black clouds were gathering over Dras-Leona. And they were gathering very fast. Too fast.

Lloyd too looked up. "That's..." he faltered. "That's not possible."

Lightning flashed. It was followed almost instantly by thunder. The wind picked up, and in moments it was strong enough to catch at Thorn's wings, forcing him toward the ground.

"What's happening?" Lloyd shouted.

Thunder roared. And then there was another roaring.

"Look!" Thorn cried.

There were dragons coming. Dozens of them. Red, green, blue, brown, yellow, violet... every color of the rainbow. And at their head were two adults, both much larger than the others. One was flame orange. The other was black as night. And on the black dragon's back was a tiny figure, its dark hair streaming behind it in the wind.

Lloyd's mind froze. "It's him! It can't be him!"

"It's Father!" said Thorn. "Father's back, he's come to save us!"

And so he had. The wild dragons were back, and the stormy air was full of their roaring. Below, Mnenth and his blue dragon took to the air. Bravely – insanely – they were going to try and attack Kullervo in the air.

Thorn, panicking, flew straight toward the ground. He wanted to go to his father, but the storm Bernicefied him. But he didn't have to go to Kullervo – Kullervo went to him. The orange dragon folded his wings and executed a fast and spectacular dive, letting the wind bear him down. He caught up with Thorn when they were only meters from the ground, and held out his foreclaws, arching his head upward away from him. But he wasn't aiming to kill, though at that speed he could have shattered the red dragon's bones. His huge front paws wrapped themselves around Thorn, and he flicked his wings once, powerfully, swooping straight back up into the sky like a swallow, carrying Thorn and Lloyd with him. Thorn didn't dare struggle. He hung passively in his father's grip, and Kullervo took them both with him, away over the lake and toward the Spine. He didn't stop until he had had reached his cave, and there he deposited Thorn in the middle of the floor.

Thornessa was waiting for them. "Thorn," she said, coming forward to meet him.

Thorn rose from his crouch, and Lloyd slid down off his back, landing in a heap on the floor.

"Mother," said Thorn, lifting his snout and touching it to Thornessa's.

"Thorn," said Thornessa. "You're safe. Thank the stars and skies you're safe. And your rider."

Lloyd stood, and bowed to Kullervo and Thornessa. "You're back, Lord Kullervo," he said.

"Yes," said Kullervo. "And now I must leave. Thorn, stay here with your mother. I have a battle to fight. Your time of enslavement is over. Your old master has returned."

The orange dragon turned and left without another word, flying off back toward Dras-Leona as fast as he could go.

In the air over Dras-Leona, Mnenth and his dragon, Serenia, were still rising. It was hard work for Serenia, given the strength of the wind, but she fought against it, ignoring the instincts screaming at her to find cover. Overhead, the wild dragons were circling, waiting for some signal from their leader – the black dragon.

Mnenth could see the man seated on the black dragon's back. His elfish eyes, much stronger than those of a human, showed him the man's black hair and beard, and he recognized them. He recognized them all too well.

"It's him," he told Serenia. "He's back! He's back from the dead!"

Serenia said nothing. She fought on, narrowing her eyes to protect them from the wind, thrashing her wings with all her strength.

Above, the black dragon looked down and saw her – the pitifully small blue dragon, coming to fight. It roared, deafeningly loudly, lightning crackling around its wings. But Serenia ignored the sound. "Die, monster!" she screamed.

It was all in vain. The black dragon opened its mouth and spat a plume of blue fire at her. Mnenth blocked it with a magical shield, then tried to cast the paralyzing spell. But the black dragon was immune to it. From its back, the black-haired man raised his hand. A ball of black energy shot from it, and hit the elf full in the chest, knocking him from his seat. Mnenth fell, screaming, and Serenia dived after him. Too late. A vicious blow from the black dragon's claws felled her from behind, ripping her open with Berniceble ease. Serenia went tumbling from the sky, her lifeless body torn in half. Mnenth, still alive enough to feel her die, was not condemned to suffer for long. He landed among the buildings of Dras-Leona, where his passing was not mourned for long.

The black dragon did not pause to watch the dead dragon fall. It dived upon the ground troops, and the wild dragons followed as one.

It was a short fight. By the time Kullervo returned, most of Stephen's army had been wiped out and the Dras-Leoneans had rushed out of the city and taken control of their camp. The black dragon stood in its ruins, flicking its tail and growling, and three men came forward to meet it. They were in time to see the dragon's rider climb down from his seat, his long hair tousled from the wind.

They met under the black dragon's gaze, surrounded by the crackling thunder and the screams of the dying. Scott looked at the three men, and smiled. "Well," he said. "I didn't expect to see you again."

Carnoc, Ulfrid and Leonol stared at him in wonder, then bowed low. "I knew you'd come back, sir," said Carnoc. "I knew it." He looked at Scott, awe and respect in his eyes.

"You came back to save us," said Leonol.

"Yes," said Scott. "I'm sorry... sorry I ran away."

"Ulfrid said you'd gone mad," said Carnoc.

"Not mad," said Scott. "Not really. I just... lost myself for a while. But you helped me remember. And I'll never forget it. Ulfrid, may I borrow your sword?"

Ulfrid drew the weapon, and handed it to Scott.

"Thank you," said Scott. He smiled. "Kneel, please."

Ulfrid, Carnoc and Leonol glanced at each other, then obeyed. Scott touched the sword to Carnoc's shoulders, one after the other. "Rise, Sir Carnoc," he said.

Carnoc's eye's widened. "Sir Carnoc? You can't-,"

"I can," said Scott. "Am I not the King of Elfthade? Then it's my privilege to knight those I consider worthy of it." He touched the sword to Ulfrid's shoulders. "Rise, Sir Ulfrid." And then Leonol's. "Rise, Sir Leonol."

The three of them stood, all astonishment. "Knights?" said Leonol. "We're knights?"

"You certainly are," said Scott, returning the sword to its owner. "It's a poor reward for all you've done for me, but it's the best I can offer right now. After this is over you'll be given lands to look after, and of course your children will have the opportunity to handle the dragon's eggs when they're old enough."

"But we aint the right sort to be knights," Ulfrid protested. "I mean, that's for posh types. I can't even read!"

"You'll learn," said Scott. "The three of you have proven yourselves as brave as any of those inbred idiots who call themselves knights these days, and you've earned the title on the battlefield, which is the way it's been done for centuries. And believe me, I know all about that – I've lived for a century."

"But sir-," Leonol began.

"Now listen to me," said Scott, with pretended anger. "I seem to recall that you said you believed I was your true King. So prove it and stop questioning my orders."

"Yes, sir," said Leonol.

"Actually, that should be 'sire', but let's not get worked up about the technicalities," said Scott. "There's work to be done, so let's get to it."

"That's right, sir – I mean, sire," said Carnoc, grinning. "We've got a war to fight."

"And a Brat to kill," Leonol added fiercely.

The victory at Dras-Leona was a complete one, and one that would go down in history. The wild dragons, under the joint leadership of Kullervo and Scott, annihilated both the besieging army and the second one that came hurrying to join the fight on the following day. Mnenth was dead, and when Eivah came, leading the second army, she too was killed. Scott took command of the city, where he was hailed as a returning hero, and his three newly-knighted companions were happy to serve as his lieutenants.

As for Lloyd, he waited out the battle in Kullervo's cave with Thorn, suffering from Berniceble uncertainty all the while. Thornessa was there, keeping watch by the entrance, but when he tried to speak to her she proved unhelpful, telling him that he would find out what was going on eventually but that she wasn't going to tell him anything.

"This is Berniceble," Lloyd said eventually. "When Stephen finds out we left the battle, he'll kill us!"

"No he won't," Thornessa told him. "All anyone else saw was Kullervo carrying you both away, and you can hardly be blamed for that. Now be quiet. Someone's coming."

The brown dragon stayed where she was for a few minutes, her muscles tensing in readiness to fight. But then she relaxed and moved aside. There was a rush of air, and a black dragon about the same size as Thorn landed in the entrance and walked into the cave. The dragon had silver wing-membranes, and one eye was also silver. The other was hidden behind a mess of scarred skin and mangled scales.

"Steve!" said Lloyd, moving toward him. "You're alive!"

"Hello, Lloyd," said Steve, looking at him with a wary expression. "Hello, Thorn."

Thorn came to stand by Lloyd's side. "We thought you were dead," he said.

Steve sat back on his haunches at a respectable distance from them both. "Did you now," he said coldly.

"Listen," said Thorn. "We're sorry for what happened to Myrkyr and Doug. We really are. We didn't want to-,"

"You shut up about them," Steve snarled. "What you wanted or didn't want doesn't make any difference to me. You're just lucky Kullervo won't let us kill you for what you did. You and that treacherous rider of yours."

"It's not like that," said Lloyd. "We didn't choose to betray the King, we were forced to. She made us do it. She got into our heads, forced us to do what she wanted."

"It's true," said Thorn. "We can... I can still feel her there in my mind. She's trying to make me attack you right now." The red dragon paused and shuddered, shaking his head convulsively as if there was something in his ear.

Steve did not look convinced. "You'd better hope that you really believe that story," he said. "Because he's coming to see you right now, and he's very angry with you."

"Who's coming?" said Lloyd. "You mean Kullervo?"

"Someone with every reason to be angry with you," Steve said cryptically. The black dragon turned his back on them and went to stand by Thornessa as she resumed her vigil.

Time ticked away, while Lloyd and Thorn watched and waited, both deeply frightened.

At long last there was a rushing of wind outside, this one much stronger than Steve's. It brought a second black dragon to the cave. A huge one.

Thornessa and Steve moved aside to let the dragon in, and before Lloyd knew what was going on the cave was dominated by the creature's presence. The dragon loomed over him, black in every scale, its golden eyes fixed accusingly on his face. Lloyd and Thorn cringed, backing away toward the wall, but there was no escape. The black dragon bowed its head, and a man jumped down from its back and came toward them.

A man in a black robe. A man who's slightly graying black hair hung about his shoulders like a curly mane. A man with a pointed black beard and a pale, scarred face. A man whose black eyes were fixed on Lloyd and Thorn, full of cold fury.

The blood drained out of Lloyd's face. "My – my lord?" he said. "Is that you?"

The man stood there, towering over him, the black dragon looming behind him like a massive shadow. For a few agonizing seconds he said nothing. Then he strode forward and punched Lloyd in the face.

Lloyd sprawled on the ground, his eye blackening, still staring thunderstruck. "It can't be you," he said. "It's impossible."

Scott stood over him. "I'd believe it if I were you, traitor. I'm back, and I am extremely angry."

"But it's not possible!" Lloyd said again. "You're dead. I saw you die. You can't be alive."

"I wouldn't be if the Brat had learned to make certain his enemies were really dead instead of just assuming it," said Scott.

"But he did!" said Lloyd. "He sent Thorn and me to make sure. I listened for a heartbeat. There wasn't one. You were dead. I saw you dead. The arrow had gone right through you. Your spine was broken in three places. Your heart had stopped. You were dead. You can't be here talking to me, it's impossible!"

Scott's expression changed. "I see," he said. "I suppose the Brat deserves some credit, then. But he's about to learn that I'm harder to kill than he thinks. Than a lot of people think."

"But how, my lord?" said Lloyd, standing up carefully. "How did... what happened? How did you survive?"

Scott snorted. "The time when I trusted you is over, boy. And you can thank Kullervo that I'm letting you live. He didn't want to risk Thorn's life, so part of our agreement was sparing you. But let me assure you that if it were up to me you'd never leave this cave. Either of you."

"No!" said Lloyd. "You don't understand! We didn't want to betray you, I-," he paused, and switched to the ancient language. "Thorn and I did not choose to betray you," he said, carefully pronouncing each word. "We were controlled by the monster. Vervada. She broke into our minds, forced us to do what she wanted. Ever since you... were lost, we've been in agony over what we did. Stephen is mad. We'd rather die than go on serving him."

Scott listened, and when Lloyd had finished speaking he glanced at Thorn for confirmation. The red dragon nodded and said; "It's true, sire."

Scott looked thoughtful. "It's true that she can control people," he said. "I have... seen her do it. But if you want me to believe you, you'll have to open your mind to me and let me see for myself."

Lloyd hesitated. Both he and Scott knew the full significance of this. All his adult life, Lloyd had kept his mind shielded from others. No-one, not even Thorn, had ever had full access to his thoughts and feelings. Even Scott had refrained from breaking into his mind by force, knowing how much Lloyd valued his privacy. Now he stared challengingly at the young man, waiting for him to respond.

At last Lloyd said; "If it will make you believe me, then do it. But... be careful. She's still in there. I can fight her now we're so far away, but she's still there."

"I know how to deal with her," Scott said grimly. "Don't you worry about that."

He concentrated, reaching out toward Lloyd's mind from his own. For a moment the young man resisted, and then he opened his consciousness and let Scott in.

Scott did his best not to cause him any pain, but he searched through Lloyd's mind as thoroughly as he could, uncovering memories and feelings that had been hidden for a long time. Some of it made him sad. He saw how unhappy Lloyd's childhood had been, and found that the young man had subconsciously blamed him for it as much as he had blamed Morzan, his abusive father. He saw how much Lloyd had always feared him, and how he, like so many others, had believed he was insane. And he saw how frightened he had been when brought before him after being captured and brought back to Umhlanga. But he saw, too, that after Thorn had hatched for him he had found a new sense of purpose in life, and that in time he had come to trust the King that Elfthade hated so much, even if that trust was not mingled with liking. But, of course, no-one truly liked Scott. Except for Pat.

Later, when he fought against Stephen and the Zulus on the Burning Plains, he had been torn. He regarded the other rider as a friend, and did not want to capture him and bring him to Umhlanga as Scott had ordered him to. So he had let Stephen go, and faced his master's anger when he returned empty-handed. But during the years that followed he had come to see things as Scott saw them, and to realize that the Zulus were no better than the Empire – and that in some ways they were worse. It was this that had kept Lloyd loyal. Less naïve and self-righteous than his half brother, he had seen the sense in Scott's arguments and had ceased to believe that the Zulus was truly the force for justice it pretended to be. When Scott released him from his oath of loyalty, which had been a gesture of great trust, Lloyd had finally ceased to resent working for him. When he began to see the reclusive King as a man rather than as some distant symbol of oppression, and when he started to sympathize with his beliefs, he had become calm and accepted his role in Elfthade's workings. And after witnessing Stephen's behavior as the situation became more desperate for the Zulus, he lost his admiration for the younger man and began to look upon him with the same contempt as much of the rest of Elfthade.

Seeing all this, Scott didn't need to look any further to know that Lloyd had been telling the truth. He searched Thorn's mind and found that the dragon's own memories confirmed Lloyd's. He had been telling the truth. He also knew now that there was no question of Vervada's role in Lloyd's unwilling betrayal. Everywhere he looked in the minds of the two, he found the warped dragon's presence, cold and smothering. Her voice was there, urging Lloyd and Thorn to block him from their minds and attack. He could sense them both resisting, and knew that they had been doing it for a long time.

Seeing all this, Scott felt a profound admiration for Lloyd. The other rider's life had been hard, harder than he'd realized, and his choices had been difficult ones. But he had faced them with a rare and special courage which Scott had rarely encountered before. It made Scott feel humble, and unworthy of commanding such a man.

With a heavy heart, he bent his will toward Vervada's cold presence, and after some effort he purged it from the minds of Lloyd and Thorn, setting them free. Once he had done he withdrew, and saw them both blinking in confusion.

Thorn groaned. "Thank you, my lord," he said.

Lloyd knelt. "You set me free," he said. "How can I possibly thank you?"

"Don't thank me," said Scott. "I owed you that much. I'm sorry I doubted you, Lloyd."

Lloyd stood up. "We're ready to fight for you again, my lord," he said.

"No," said Scott. "Lloyd, I'm going to do what I should have done a long time ago. I'm going to set you free. You don't have to serve me any more, or anyone else. You're free to go where you like now. I know how hard it's been for you, and I'm sorry for that. I was arrogant to think I had the right to control your life. I've been arrogant about too many things. A hundred years of ruling an empire will do that to you, I suppose. But you're free now. And if I don't survive this war, I want you to know that I'm choosing you to succeed me. You can refuse it if you like, but if you want the throne after I'm gone, it's yours."

"But... I could never rule here," said Lloyd, wide-eyed.

"You can if you believe you can," said Scott. "You're a leader, and a good one. But I can understand if you don't want to do it. If you don't want to end up a sad old man like me." He smiled wryly. "Anyway... I leave it up to you. And I've got to go. Goodbye, Lloyd, Thorn."

Scott nodded to the two of them, then turned away and climbed back onto the black dragon, who had waited patiently through the whole exchange. The dragon turned away toward the cave entrance, and took to the air, closely followed by Steve. Lloyd and Thorn watched them go, but neither one could say a word.

Chapter Thirteen ~ Stephen's Punishment

As Scott and the black dragon flew back out of the Spine, Steve following, they spoke very little at first. Scott was quiet and melancholy, and neither dragon could think of a way to broach the subject that was on both their minds. Eventually the larger of the two said; "Do I have to stay like this for much longer?"

Scott stirred. "What's the matter, Lifrasir?" he asked. "Don't you like being black?"

"It's fine," Lifrasir answered. "But... well, I liked my old color."

"Don't worry, I'll change you back eventually," said Scott.

But Lifrasir saw right through his cheerful tones. "Father," she said. "I... I heard what Lloyd said."

Scott said nothing.

"But it can't be true, can it?" Lifrasir went on. "He must have been mistaken."

"He sounded awfully certain," Steve put in darkly.

"Shut up, Steve," said Lifrasir. "It's ridiculous. People don't come back from the dead. You had a lucky escape, though, didn't you, Father?"

"Yes," said Scott. "I did."

But he was unable to keep the unease out of his voice. Lifrasir and Steve were silent, clearly sensing that there was something more to it than that, but neither one spoke. Crouched on Lifrasir's back, Scott closed his eyes. In his head, screams echoed. Old screams. And, behind them, voices speaking words in a language even more ancient than that which bound and controlled magic. One of those voices was his own, lighter and more passionate than it would later become. He shuddered and forced the sounds from his mind as he had done many times before. To distract himself, he concentrated on Pat. He summoned up a memory of the victory feast he had held to celebrate the defeat of the Zulus at Farthen Dûr, where he and Pat had sat side by side, talking and laughing together long into the night. Sharing their time. He wondered if he would ever see her again. Or if he even deserved to.

Two weeks later, Stephen and Nasuada stood on the wall at Umhlanga, Vervada standing silently behind them like a guard, and watched as chaos consumed the ruined city below them. The outer wall of the city had been breached in hardly any time, and now the attacking army was grappling with Stephen's own followers, slowly but surely making its way toward the castle. Overhead the last remaining members of Baen-Letta were locked in battle with the wild dragons, led by Kullervo.

After his return and the victory at Dras-Leona, Scott had acted fast and decisively. He had sent messengers to the nearby settlements, calling for supporters to join him, and many had come to his side. As soon as he had an army organized, he had unhesitatingly led it straight to Umhlanga and its new occupant. Stephen could see him now, fighting on foot in the city, the black dragon hovering overhead like a hunting falcon.

Scott fought steadily, surrounded by shouts and screams and clashing steel – the sound which some poets called "the music of battle". Scott, who unlike most poets had experienced real battle many times before, did not have such a romanticized view of it and in fact had always despised poetry. But if the sound of battle was music, then no-one danced to it more gracefully than he did, even with his crippled leg.

He forged forward, frowning in concentration, wielding his sword one-handed. It was not White Violence, of course, but a green-bladed rider's sword called Svard-Hvass, whose name meant, literally, "sharp grass". It was a good weapon, but he didn't much like it. He could still remember all too clearly how he had killed its previous owner.

Still, he found that he was enjoying the fight. He hadn't realized just how much he had missed the warrior's life until he was forced to live it again, but now that he found himself in the midst of a battle he found that the thrill of it lit a fire in his blood and made him relive his youth, fraught and violent as much of it had been. Just for a moment, he imagined that Laela was alive again. He could almost see the white dragon fighting beside him, her eyes alight and her fangs bared in a Berniceble grin. But, of course, he could never think of her without remembering that she was dead. He could never forget the agony.

He blocked the memory as he had done many times before, and fought on determinedly. He was winning and he knew it. His troops were slowly but surely overrunning the city, and he could see the enemy beginning to retreat toward the castle. The risk he had taken in attacking Umhlanga directly was paying off. But he knew that it wouldn't mean a thing to him unless he found and killed the one person responsible for all that had happened to him – Stephen. He could see him up on the wall with Nasuada and a dragon he didn't recognize, watching everything. Burning with hatred, he fought his way toward the castle as fast as he could, followed by a gang of the best fighters under his command. They reached the wall, and Scott blasted the nearest door open with magic before charging through it. Up through the castle he ran, killing anyone who got in his way, heedless of the pain in his leg. In his head, Lifrasir's voice said; "The Brat and his female have gone inside. The dragon has taken shelter in the practice yard."

"Thank you," Scott replied.

He had reached the banqueting hall by this time, and there he stopped to rest. The big table hadn't been repaired, and still had a great split down the middle from Stephen's sword. Scott, leaning on the table, examined the damage.

"Damn it, this table cost me a fortune," he muttered.

A door in the opposite wall was suddenly kicked open at this point, and Stephen himself came charging through it, Nasuada close behind him. Scott reacted quickly. He vaulted straight over the table with an athleticism that surprised everyone, and almost as soon as he'd landed he launched an assault on Stephen.

Stephen already had his sword in his hand, and the two riders began to fight each other one-on-one. There was no hesitation here, no cautious prelude – they threw themselves into the fight with a speed and brutality that made it absolutely clear that they were both only interested in one thing: killing their opponent. Scott did not have his usual air of calm now – his face was suffused with hatred. Stephen was no different. There could be only one outcome to this fight: one of them was about to die.

Nasuada and those fighters who had come with Scott hung back uncertainly.

"What should we do, sire?" one man asked.

"Do nothing!" Scott shouted back. "I'll kill him myself."

"Wishful thinking," Stephen rasped.

The green-bladed sword flicked sideways, cutting Stephen's neck. "My, what a short memory you have," said Scott. "Seems to me last time we fought like this, you lost."

"Because you cheated!" Stephen shouted back.

Scott grabbed his arm with one lightning-fast movement, and headbutted the other rider in the face. Stephen yelped and staggered backward, and Scott rushed at him, driving him back with a flurry of blows from the green-bladed sword. He flicked Stephen's sword out of his grasp and knocked him down, but the fight wasn't over yet. Stephen raised his right hand so that the silver rider's mark was visible, and shouted a word in the ancient language. Blue magic leapt the gap between them, but Scott blocked it with a casual, wordless gesture.

"Looks like you lose, brat," he said, fending off a second magical attack. "Oh, don't bother – hlíf! – fighting me with magic. I've had a hundred years of practice at it."

"Brisingr!" Stephen shouted, the word sending a large blue fireball Scott's way.

"Hlíf," Scott countered again, and the fireball bounced off the shielding spell and vanished. "Are you finished yet?" He made a gesture and Nasuada, who had charged at him in an attempt to save Stephen, fell over backward.

Stephen lowered his hand and glared up at his enemy, his chest heaving. "I'll – never – give in to you," he vowed.

"Who said I wanted you to?" said Scott. He raised the green-bladed sword, his eyes full of deadly intent.

And then it happened. Stephen felt it. Nasuada felt it. Scott and his warriors felt it. The two armies in the city outside felt it. A wave of coldness swept through every mind in Umhlanga; smothering, horrible and impossible to resist. The dragons fell from the sky like autumn leaves, and on the ground and inside the castle every man, elf and dwarf dropped to his knees. In the banqueting hall, Scott saw his warriors slump to the ground like broken puppets. Nasuada took a few wobbly steps backward and then slid down the wall, ending up sitting with her back to it, her eyes glazed. Only himself and Stephen appeared unaffected.

And then the ground shook. There was a deafening crack, and the entire castle trembled to its very foundations. Scott staggered backward into the table, and grabbed onto it to support himself. Stephen got up off the floor, but then the ground shook again and he fell onto his backside. There were more rumblings and crashings from outside, and then half of the wall behind Stephen and Nasuada collapsed. But it didn't fall inward, it fell outward. The stones blasted away from them, toward the corridor on the other side. Or, at least, toward the spot where the corridor used to be. The wall's destruction brought daylight into the hall – daylight streaming in from the massive hole that had torn right through the castle. And, standing in the midst of the wreckage, was a dragon. A silver dragon. A dragon that Scott recognized.

"No," he half-whispered in disbelief.

The dragon came forward through the hole, her tail dragging over the shattered masonry and her wings half-spread. And beside her walked a tall, slim figure clad in white.

Scott straightened up, readying his sword. On the floor, Stephen struggled to stand but appeared strangely weak.

The dragon and her companion reached the lip of the hole where the hall's wall had once been. There the dragon halted, and the white-clad figure came forward alone. She appeared to be a human woman, but her hair was as white as her clothes. Her eyes were silver, and there were black tattoos on her forehead.

The woman raised one elegant, ring-laden hand to her shoulder, and drew the magnificent yellow-bladed sword that was strapped to her back.

"Rangda," said Scott.

The woman nodded briefly to him. "Hello, Scott," she said.

The Shade walked past Stephen, thumping him in the stomach with one of her white-leather booted feet on her way. He curled up, gasping, and Rangda stepped over to where Nasuada lay sprawled and lifted her by the front of her shirt with scarcely an effort.

"Nasuada!" Stephen shouted. "Let – her go!"

At the sound of his voice, Nasuada suddenly awoke from her stupor and began to scrabble at Rangda's hand, trying to make her let go. It was a futile struggle. Rangda turned to face Stephen and Scott, holding the dark-skinned woman off the floor.

"Well now," she said in cool, calm tones. "I see that you have all gathered here as I wished. Good. Very good." She glanced over at Vervada, who was crouched just outside the hole, watching it all with a bland expression. "You did your work well, Hefnd-proell."

Vervada inclined her head slightly in acknowledgement.

"What are you doing here, Rangda?" Scott demanded.

"Why, to collect my due, of course," said Rangda. "Thank you for your help, half-breed. You've been very useful, keeping the Brat occupied."

"This was your doing!" Scott shouted, starting forward. "You were the one who made all this happen, you-!"

Rangda stared at him, and he suddenly fell backward, thumping into the table and landing in a heap by it, suddenly unable to speak.

"Don't you dare interrupt me with your little accusations," said Rangda. "I have more important things to do here than listen to you. Besides, you should be grateful toward me, half-breed. I'm here to do what you wanted to do but were unable to. And don't worry, I'm not interested in killing you. Not that I would be able to, would I?"

Scott, clutching at his throat, stared at the Shade through his unreadable eyes.

"No need to give me that look," said Rangda. She sighed. "You really shouldn't be so high and mighty toward me. Not you, of all people." Turning away from him, she looked down at Stephen. "I am well aware that you aren't the brightest star in the sky, Brat – after all, your stupidity is legend – but I will admit you were right about one thing. The half-breed here is every bit the monster you claimed he was – how else do you think he was able to cheat death so many times? I imagine Oromis only hinted at what his true crime was, but it's not my place to reveal that secret. Half-human he may be, but he has the heart of a Shade. Perhaps that's why I always admired him. But it's not him I hate, and it's not him I came here for. No, Brat. It is you I came for. You that I hate."

Stephen, wide-eyed, finally managed to stand up. "I don't know you," he whispered. "I don't know..."

"There are many things you don't know," said Rangda. "But know this, Shadeslayer. I want you to know it before you die." She pointed the yellow-bladed sword at Stephen, the tip resting against his throat. "You are here today because I planned it. Bernice died because I willed it. You found thirteen followers because I allowed you to. Everything that has happened over the last five years happened because of me. With the help of my partner Vervada, of course. You blamed Scott when Bernice's egg hatched into a monster, but you were wrong. I was the one who made Vervada the way she is. She is unique. A dragon who is a Shade. Her powers... well, you've experienced her powers. She was the one who steered your thoughts and turned you into the thing you hated most. You are no hero, Stephen Shadeslayer. You are a power-hungry tyrant, and the blood of thousands is on your hands. Elfthade may never recover from what you did to it, and history will curse your name as much as it cursed the half-breed's."

As Rangda spoke, something happened to Stephen. He stared at the Shade, uncomprehending, unable to feel the full horror of her words. But then, slowly but surely, the stifling, ice-cold veil of Vervada's control withdrew from his mind and he was free to think and feel for the first time since she had hatched and begun to destroy his life. Now, all at once, he experienced all the guilt and shame that he would have felt if he had been in his right mind when all that had happened had happened. He relived everything he had said and done, and knew that they were the words and actions of a greedy warlord, not a hero. He saw the look in Scott's eyes in the moment Isis died. He heard his own voice giving the order to kill both Pat and her newborn child the instant they were found. And most of all he remembered Bernice's death. Felt the agony of it in his heart.

Stephen, his eyes gone wide and staring, fell to his knees. "What have I done?" he moaned.

"You have been punished," said Rangda. "For what you did. Durza was my Pat, and you killed him. And you sought to destroy the Empire which he helped build. I have tormented you by making you live as Scott once lived, and I have made you experience both his sufferings and mine. You became what you hated most. And now all that remains is for me to finish it."

Rangda threw Nasuada to the floor, lifted the yellow-bladed sword and stabbed it through her midriff with one cruel thrust.

"Nasuada!" Stephen howled.

"Too late," said Rangda. She pulled the sword out and kicked Nasuada's still-living body aside.

Stephen pulled himself upright. "No!" he screamed, and rushed toward Rangda with all his strength.

But all his strength was not enough. Rangda thrust out an arm, catching the young rider around the throat. He struggled wildly to be free, but she hauled him toward her and held him close, so close that their faces were almost touching. "Nasuada was carrying your child, you know," the Shade whispered. "Such a shame. Now you know what pain feels like, Shadeslayer. But don't worry. Your pain is over now. Forever."

And then she kissed him. Pressing her mouth to his, almost violently, Rangda held him still, closing her eyes blissfully.

From the floor Scott looked on, aghast, but became aware of the sound of labored, painful breathing from nearby. Nasuada had landed close to him, and was curled up by the table-leg, clutching at the mortal wound in her stomach, blood leaking between her fingers. Scott watched her for a moment or two, and then began to drag himself toward her.

Stephen, trapped in that horrendous embrace with the Shade who had taken everything from him, tried with all his might to break free of her. But she was many times stronger than him, and she would not let him go. He tried to summon his magic, but Vervada had re-entered his mind and was blocking it. And still Rangda's cold lips were pressed to his, making him feel as if he were suffocating.

And then he began to feel something else. Something so ghastly that it made his heart pause its beating. It was... a numbness. And mixed with it was a horror of the soul so profound that he thought he was about to die. It grew and spread throughout his entire being, and then his whole body went as cold as ice.

Scott, crouched by Nasuada's side, saw Stephen go rigid and begin to twitch, his lips still pressed against Rangda's. He could see a white light glowing between them where they touched, and in that light, dark shapes moved. They passed from Rangda's mouth into Stephen's, horribly visible through the skin, and as more and more of them entered the young rider's body he began to change. His skin went deathly pale. His hair started to redden. Black shapes swirled over the skin on his face, and finally settled on his forehead, forming eerie black tattoos.

Nasuada had gone limp, but she was still breathing. She looked up at Stephen. "What's... happening to him?" she breathed.

"I think I know," Scott replied. "I'm sorry, Nasuada."

"Don't be," Nasuada whispered back. "I'm... done for anyway."

Her eyes closed. Scott glanced up quickly at Stephen and Rangda, then spread his right hand over Nasuada's bloodied midriff. "Waíse heill," he said in an undertone.

In that moment, Stephen's eyes snapped open. They were still brown, but only for a few seconds. Their color warped and changed, reddening just like his hair. Rangda finally let him go, but he did not attack her. He stood looking at her, and she looked at him, and Stephen Shadeslayer was no more. He still looked the same, more or less. But his skin was as pale as a corpse's, traced with faint black veins. On his forehead were strange black tattoos. His hair was flame-red and his eyes were maroon, with just the same cold power burning in them as Rangda's.

There was silence for a time. Then the man that Stephen had become said "Rangda."

His voice was different. Deeper. Smoother. More dignified.

Rangda smiled. "Durza," she said.

And Stephen said; "Yes."

The two of them regarded each other for a time, and then they embraced passionately, whispering each other's names before they kissed – a real kiss this time.

Over by the broken table, Scott acted quickly. He stood up, hauling Nasuada to her feet, and ran for the door, dragging her with him. Nasuada, her injury healed, tried to pull away from him, her eyes fixed on the man who had been Stephen. But Scott was stronger than her, and would not let her go. He dashed around the table and ran for the door, sword in hand, only to be met by the group of fighters who had accompanied him into the hall in the first place. They rose to their feet and advanced on their erstwhile leader, eyes glazed. Scott halted and glanced back over his shoulder. The two Shades were oblivious, caught up in their reunion, but Vervada had risen from her crouch and was staring straight at him. She no longer had the blank black eyes or the hideous veins, but he still recognized her. She still had the eyes of a Shade. And she would not let him leave.

Scott gritted his teeth. He pushed Nasuada behind him and ruthlessly cut down Vervada's puppets, killing them with both his sword and his magic. It felt like betrayal, but he had no other choice. Once the last of them was dead, he turned to face Vervada and did something that he almost never did. He broke into her mind. Tearing down its barriers by force, he sent a wave of his own psychic energy into the dragon's consciousness. She resisted powerfully, but he was stronger and, not caring if it caused her pain, he tore through her mind and disabled it. Vervada crashed to the floor, landing comatose on a heap of rubble, and before she had even finished falling Scott turned and ran for it.

Rangda and the man who had been Stephen but was now Durza turned their heads sharply toward the door, just as Nasuada reached it. She made eye-contact with Durza. Saw his eyes staring out of Stephen's face. Her heart wilted inside her, and she ran.

Nasuada was fast, and she easily caught up with Scott, who was moving surprisingly quickly on his crippled leg. Nasuada followed him, their enmity completely forgotten in the urgency of the moment. Her instincts told her that she could trust him, and she drew level with him and shouted; "What should we do?"

"Make for the roof!" Scott replied. "And fast!"

"What's happening?" Nasuada asked. "What happened to Stephen? Can't we-?"

"The – Stephen is gone," said Scott, glancing at her. To her shock, she thought she saw sympathy in his eyes. "I'm sorry," he added.

They ran on through a corridor and up a flight of stairs, but they could hear the sound of pursuit just behind them.

"This way," said Scott, ducking through a side-door. It led to a long room with a door at the other end, and they ran through it. But the door was thrown open before they reached it, and Roran came running through it. He was wearing a breastplate and his war hammer was in his hand, and he halted when he saw them coming. His eyes flicked toward Scott.

"You," he snarled, raising his hammer.

"No time!" Scott shouted. Without slowing down he muttered a word and the hammer shattered into pieces. He shoved Roran aside and ran past him, Nasuada close behind.

"Nasuada!" Roran exclaimed, turning to follow them. "What's going on?"

"Run, Roran!" Nasuada called back over her shoulder. "There's a Shade! Two Shades! Run!"

"A Shade...?" Roran faltered.

Scott and Nasuada ran through the still-open door and were gone, just as the one they had come in through disintegrated into powder. Roran turned to look, and saw two people enter the room. One was a white-clad woman he didn't recognize. The other one was...

"Stephen?" said Roran.

Durza sneered at him. "Not any more," he said.

The two Shades stalked toward him like a pair of hunting panthers, and Roran hesitated, not knowing what to do.

Durza raised a hand. "Drepa sasí holdr," he intoned.

Then darkness took Roran Stronghammer. He died before he even knew what was happening. Rangda and Durza watched contemptuously, then walked away, leaving his body abandoned on the floor.

Chapter Fourteen ~ Home

When Scott and Nasuada finally reached the open air, emerging at the top of the tower where Isis had once perched, they found a scene of utter confusion in the city below. Those who had been disabled by Vervada's power had recovered, and some were resuming their fight. Most of them, however, were fleeing Umhlanga as fast as they could go.

"Sensible," Scott remarked, watching them.

As for the dragons, many had been killed by their fall from the sky. But Kullervo and many of his fellow wild dragons were still alive, and so were two of Stephen's riders. Scott looked urgently for a black dragon, and finally spotted Lifrasir over by the city's outer wall. He reached out to her with his mind.

"Lifrasir!"

A brief silence, and then her voice replied. "Father! You're alive! Where are you?"

Scott sent her an image of the tower. "Come and get me," he told her. "And hurry!"

Lifrasir asked no questions. She took off and flew up toward the castle as fast as she could go, dodging attacks from the two remaining riders.

Scott and Nasuada waited tensely, watching the trapdoor that they had come for, lest anyone should come through it. Someone else might have decided to stand on it in order to keep it shut, but they both knew how pointless that would be. A Shade was hardly likely to be held back by a door, no matter how heavy it was.

As if to prove the point, the door crumbled into dust at this point and Rangda and Durza climbed through it and onto the roof. Nasuada and Scott backed away from them, but there was nowhere to go. Nasuada let out a great sob at the sight of her Pat's ashy, barely recognizable face, and Scott readied his sword.

"I'm warning you," he said. "Stay away from me. I don't want to have to fight you. I just want to go."

"Relax, half-breed," said Rangda, touching the hilt of the yellow-bladed sword on her back. "We have no interest in you. We just want her."

Nasuada drew her own sword. "Stand back," she snarled, her hands shaking.

Durza laughed a cold, jarring laugh without any trace of humor in it. "Elves. They're all the same," he said. "So earnest. So arrogant. So stupid." He reached up to his shoulder and drew the blue-bladed sword, Íssbrandr, pointing it at Nasuada.

Nasuada lowered her sword slightly. "Stephen?" she said, looking the Shade in the eye with a desperate expression. "Stephen! It's me! Can't you hear me?"

Durza's sneer faded. He blinked a few times, and all of a sudden his eyes changed. They went from maroon back to brown. "Nasuada..." he whispered, and it was Stephen's voice coming from Stephen's face.

"Stephen!" Nasuada cried. She dropped her sword and stepped toward him.

Stephen's eyes flipped back to maroon. Durza's voice came from his throat, laughing a horrible harsh laugh. "Deyja!" the Shade cried.

A ball of red light sprang from Durza's hand.

"Get out of the way!" Scott shouted, and cannoned into Nasuada, bowling her over. The ball of magic shot forward. It caught Scott a glancing blow on the forehead, and he slumped to the ground.

Durza cursed and span around to face Nasuada, who was getting up. He shot a second ball of light toward her, but she dodged it and ran.

Nasuada didn't think. She grabbed hold of the back of Scott's robe and leapt from the top of the tower. Rangda and Durza ran to the edge to look, and saw a huge black dragon swoop under the two falling Elves, catching them both on its back before it flew up and away from the city as fast as it could go.

Nasuada pulled herself into the hollow between the dragon's shoulder blades, dragging the unconscious Scott with her, and there held on as best she could, wrapping an arm around Scott's thin chest to keep him from falling. The black dragon flew away from the city at high speed, chased by the two remaining riders and also by a number of wild dragons. She outpaced them with relative ease, but they didn't give up until a high wind suddenly blew up and lightning flashed, forcing them to take cover. Nasuada cringed at the gathering storm, but the black dragon flew on unperturbed. The wind gathered under her wings and sped her forward, and within minutes Umhlanga was fading into the distance. Nasuada, huddled on the dragon's back, suddenly heard a voice in her head.

"You are the Brat's mate, aren't you?"

Nasuada started violently – her nerves were shot to pieces. But after a moment or two she realized that the black dragon had spoken to her. "I am," she said, half-shouting over the wind.

"I'm Lifrasir," said the dragon's voice. "I am... what happened in the castle?"

"Shades!" Nasuada shouted back. "Two of them!"

"Shades?" said Lifrasir's voice. "You mean... was one of them a female with white hair?"

"Yes!" said Nasuada.

"I thought I knew her," said Lifrasir. "It seems I was wrong. Hold on. We'll talk once we're in a safe place. Is Scott all right?"

"I don't know!" said Nasuada. She was beginning to go hoarse.

Lifrasir didn't reply. She put her head down and sped up. For what felt like hours, she flew over Elfthade, the landscape below moving by with a speed that shocked Nasuada, who had only ridden on a dragon's back a very few times in her life, and never this fast.

They didn't stop until they had passed over a lake and finally reached the Spine, by which time night had fallen. Lifrasir came to rest among some thick forest in a valley, and there she lay flat on her stomach so that Nasuada could slide off without injuring herself. She pulled Scott with her, landing awkwardly on the ground with him on top of her. Lifrasir immediately stood up and brought her head around to look at him. Nasuada pushed his limp form off her and stood up, only to find an enormous golden eye fixed on her.

"Is he all right?" Lifrasir asked, speaking out loud this time.

Nasuada crouched by Scott and checked for injuries, but the only ones she found were old or minor. She put two fingers on the side of his neck, checking for a pulse, and then looked up. "His heart has stopped," she said.

"He can't be dead!" said Lifrasir.

"I'm sorry, Lifrasir," said Nasuada.

Lifrasir sniffed at Scott, whispering his name. She got no response.

There was silence for a few moments, and then Lifrasir looked up sorrowfully at Nasuada. The woman and the dragon simply watched each other for a time, both grief-stricken – one for her father, and one for her lover.

Eventually Nasuada said; "He died to save me. And I don't even know why. I was his enemy."

On the ground at her feet, Scott twitched once, violently, and then started to cough. Nasuada froze, staring down at him, and saw him groan and put a hand to his forehead. She knelt by his side, reaching toward him rather hesitantly. "Sire?" she said. "Uh... Scott?"

Scott's hand shot up and caught hers, holding it by the wrist in a vicelike grip. His eyes blinked open and he focused on her. For a moment he looked bewildered, and then he saw Lifrasir, watching him with joy in her eyes.

"Lifrasir," he said.

"Father!" said Lifrasir. "You're alive!"

Nasuada pulled her wrist free. "I can't believe this," she said. "Your heart had stopped!"

Scott sat up. "You must have been mistaken," he said. "Would you help me up, please?"

Nasuada took his hand and hauled him upright, and he leant on Lifrasir's snout, blinking dazedly. "Oooh, my head hurts," he mumbled. "I really... need to try and live a more sedate life."

"You saved me," said Nasuada. "Twice."

Scott shook his head a few times to clear it. "You're welcome," he said.

"I don't understand," said Nasuada. "Why? I'm no friend to you, I never have been. I helped my father send assassins after you, I led the Zulus against the Empire, and you sent me to the mines... so why do it? Why risk your life to save mine?"

"I couldn't leave you to Rangda," said Scott. "I suppose... well, I can't be the bad guy all the time, can I?" He tried to smile. "I suppose," he said again. "I suppose I did it for Stephen, in a way."

Nasuada faltered. "But you... you hated him!"

"So I did," said Scott. "But after what Rangda did to him... no-one should be punished as badly as that. He wanted you to live. And I heard Rangda tell him you were pregnant. How could I leave a pregnant woman to die? No, even I couldn't do that."

"I didn't know," said Nasuada. "Until she said it, I didn't know. She could have been lying."

Scott shrugged. "Well, you're safe now. You can go wherever you like, but be careful. Rangda will still be looking for you."

"What happened in the castle?" Lifrasir interrupted. "What was Rangda doing there?"

Scott shook his head. "We've lost, Lifrasir," he said. "Rangda... she was behind this. All of it. Vervada was working for her from the beginning. The – Stephen had no choice. He was Vervada's puppet. Rangda was punishing him for killing Durza. And now he's dead."

Nasuada let out a sob. Scott watched her as she struggled to control herself, but made no move to comfort her. "If it's any comfort," he said. "I know what it's like to lose someone I loved."

Nasuada showed no sign of having heard him. She put her hands over her face and slumped into a sitting position. "Oh, Stephen," she moaned. "Stephen!"

"So Rangda killed him?" said Lifrasir in a low voice.

"Not quite," said Scott.

"Not quite...?"

"Stephen is alive, in a way," Scott said heavily. "Rangda turned him into a vessel for Durza's essence. She brought him back. Stephen's body is alive and walking around, but his mind is gone forever and so is his soul."

"No!" said Nasuada, looking up suddenly. "He's alive. He's still in there. I saw him."

Scott shook his head. "No, Nasuada," he said. "Stephen is gone. I may have hated him, but I wouldn't have wished that fate on him in a million years. That's the price he paid in order to call himself Shadeslayer." He made a strange, bitter, half-laughing sound.

"But I saw him," said Nasuada through her tears. "I heard his voice. He was calling for me."

"Durza was just tormenting you," said Scott. He reached out to touch her shoulder, but withdrew before she noticed. "I assure you, Stephen is gone. There is no way to save him, and nothing left to save. I'm sorry, but you'll have to find a way to live with that."

Nasuada's look of determined hope faded. "Why is life so cruel?" she asked plaintively.

"I've asked myself that question a thousand times," said Scott, looking up at the stars. "But I never found a convincing answer." He sighed. "We don't have any time to stand around here. Lifrasir and I will take you to wherever you want to go, and after that you're on your own. I've done all I can for you."

Nasuada stood up shakily. "What will you do?" she asked. "Will you... fight them?"

"No," said Scott. "My fighting days are over. I have no chance against two Shades; no-one has. I've done enough for Elfthade. Come on."

Lifrasir crouched and held out a foreleg, and Scott climbed onto her back, holding out a hand to help Nasuada up. She accepted it, and settled uncomfortably behind him.

"Where should I go?" Lifrasir asked, standing up and spreading her wings.

"To Farthen Dûr," said Nasuada, suddenly determined.

"Why?" asked Scott.

"I have nowhere else to go," said Nasuada.

"As you wish," said Lifrasir. She took off.

They traveled the few days it took to get to Farthen Dûr without stopping once. Lifrasir flew through day and night, and Scott and Nasuada had to snatch a little sleep by napping briefly on her back, taking turns to do so. They spoke very little; neither trusted the other, and both were exhausted and worn. Nasuada's initial tears had given way to a stony-faced silence, and Scott was secretly impressed by how well she was holding together, given all that had happened.

They reached Farthen Dûr at night, the broken mountain looking like a yawning monster in the darkness with the cavernous hole in its side full of shadows. There Lifrasir landed, and Nasuada climbed down from her back.

"Thank you," she said, touching Lifrasir's neck.

"Good luck, Nasuada," said Lifrasir.

"Good luck," Scott echoed. He drew the green-bladed sword from his belt, and tossed it to her. "Keep it," he said. "It might come in handy one day."

Nasuada picked up the sword from where it had landed on the stony ground. "Thank you, Scott," she said. "I won't forget what you did for me."

"Its name is Svard-Hvass," said Scott. "It used to belong to a rider called Carina. Look after it; it's older than I am."

"I will," said Nasuada.

Scott nodded. "Goodbye."

Lifrasir flew away, becoming almost invisible against the blackened sky almost at once. The black dragon glided back the way she had come, heading out of the Drakensburg Mountains.

"So," she said mentally. "Where shall we go?"

"We'll find Steve," said Scott. "Then we'll go the only place we can go."

"Home," said Lifrasir.

"Yes."

"Why did you do it, Father?" said Lifrasir. "Why save the Brat's mate?"

"I acted on instinct," said Scott. "It felt like the right thing to do. I might not have saved her for anything, anyway. Rangda and Durza will keep looking for her."

"What will they do, Father?" Lifrasir asked. "Can you guess?"

"I don't have to guess," said Scott. "I know. Rangda was clever. Very, very clever. Her plan did more than get her revenge and bring Durza back. It also got her the Empire. They're both secure in Umhlanga now, and they have Vervada and control of both armies. And they have Kullervo. The wild dragons are in their power now, and they've removed both Stephen and me – the two leaders most likely to take control of the Empire. They'll rule Elfthade now. Two Shades on the throne. Who would have thought it?" he laughed bitterly.

"There must be something we can do," said Lifrasir.

"There isn't," said Scott. "And I mean there really isn't. I could have beaten Stephen, and maybe I could have beaten one Shade. But not two of them. And not now they have the Empire under their command. If I led an army against them, they would take control of it on the spot. Vervada was holding herself back before because she wasn't really working for Stephen. But now she and Rangda are side-by-side... any fight would be over before it began."

"But you could think of something..."

"You overestimate me, Lifrasir. Yes, I'm a fighter. A good enough one to know when I'm beaten. All I want to do now is go to Pat."

Lifrasir couldn't think of any way to argue with that. This time Scott wasn't speaking from despair, but from simple common sense, and she accepted it. He was right. The war was over and they had lost. Everyone had lost. All they could do now was go to Ellery's country, and Pat. Even Rangda wouldn't follow them there. But there was more than just that on the black dragon's mind.

"Father?" she said eventually.

"Yes?"

"You were... you really did die, didn't you? Before. Your heart really had stopped."

"Don't be ridiculous, Lifrasir," said Scott, with unusual sharpness. "Of course I didn't die. It's impossible."

"Yes," said Lifrasir. "Of course. Forget I spoke."

Scott didn't miss the tone of her mental voice, but he said nothing. He sat brooding in silence for a while, until something occurred to him. He thought it over for a moment or two, then spread his right hand over Lifrasir's neck and said; "Efla skulblaka bl'ár."

Lifrasir shuddered slightly as the magic moved over her scales. In the darkness it was barely visible, but they had changed back to their original dark blue.

"Thanks," she said.

"You'll be less noticeable this way," was all Scott said.

"I love you, you know, Father," said Lifrasir. "With all my heart. No matter what happens."

"Thank you, Lifrasir," Scott said quietly.

In her small camp in the forest not far from the beach, Pat sat by a fire and watched the infants at play. Only one of them was human. The small silver-haired boy with the impenetrable black eyes, now just old enough to begin crawling, giggled as he watched the antics of three dragon hatchlings who were chasing each other around the camp. A fourth hatchling was curled up beside him, dozing, and a fifth was perched in the branches of a tree. They had hatched from the eggs which Pat had brought with her; three had been fathered by Thorn, and two by Isis. Ellery had been gravely pleased when Pat presented the eggs to him and she knew, as most others didn't, that his dream had always been to rule over an extended dragon clan, and that these new additions were very welcome in his eyes.

In a way, Pat was glad to be back in her father's country. She had spent most of her life there, and was familiar with a large part of its rugged, wild landscape. Here there were no enemies and she could do as she pleased. But her elfish form wasn't very well suited to the place. It was inhospitable and there were very few good places to shelter and not much in the way of proper food. She'd had to supplement the meat that Skirnir brought her with seeds, berries and the occasional edible root, but these were small and hard to find, and the lack of vegetables in her diet made her feel weak and lethargic. Not that it would matter for long. The instant that her son was weaned, Ellery would change her back into a dragon and would probably change him too. Pat wasn't sure if she really cared about that. Now that Scott was gone there was little point in wearing the form of an elf, since she had only taken it up in order to be with him. She had often missed being a dragon, but had never complained about it. It would be good to be able to fly again, and feel the wind on her wings. And when she became a dragon again, she wouldn't feel the cold so much.

Pat shivered slightly, and pulled a crudely-tanned animal hide around her shoulders. It was early morning, and thick white mist swirled among the trees, which were of the strange silver-barked kind that grew only here. The spicy scent of their leaves filled the air, dampened by the mist, which made the forest look strange and ethereal and also limited visibility to within a few meters of where she sat.

A cold breeze blew in from the sea, bringing a salty smell with it. Pat looked up, feeling inexplicably uneasy. Then she heard a strange sound. It came from some way away, in the direction of the beach. It was a splitting, splintering sound – the sound of breaking wood. It was followed by another, this one much closer. Pat half-stood, groping for the hilt of White Violence, which was lying on the ground beside her. Holding the white sword in one hand, she watched nervously for any sign of movement. The sound of breaking wood continued, getting closer all the time, slightly muffled by the mist but still quite distinct. And then she heard voices drifting up from among the trees further downhill. They were faint and she couldn't make out the words, but they were voices all the same. Pat didn't know what to do. Should she stay where she was and challenge the intruders, or take her son and go? But then her golden eyes narrowed. This was her home, and no-one was going to drive her out of it as they had driven her out of Umhlanga. She may have been wearing the body of an elf, but she was still a dragon at heart, and no dragon likes to have her Bernicetory invaded. She would stand and wait for them and, if necessary, fight.

The voices got closer, and more distinct.

"...place is strange," one said. "The trees smell like... herbs or something. Is it all like...?"

A second voice replied with something unintelligible. Direction was hard to judge in the mist, but it sounded like they were coming from more or less the same place. And still getting closer.

The voices were silent for a time, but the crash of wood got louder and louder. Making its way up the hill. Pat moved to the edge of the clearing and peered downhill, and sure enough she could see a dark mass coming up it, felling trees as it went. Then she heard a third voice.

"By the lost gods, I can't see a thing in all this. Is it always so foggy here?"

"No," the second voice replied. "It's very hot for most of the year. We came here during autumn."

"I'll see if there's anything I can do," said the third voice. There was silence for a time, and then it said; "No, looks like that won't work. We'll just have to put up with it."

The voices were much more distinct now. The strangers were getting closer. Pat went back to stand by the fire, choosing a spot close to her son, sword at the ready to defend him.

There was silence again, then, broken only by the falling trees and the squeaks of the tussling hatchlings as they mock-fought each other in the firelight. Then Pat saw a dark shape emerge at the top of the hill, just outside the clearing. It paused where it was, its size difficult to estimate amongst the swirling whiteness. But it clearly wasn't a dragon. Then it said; "I'm at the top of the hill."

The voice echoed slightly amongst the trees. A deep, powerful voice. A familiar voice.

"Who's there?" said Pat, not trusting her instincts.

There was a sudden movement from the shape. "Pat?" it called. "Is that you?"

"Yes," Pat replied, gripping White Violence's silver hilt more tightly.

The shape stayed still for a short time, and then began coming toward her. Two other shapes, these much larger, appeared behind it. The smallest shape, the one that had spoken, moved much faster. Then it broke into a run, but its gait was oddly irregular. At long last it burst into the clearing, finally becoming fully visible in the firelight, and there it halted.

It was a man. A man in a long black robe with a pointed black beard. His slightly graying hair was curly and hung like a mane around his neck and shoulders. And he was looking straight at her, his stern face softening into a smile.

"Pat," he said.

Pat stared at him. "Scott?" she said, not quite believing what she was seeing.

"Yes, it's me," said the man. "It's Scott. I came to find you, Pat."

"Scott...?" said Pat again, walking slowly toward him.

"Pat," said Scott, his eyes warm.

Pat reached him, carelessly dropping the sword. She stared into his face, reaching out to touch it as if to reassure herself that it was real. Her fingers brushed his forehead and his cheeks, then ran through his hair, letting the curls slide between them.

"Pat," said Scott again.

Pat withdrew her hand and looked him up and down. Then she punched him in the jaw.

Taken by surprise, Scott fell over backward. Looking up at her from the ground, he put a hand to his chin. "Ow!" he said. "What was that for?"

"You!" Pat shouted. "You-! How could you do this to me? Do you know what I've gone through since I lost you? Do you know how miserable I was? I-!" her voice broke suddenly. "Oh... Scott, I thought you were dead. For months you were dead to me – how can you be here now? Am I just dreaming?"

"I'm real enough," said Scott, picking himself up. "I'm sorry, Pat. I didn't mean for any of this to happen."

He reached out to her. Pat drew back, staring at him as if he were a ghost.

"Pat," said Scott again, a hint of sternness in his voice. "Don't look at me like that. I went through hell and back to find you again and the least you can do is be happy to see me."

Pat watched him, not seeming to understand. Her beautiful, wild face had gone pale, its eyes big and childlike. But then whatever barrier that lay between them broke down and the silver elf started to cry. Scott took her in his arms and held her close, and she sobbed into his thin chest. He stroked her hair and murmured to soothe her, but he was very close to crying himself.

Lifrasir and Steve emerged from the mist and Lifrasir, sensing that her parents needed some time alone together, wordlessly motioned to Steve that they should leave. The two dragons departed as quietly as they could, heading back toward the beach where they had landed.

Pat and Scott embraced fiercely, as if they would never let each other go, holding each other so close that it was as if they were trying to make their two bodies merge into one. Both had traveled a long way and suffered great loss, but they had survived to find each other again, and for now that was all that mattered. Their love, which had survived a century, one bound by undying oaths of devotion... their love was made all the stronger in that moment.

"I missed you so much," Pat sobbed. "I thought I would die."

"You kept me going," said Scott, his voice gone all shaky. "The thought of you... knowing you were here waiting for me... it kept me alive."

At length the initial shock and tears wore off, and Pat laughed weakly. "Never leave me again," she said. "Ever."

"On my honor as a rider," said Scott, finally letting her go. "Then again," he added bitterly, "I'm not a rider any more, am I? Oh, Pat, I'm so tired. A hundred years is a long time, but those few months where I was lost... they felt even longer. We've lost everything. Isis, the Empire, our home... it's all gone. Everything."

"Not everything," said Pat, taking his hand and leading him to the fireside. She picked up the silver-haired boy, who snuggled contentedly in her arms, his black eyes peering at Scott. "This is our son," said Pat.

Scott reached out to touch the child's forehead. "He has your hair," he said.

"And your eyes," said Pat. "Here, take him."

Scott accepted the child, and held him somewhat awkwardly. The child's pudgy hands reached upward and took hold of his beard, tugging at the coarse hairs. Scott smiled, and the child laughed.

"Have you given him a name?" Scott asked.

Pat nodded. "I called him Skandar," she said. "Prince Skandar Ellery, son of Scott."

Scott cradled the child and looked up at Pat. "You named him after my father."

"And mine," said Pat. "They're both good strong names."

"Skandar is the dark elfish name for a falcon," said Scott.

"And Ellery is the dragonish name for a dark spirit," said Pat.

"Is your father here?" asked Scott, glancing upward rather nervously.

"Yes," said Pat. "Not here, precisely... he's probably still sleeping. He sleeps for most of the day."

"They called him the Night Dragon for a good reason, then," said Scott.

"He won't like you being here," said Pat. "He hates Elves. He told me that as soon as Skandar was weaned he would change me back into a dragon."

"But Skandar can't look after himself," said Scott. "Even if he is weaned."

"My father said he would change him, too," said Pat. "This is a land for dragons, not Elves or Elves."

"We should leave here, then," said Scott. "Though I don't know where we'd go. Elfthade isn't safe for us any more."

"I can't," said Pat. "My father made me swear an oath that I would stay here forever. I can't leave here unless he releases me from it."

Scott cursed. "Why did you let him do that?" he asked.

"I couldn't help it," Pat said miserably. "I thought you were dead. I told my father that all I wanted was for him to avenge you by killing the Brat. He said he would if I took the oath, so I did. He tricked me. I thought he would go to Elfthade and kill the Brat, but he wouldn't. He doesn't want to leave here."

"There wouldn't be any point in him going to Elfthade anyway," said Scott, giving Skandar back to his mother. "The Brat is dead."

"You killed him?" said Pat.

"No," said Scott. "I would have liked to, though." He motioned for them to sit down by the fire, which they did, side-by-side. The dragon hatchlings gathered around them, all big-eyed and curious.

"Where did these come from?" Scott asked, reaching out to scratch one behind the horns. The hatchling crooned contentedly at his touch, closing its silver eyes.

"These are the eggs we had in the castle," said Pat. "I brought them with me. And I have White Violence, too."

Scott glanced over at where the sword lay. He held out a hand and it shot toward him, hilt-first, landing neatly in his grasp. He turned the weapon over, rediscovering its silver hilt and the triple-spiral engraved on the blade. "I thought I'd lost this forever," he said.

"I found it in the canyon," said Pat. "Scott... tell me everything. I want to know how you survived."

Scott nodded. "It's a long story," he said. "And not a pleasant one. But I'll tell it." He settled down comfortably by the fire, huddling into his robe for warmth, and laid White Violence down by his feet.

Pat took his hand in hers. "I'm listening," she told him.

Chapter Fifteen ~ Dark Magic and Secrets

Scott's story took a long time to tell, but he told it patiently, recounting everything he remembered from the moment he had reached Dragons Peak and encountered Stephen and his followers for the first time. He talked of Isis's death, and told the unhappy tale of his wanderings in the wilderness and his struggle to find himself again. The story went on toward Dras-Leona and all that had happened there, and he described his descent into madness with a Berniceble matter-of-factness before praising Lifrasir and Steve and how they had helped him to recover. Then he talked about Bernice's death, the pact with Kullervo, the encounter with Lloyd and Thorn, the fight to reclaim Umhlanga, and finally Stephen's fate at Rangda's hands and his own escape with Nasuada. Pat sat quietly and listened to all of this with a serious expression, occasionally interrupting to ask questions. Scott showed her his crippled leg and the scars on his hands and chest, and she touched these gently, as if trying to relieve him of the pain that had long since left him.

"...and I knew there was no hope of beating them, so I decided to come and find you. It's over, Pat. The Empire is out of my hands, and there's not a damn thing that anyone can do about it."

Pat gave his hand a squeeze. "But at least you're alive," she said. "And so am I. And we have Skandar."

"Yes..." said Scott, watching their son, who had fallen asleep during their talk. He frowned.

"What is it?" said Pat.

""Born of dark king, born of dragon queen"," Scott muttered.

"What does that mean?" said Pat.

"It's a line from one of the prophecies of Arthryn," said Scott. "I never told you about this, but before we met I found the last of the dark Elves. That was why Laela died. She and I rebelled against the rider elders... I told them we were going to find my father's people. And we found them. They'd survived the massacres and gone into hiding in the mountains. I spent some time with them... a month or so, maybe longer. And I met Arthryn herself."

"Who was she?" asked Pat.

"She was my grandmother," said Scott. "Very old, by the time I met her. She was the one who told me that it was my destiny to be King of Elfthade one day. I committed some of her prophecies to memory... one of them was about a man who would come to Elfthade from over the sea. 'Born of dark king, born of dragon queen'. I remember that line especially."

"You think it could be about Skandar?" said Pat.

"Maybe," said Scott. "Who knows? I've learned to distrust prophecies."

"There's something I don't understand here," said Pat. "How did you survive? I just don't... how could you have walked all that way with a broken leg and a broken arm? With hardly any food and no water? And how could you have recovered so quickly? Elves are such fragile creatures... they die so easily."

Scott shrugged. "I told you I was tough," he said. "I survived, Pat. The how and the why of it don't matter." He yawned. "I haven't... slept properly in days. Feel like my head's full of wool."

"Lie down by the fire," said Pat. "I'll keep watch for you. I've got some blankets here..."

Her question forgotten, she rummaged in the bag she'd brought with her after her escape and found a number of thick woolen rugs. Scott, too exhausted to be embarrassed, curled up on the leaf litter by the fire and was asleep within seconds. Pat covered him with the blankets, gently stroking his hair and watching him as he slept. He looked very vulnerable lying there.

Pat turned away to watch the trees. The mist was starting to clear now, and the sun was coming out. After a time, Lifrasir and Steve returned to the clearing, albeit cautiously. Finding Pat waiting for them, the two dragons hurried toward her and an awkward, hushed reunion took place among the silver trees. Pat embraced Lifrasir, wrapping her arms around the dragon's neck. "I thought you died," she whispered. "In Umhlanga, I thought I heard you die."

"It was the other dragon," Lifrasir murmured back, grinning. "I killed him. His rider, too. Gave you time to get away, didn't I, Mother?"

"You're a brave dragon, Lifrasir," said Pat. "You're as great a warrior as your grandfather."

Lifrasir's expression darkened. "Not that great."

Pat turned to Steve, and embraced him as well, though he protested. "And you, Steve... I'm so glad you escaped. Skirnir said he saw you."

"Is he here?" Steve asked.

"Yes," said Pat. "He chose a roost at the top of the cliffs. He'll come and visit me in a few hours, most likely. He'll be so glad to know you survived."

"He'll probably tell me off for being a coward," said Steve, dipping his head slightly in embarrassment. "I hid away in the Spine while most of the fighting was going on... Father made me do it. He said I wouldn't be able to fight properly with only one eye and he wanted me to keep safe. I felt like an overgrown hatchling."

"He cares about you, that's all," said Pat. "Come on, come into my camp. Your brother is waiting for you."

Steve walked beside her into the circle of firelight, and lay down on his belly on the opposite side of the fire to where Scott was. Lifrasir, who just barely fitted into the clearing, curled herself around it, so large that her body completely encircled the clearing, her head and tail meeting at the spot where Pat sat down. "At least I shall keep the wind out," the blue dragon remarked in an undertone.

Pat picked up the sleeping Skandar, and held him out for Lifrasir and Steve to examine. The two dragons sniffed at him, careful not to wake him up.

"He looks like you," said Steve.

"Like Father, too," said Lifrasir. "Hard to believe he's my brother."

"Look at his hands," Pat whispered.

There was silence for a few seconds.

"He's got claws," said Steve.

Pat nodded. "Just like mine," she said, flexing the fingers of her right hand. "Half a dragon and half a human... he'll never fully belong to either, I think."

"He's still my brother," said Lifrasir. "And he won't have to grow up without a father like I did."

They both glanced over at Scott. He mumbled something in his sleep, and his right hand appeared from under the blankets, the fingers uncurling to reveal the gedwëy ignaesia still standing out palely amongst raw red scars.

"He died, you know," said Lifrasir in a low voice. "Twice."

"What do you mean?" said Pat, looking up at the blue dragon with a puzzled expression.

"I don't know what happened," said Lifrasir. "But the boy, Lloyd. He said he was sent to check after Isis died. To make sure Father was really dead. And he said that he was. His heart had stopped and his spine was broken, he said."

"Well then he was lying," said Pat.

"He looked... very sincere," said Lifrasir. "When he saw Father again, he looked horrified."

"I would have been horrified, too, if someone I'd betrayed had come to find me," said Pat.

"There's more," said Lifrasir. "At Umhlanga, when Rangda killed the Brat... I'm not quite sure what happened, but the Brat's mate said Father was hit by some magic intended to kill her. He threw himself in the way to save her. After I had carried them out of there, the Brat's mate felt for a heartbeat and said there wasn't one. He was dead. I could smell death on him. And then..." Lifrasir watched her father with a trouble expression. "...and then he woke up."

"It must have been a mistake," said Pat. But she too looked frightened.

"One mistake, maybe," said Lifrasir. "But two? I asked him about it, and... he's hiding something. I don't know what it could be, but..."

Pat's eyes narrowed. "I thought it was odd that he recovered so quickly after what happened at Dragons Peak."

"He was up and about and ready to fight two weeks after nearly dying at Dras-Leona," said Lifrasir. "I saw him right after what happened there. He had so many arrows in him he looked like a hedgehog. But he shrugged it off as if it were no more than a few scratches."

"If he's hiding something, I'll make him tell me the truth," said Pat. "I'm not going to let him lie to me."

Lifrasir couldn't help but be amused. "I wouldn't want to be in his place when he wakes up."

Scott slept for an hour or so, but his subconscious was too unsettled to let him sleep longer. He stirred restlessly, disturbed by half-formed dreams, his lame leg twinging in the cold air. Eventually he opened his eyes and saw Pat looking down at him.

He smiled. "Who are you?" he said. "You're beautiful."

Pat was bewildered for a moment, but then she realized that it was what he had said to her when they first met. She smiled. "I'm Pat," she said. "How do you feel?"

"I feel weak," said Scott, sitting up. "But I'm feeling better now."

They smiled into each other's eyes.

"I still remember that day," said Scott. "So clearly it might have been yesterday. I remember when I first saw you... I woke up and there you were, and I wondered if I had died and if you were some spirit welcoming me into the afterlife. I fell in love with you right there and then, you know."

"I remember thinking you looked so small," said Pat. "I thought you looked young and weak... like a child. But then I saw your eyes when you woke up."

"And...?"

"And I knew where your strength really was," said Pat. "Inside, which is where it counts."

"And I remember, later on, you said... you said how miserable you were. I'm ugly, you said. And then I said..."

"...to me you're beautiful," Pat recalled.

"To me you're the most beautiful thing in the world," said Scott. "Yes. That's what I said. I thought it was the most romantic thing anyone could ever say. But I was just a boy then, wasn't I?"

"I was hardly more than a hatchling either," said Pat. "Just a lost soul."

"Like me," said Scott. "Two lost souls. But we found each other, didn't we? Not a day goes by that I don't feel grateful for that. You saved me then. Saved what was inside me, which is where it counts."

"We saved each other," said Pat, her golden eyes warm in a way they never were except when they looked at him.

"Yes..." Scott stood up and dusted the leaves off his robe. He looked around. The mist had cleared by this time, save for a few wisps that still lay over the ground. Lifrasir had curled herself right around the edge of the camp and was sound asleep. Steve was nowhere to be seen, and three of the hatchlings were gone. Two remained, snuggled up beside Skandar, who was stripping the leaves off a twig with a determined expression on his face.

"Scott?" said Pat.

"Yes?" said Scott.

"There's something I want to ask you," said Pat.

"Yes?" said Scott again. His voice was resigned. He had suspected that this was going to happen eventually.

"How did you survive?" said Pat. "Tell me the truth. No-one could have survived all those injuries. Lifrasir told me you died twice back there... but here you are, alive and talking to me. How did it happen? I know you're hiding something." She looked at him, challenging him with her eyes.

Scott sighed. "I never could fool you, could I?"

"No," Pat answered simply. "Sit down, Scott, and tell me."

Scott watched her for a time, not moving. She stared back expectantly, and after a few tense moments had passed he sat down beside her on a log, his head in his hands. Pat shuffled closer to him, her eyes never leaving his face. "Tell me," she said again.

There was silence again, and the wind sighed among the trees, their leaves making a soft rushing sound like the sea.

"It's been so long," Scott said at last. "We fought so... the war never seemed about to end. For a while I could hardly believe that someone like the Brat would think himself strong enough to challenge me, but I'll give him this; he was a determined enemy and a good fighter, in his own way. But he never earned my respect. I could never accept how much he hated the Empire, how dead-set he was on destroying it. And now he's gone. Just like that. After all those years of fighting, I saw him snuffed out before my eyes. By Rangda, of all people. A lovesick Shade was the one who finally killed him. I can't say I'll miss him; the boy was an idiot. And he nearly killed us both."

"I hated him," said Pat. "After he tortured you, I vowed to kill him."

"We both made that vow," said Scott. "And now neither of us will get the chance to fulfill it. I suppose it doesn't really matter in the end. The Brat is gone, and good riddance to him. I kept hoping he would learn better than to be so narrow-minded, but he never did. He never rose above it. He went on believing all those lies; he just wouldn't see that maybe the old riders weren't the godlike creatures he saw them as. I tried to convince him otherwise, but he wouldn't listen. And why should he have? Why should anyone listen to me?"

"You're wiser than he was," said Pat. "Wiser than most mortals could ever be."

Scott shook his head. "I can't help but feel like it was my fault, what happened to him. Like there was something I could have done to save him. Or like it was my fault that... well, it is my fault, isn't it? All of it. The Brat was right, Pat, and that's what I can't ever forget. He was right about me. He always was. Everyone who ever hated me was right. I am a monster. I was born one, I'll die one, and there was never anything I could have done to change that. But I tried."

"You're not a monster," Pat said sharply. She hadn't missed the tone of quiet despair in Scott's voice. "Never say that," she told him. "Never."

"But it's true," said Scott. He bowed his head, his dark hair falling down over his face in soft waves. "What I did... the crimes I committed... they weren't the actions of the just and noble leader I claimed to be. They were evil. And they can never be undone."

"You killed the riders," said Pat. "That wasn't evil. Many people kill. It was war; people die in war. It's inevitable."

"No," said Scott, not looking her in the eye. "It's not that simple. I didn't just kill the riders, Pat, no. What I did was far worse."

"Worse?" said Pat, uncertain for the first time.

"This won't be easy for you to hear," said Scott. "It won't be easy for me to say, either. But I can't lie to you, Pat. Your trust means everything to me. But what I'm about to tell you is one of my deepest secrets. Even Isis never knew. Everyone who knew about it is dead now, except for me. The last one left alive. I'm a survivor. Always have been." He laughed bitterly.

Pat took his hand, and listened.

"It was after you left," said Scott. "You see... back then I had lost everything. My parents. My friends. Laela, my dragon... I had seen her die. Felt her die." He touched a hand to his chest, where the pain had once torn into his very soul. "I had been betrayed by people I trusted – everyone I trusted. I had seen the last of my father's people wiped out by riders – riders who I had thought were the guardians of peace and justice in Elfthade. I saw all that happen. And then I lost you too, and I didn't know if I would ever see you again. I was utterly alone. And I was afraid. I didn't want to die. All I had left to live for was revenge, but I was obsessed by the idea that the riders wouldn't take the last thing I had left in the world – my own life. During the time I spent with the dark Elves, I learned a lot about their ways. They taught me about their magic – a kind of magic which no-one left in Elfthade knows how to use but me. They taught me magic that didn't rely on the ancient language – spells that can do things no-one else has ever conceived of. And even if I revealed them to someone else they wouldn't be any use to them. I have the mental abilities of the dark Elves, inherited from my father, and only someone with those abilities can use dark elfish magic. And the most powerful spell that I learnt from them was one that would grant its user full immortality. What the riders and the Elves have is only partial immortality – they can live forever, but they can still die. They're still vulnerable. And human riders still age. They go grey and wrinkled, they weaken. But full immortality means becoming ageless, invulnerable. Nothing can kill someone who has full immortality. Their injuries heal instantly, poison has no effect on them, they can live for years without any food or drink. But the spell that could grant those powers had never been completed; the energy needed for it was phenomenal. Not even Shades could do it. The spell had to be spoken by the one who wanted to cast it on himself, but in order to complete it he had to be fed a continual supply of energy from at least ten other magic-users. But the spell needed one other thing."

Scott paused, closing his eyes and becoming very still.

"Sacrifices," he said in a low voice. "The spell needed the lives of a number of powerful beings. It would suck the life out of them and place it in the caster's body. They would die in agony so that one person could achieve full immortality. That was the price, and I knew full well what it meant. But after I had gathered followers and the war began, I gave orders to them to try and capture as many of our enemy riders as they could. By the time we had taken Ilirea, we had about a dozen of them in captivity. And we caught the elders off-guard in the city, and took several of them prisoner as well, although Vrael escaped. One of the elders we caught was Oromis – the one who suggested turning you into an elf as punishment. I remember thinking you'd be pleased that I had him. His dragon, Glaedr, though... he got away. That night, after Ilirea fell, we gathered in the elders' chamber – the same one where you and I were condemned. And we performed the spell there and then. We formed a circle... I stood in the middle, the Forsworn made a ring around me, and behind them were the captured riders and their dragons, all in chains. And it was all ready then. I was ready. I had sent Isis away, told him to keep watch for any signs of danger. I wanted him to be safe, so I blocked him out of my mind. So that if anything happened to me, he wouldn't be affected. I'd already lost Laela, I didn't want to lose him too. It was a full moon that night, I remember. We waited until it rose. The dark Elves worshipped the moon, you know."

Pat could see he was avoiding telling the rest of the story. She had pulled away from him slightly without realizing it, and waited in silence for him to go on. She could see how much of a struggle this was for him.

"I recited the words of the spell," said Scott. "I still remember them today. Rischta, caarna, fedua, zethounis Lona... after that it was just a matter of waiting, concentrating, letting the power be channelled into me by my followers. But I never told them... they didn't know exactly what it was they were doing. They knew they were supposed to draw energy from the prisoners, but they didn't know that it would kill them. And once the spell had begun, they – we were all caught up in it. It couldn't be stopped and no-one could withdraw. It kept us trapped until the spell was completed. I remember I stood there... I could feel the energy pouring into me. It was so... I felt like a god. Like I could move mountains with my bare hands or break the world into pieces. I've never felt so... so invincible in my life. But I could hear what was going on around me. I could hear the prisoners screaming, in my head and outside it. Horrible screams. Like they were being burned alive. I can only imagine what it must feel like, to have the life just... drained out of you like that. Some of those riders had been my friends. I'd fought side-by-side with some of them, feasted with them, flown beside them when Laela was still alive. When I was sentenced to die for learning from the dark Elves, some of them pleaded for me to be released. That was when I truly realized what I was doing, and if I could have stopped it then, I would have. But it was too late. All I could do was stand there and listen to them die. Some of them called out my name as they died. Cursed me with their last breaths. Called me a monster. But the spell was never completed. It was very close to it. But that was when Glaedr returned. He came back to save his rider. Smashed straight through the wall of the chamber, just like your father did in Farthen Dûr. He carried Oromis away, and that broke the circle. Half of the Forsworn died on the spot. And the prisoners... none of them survived. The shock killed every single one of them. Normally I would have died too, but with so much energy in me I was protected. I survived. But none of us were ever the same again. The Forsworn were furious with me for not telling them the whole truth. They only stayed loyal because they had taken oaths in the ancient language. Several of them committed suicide within a few years. They couldn't bear the guilt. Morzan took to drink, and he wasn't the only one. As for me... I was left to live with the shame of what I had done. After I killed Vrael and Elfthade fell into chaos, I began to realize what was happening. What I had become. I saw that I was worse than the riders I swore to destroy. A hundred times worse. I nearly killed myself then. But I didn't. I found the strength to go on living. And I built the Empire and vowed that I would do all I could to bring peace and equality to Elfthade. And I did, as far as I could, for a long time. It wasn't a happy life. All alone in Umhlanga, weighed down by responsibilities, hated by every race in the land. Waiting for you to come back. And when you did, I felt as if I had been reborn. That was when I could finally put my past behind me. Or thought I could."

Scott fell silent.

"The spell," said Pat. "What did it...?"

"The spell was incomplete," Scott said shortly. "I never did become fully immortal. But after that day, I never aged physically beyond twenty-five. I stayed young while everyone else aged and died. And I could still be hurt by weapons. But I've taken several injuries that should have been fatal and haven't died. When I got cut and scratched and they didn't heal before my eyes, I assumed that the part of the spell that granted invulnerability hadn't worked. But one day an assassin was sent after me. He caught me off-guard – put a dagger straight through my heart. He got away, so I never found out who sent him. But a few hours later I woke up where I'd fallen with nothing more than a flesh wound. I don't know if I can be killed. I'm not immune to injuries, but I'm much harder to kill than I should be. That's how I survived, Pat. That's how I came to be here talking to you when I should be dead and buried. I suppose it explains why I'm so reckless sometimes. The Brat could never have killed me; he didn't have a chance in hell."

Silence followed Scott's story; tense, unhappy silence.

"Why didn't you tell me?" Pat asked.

Scott looked up at her, having avoided doing so since beginning his tale. "I was afraid that, if I did, you'd turn away," he said. "And I couldn't bear the thought of losing you like that. You, the only one who ever truly loved me. When you're... as hated as I am, you learn to value that."

He stood up, suddenly looking a lot smaller than before.

"I can understand if you don't want to see me any more," he said. "Truly. I'll leave you now. I don't think... I don't think I shall live much longer anyway."

He turned and walked out of the clearing with slow, heavy footsteps.

Chapter Sixteen ~ Ghosts and Visions

When Scott left, Pat didn't know whether she wanted to follow him or not. Caught in indecision, she sat where she was and watched him go, her mind a blank. The sheer enormity of what he had told her was simply too much for her to take in, and instead of thinking of it she preoccupied herself with what he had said before he left.

"What did he mean?" she said aloud. She glanced around at Lifrasir. The blue dragon's eyes were open and fixed on her. "What did he mean?" Pat asked her. ""I don't think I shall live much longer"...?"

"He was talking about his heart," Lifrasir replied in a low voice.

"His... heart?" said Pat, still confused.

"Despair can kill an immortal," said Lifrasir. "If he decides he has nothing left to live for, he may stop living."

Pat's eyes widened. "No..." she breathed. But she made no move to go after him.

"But do you care whether he does?" Lifrasir asked. "After what he told you?"

"I... don't know," said Pat.

"Decide," said Lifrasir. "Help him live, or let him die. It's your choice, Pat. Can you forgive him for what he did? If you cannot, there is no other who will. Elfthade will not mourn the passing of a monster. You must decide whether there is worth in him." The blue dragon's voice had become soft, almost hypnotic.

"Lifrasir?" said Pat. "Why are you talking like that?"

"Every man has a monster inside him," said Lifrasir. "But few men are monsters. He opened his heart to you; did you see worth there?"

"I did," said Pat.

"Then tell him so," said Lifrasir.

The mist suddenly rose from the ground once more, thick and swirling, blotting out the sun. A chill wind blew. Pat blinked and rubbed her face.

Lifrasir was still asleep. Pat watched her for a time, uncertain. She remembered the dark blue dragon speaking to her... or did she? It had felt like a dream.

She looked around at the mist. It had come back very suddenly. It was muffling both light and sound, dampening her campfire so that it burned weakly and with little heat. There was something very strange going on.

Scott walked through the trees until he came across a river flowing down toward the sea, and he sat down on its banks, under a strange rough-barked tree a little like a fir but with long, grey-green needles that dipped down toward the water like the branches of a weeping willow.

The waters of the river were clear as glass, flowing over a bed of round stones in near-silence. He sat and watched it for a long time, thinking. He had finally revealed his worst secret. Now Pat knew the whole truth about his past. He did not believe that she would forgive him for it. She had accepted his destruction of the riders calmly enough, having hated them as much as he did, but this... no creature, human, elf, dwarf or dragon, could possibly overlook a crime as hideous as his had been. Not only dark sorcery, not only the vile killing of helpless prisoners, but something that had been intended to do nothing more than interfere with the natural order of things. Ordinary immortality was something that occurred as a normal part of the world, but what he had tried to do for himself went beyond that. It wasn't just unnatural; it was nothing less than a kind of self-mutilation. If he had cut his own fingers off, it still would not have been anywhere as deep or as irreversible as what he had done. He had always been a half-breed, an unnatural mix of two races, but the spell, even partly-completed as it had been, had changed him into something more unnatural still.

All this being as it was, how could Pat still love him? She too would shun him now; he had lost the last person who truly accepted him. When he had thought she was dead it had been unimaginably painful, but this was worse. To know she was alive, but to know, too, that she would be beyond his reach forever. Not taken from him by force, but having turned her back on him by choice. But it was what he deserved. He had never been worthy of her. This was his punishment, and it was just.

Scott gritted his teeth in sudden pain, pressing his hand into his chest. He could feel his heart start to hurt. It ached and burned like unshed tears, making his hands tremble slightly. He knew what it meant. His heart was starting to die. Now that he had confessed, now that the source of his guilt was out in the open, now that he had begun to truly believe that he had nothing left to live for, he was beginning to suffer that thing which could kill even an immortal as old as he was – despair.

He knew that it could happen. He had seen it kill many of the Forsworn, either directly or indirectly. The Elves, notorious for their overly passionate way of responding to things, had many stories of members of their race who had died from heartbreak – once he had believed they were just fanciful myths, but now he knew better. Knew it was true. An immortal life could only be sustained if it had some powerful aim or purpose, something to sustain it. After Laela's death his purpose had been revenge – not the most pure of purposes, but it had been enough. During his long and lonely reign, he had been kept going by his sense of duty and also by his love for Pat and his belief that she would come back to him one day. But now he had lost the Empire, and if he had lost Pat too, what did he have left?

He wanted desperately to go to Pat, to run back to where she was and beg her to forgive him. But he wouldn't let himself do what he longed to do. He stayed where he was, dry-eyed, staring at the mist drifting up from the surface of the river without seeing it. Memories were what he saw, and what he heard. He remembered the voices of the riders as they died, calling him a monster, a traitor, cursing him. He remembered Stephen, as well. You're evil, the young rider had said. Evil. And for all his ignorance and stupidity, the Brat had been right. And so many had suffered and died because of what he had done.

Scott, his heart withering inside his chest, watched the mist through dull eyes. What did it matter if he died, anyway? What did it matter...?

The mist was very thick all of a sudden. That was odd, considering there had been bright daylight only a short time ago. He almost thought he could see shapes forming in it. He blinked, his forehead creasing in a frown. That was when he saw the faint points of light appearing in the midst of the whiteness.

There was a great mountain some way inland from the cliffs at whose base the forest of silver trees grew. The mountain had been called the Geyma Fell or Guarding Mountain by the people who used to live in that country, but now that it was Ellery's country and the people were gone it had no name. Now the mountain was Ellery's castle. The monstrously huge dragon curled up on the mountain's peak, making it look as if it were much taller from a distance. From here he had an unrivalled view of the sea and the shore, but he wasn't seeing anything right now because he was asleep. The old dragon was curled in on himself like a cat, his tail wrapped around his claws and his wings lying loosely over his flanks like leathery blankets. His great eyes were closed, his face strangely vulnerable in repose, and the air vibrated with his deep, growling breaths. No dragon had ever been as old, as huge or as Berniceble as he, and no dragon ever would be. He was Ellery, alone. And, right now, he was dreaming.

Mist surrounded Ellery in his dream; all white and swirling, so thick that it obscured all else. He wandered through it, looking for something familiar, but all he found was the mist. And, he realized, that was all there was. No sky, no land, no sea. Even the surface below him was composed of mist, somehow hardening itself into ice where his claws touched it but changing back the instant he lifted them away. He walked on, afraid to take to the air, full of the uncomfortable feeling that he was being watched.

Ellery did not like to be uncertain. He roared loudly, challenging the unseen presence to show itself. The mist took in his roar, silencing it almost as soon as it left his jaws, and as he walked on he began to see others there in the mist. They appeared only briefly, standing to either side of him and turning to watch him as he passed, vanishing when he tried to look directly at them. But he recognized them. There was Pat, her shape flickering back and forth from elf to dragon, the dark mark on the side of her neck standing out like lightning and her eyes pleading with him. There was the dark, bearded human who had stolen her from him, his gaze steady and powerful. There were the hatchlings; one human and five dragons, standing together in a group. They were unafraid of him. They trusted him to protect them. And there were all the other members of his family, some living and some dead. Skirnir, his scales shining. Lifrasir, the color of the ocean in a storm. Balisong and Katana, side-by-side. Vidar, looking like a smaller, younger reflection of his mighty grandfather. Isis and Kullervo, who he had never seen, their forms shrouded. Doug, Myrkyr, Peter, Steve and Sanesha, still bearing the wounds that their own mother had inflicted upon them. And Vervada, the monster with the dead black eyes, who hissed venomously at him.

And there, waiting for him beyond all these, was one last dragon, watching him through radiant silver eyes. Wake up, Vándr-krellr, she whispered.

Ellery's eyes snapped open. The first thing he saw was mist. White, blank mist, drifting around him, exactly as in the dream. For a moment he nearly panicked, starting upright on his perch and baring his teeth in readiness to fight. But then he realized that it was just mist. It could do him no harm. He peered around and saw that the stuff had blanketed every part of his country for as far as he could see. It even covered the beach. In all the long centuries he had spent there, he had never seen anything like this. Mist was common enough on cold mornings, but it had never been this dense or reached this high. There was very little Ellery was afraid of, but this made him uneasy. He stared at the blank whiteness, willing it to disperse. He had significant control over the weather, but he could not control this. The mist stayed defiantly where it was, and no wind came to blow it away.

Ellery growled irritably. And that was when he saw something strange. Somewhere in the mist not far away from where he crouched, there was a faint point of light like a star. At first he thought it was a glimmer of sunlight reflecting off the water in the air, but it slowly grew brighter and brighter as he watched it, and he realized that it was moving toward him. He stood up, his claws digging into the stone, and kept his eyes on the light as it drifted yet closer, moving with deceptive speed.

At last it was in front of him, and as he looked at it he saw a shape form around it. Slight and indistinct at first, perhaps just an illusion brought on by the moving mist, but then clearer and clearer, and he saw it. Her. She stood there on empty air, poised and elegant, watching him. A great, ghostly dragon. She was white and transparent as the mist, her outline shifting along with it, and the bright star of light shone inside her where her heart was. Her eyes were silver and full of deep sadness, and Ellery knew them. Knew her.

"Silarae," he whispered.

Ellery, the ghost replied, its shape wavering for a moment and then reforming itself.

"How can it be you?" said Ellery. "You're..."

Dead, said the ghost. Yes. But even the dead may come back, when their need is great enough. Love bound me to you, even in death. And it has brought me back to find you. Ellery...

"Silarae," said Ellery. Before her, his great muscles were heavy and useless, his magic meaningless. He was not the Night Dragon now, lord of this land. He was not the ancient and Berniceble destroyer, the dreaded black dragon of so many legends. He was only Ellery now. Only a young dragon, lost in the world. He was Ellery, small and lonely and aching with love. Love for his Silarae, lost and gone for so many years. "I miss you, Silarae," he said, his ferocity stripped away from him.

And I miss you, Ellery, my love, Silarae replied. But listen to me. I have come for a purpose.

"Don't go," said Ellery, suddenly afraid. "Please. Stay with me."

I have been with you all along, said Silarae. And I always shall be. Look, Ellery.

She pointed a transparent talon at the mist close to them, and a window opened in it. Through it he saw a vision. It was of a human – a human he knew. The one who wore black, the one with the penetrating stare. The one Pat had left him to be with. The human was sitting by a river, his head in his hands, and Ellery could see tears on his face.

"The human is alive?" he growled.

_Yes_ , said Silarae. _He is here in your country. He came to find Pat._

Ellery's tail lashed, the spikes tearing chunks out of the mountaintop. "He will die for this," he vowed. "No human will take my daughter from me."

_No_ , said Silarae. _Listen to me, Ellery. Pat and the human love each other, just as we did. Do not do as Stephen did to us and tear them apart. It would break Pat's heart. You already forced her to stay away from him for a hundred years, but she forgave you for it because she loves you. You are her father. But you cannot stop her from loving another as much_.

"Pat needs my protection," Ellery whispered, his eyes wide and frightened. "I must keep her safe. I don't want to lose her."

_You will lose her if you take the one she loves from her_ , Silarae replied. _She will hate you for it forever. She is not a hatchling, Ellery. Your jealousy has made you forget what truly matters here._

"I don't want to be alone," said Ellery. "I am... afraid to be alone."

_Our son is in danger_ , said Silarae. The window in the mist went dark, and then showed them a vision of a dragon. This one was flame orange, golden eyed and battle-scarred like his father. There were chains binding his legs and wings, pinning him to the ground, and he struggled in vain to break free of them, his jaws opening to let forth a howl of anguish and rage.

"Kullervo," said Ellery. "My son..."

_Our son_ , said Silarae. _Our son who you left behind in Elfthade. And our daughter._

The window darkened once more, and they saw a female dragon. She was the bright blue of a summer sky, and on her back was a rider. The blue dragon flew through a storm, her silver eyes narrowed. Silver. Just like her mother's. Ellery watched helplessly as she hurled herself at a second dragon, a red one. They fought ferociously, but the blue dragon lost. She was torn to pieces before her father's eyes, and fell from the sky, her rider clinging to the saddle in agony.

_Bernice, our daughter_ , said Silarae. _Dead for a hundred years. And our son, Isis._

Now the window showed a vision of Isis, hovering in the air at Dragons Peak. Scott was seated on his back, and man and dragon faced a circle of enemies alone. Ellery saw the cruel-faced boy on the blue dragon as he loosed three fatal arrows, first at the rider and then at Isis. He saw the son he had never known fall into darkness, Scott falling beside him, his wide-open eyes two dark pits of loss.

_Isis, our son,_ said Silarae. _The only one who mourned for him was a human. The same human who nearly died in order to find our daughter again and keep her safe._

"Isis..." said Ellery, watching the little window go dark and then fade. "Bernice. Kullervo. All lost..."

_Not all_ , said Silarae. She held her head and wings high, and her voice suddenly became harsh. _Your time of hiding is over, Night Dragon, Vándr-krellr, dark storm-dragon. I loved you in life, more than life itself. But you failed to save me, and you have failed to save Isis and Bernice, and you deceived Pat and kept her here like a prisoner. You are brave and powerful, but you have still failed._

"What can I do?" Ellery asked. "Silarae..."

_Redeem yourself_ , said Silarae. _Save our son. Save Kullervo. You must do this, Vándr-krellr._

"I will," said Ellery. "I swear it, Silarae. I will do it. I will save Kullervo."

_Do not fail me_ , said Silarae.

Far below Ellery's mountain, Scott too was watching the mist. It was condensing on the needles of the strange tree, forming silver droplets like glass decorations. Where it touched the water, it made odd ethereal shapes that changed from one moment to the next. Scott had a strange feeling from watching it – a feeling that he had seen something like this before. But he wasn't sure where until he remembered that day in Farthen Dûr – the day when Stephen had opened the Vault of Souls. Scott hadn't seen the opening itself, but he had seen some of the ghosts that had emerged from it, and they had been white and transparent like mist and had swirled and merged and reformed just like the shapes over the water. Each of them had had a white star of light inside them.

_Scott_ ...

He froze. The sound had been faint, barely audible, but he had heard his name.

"Hello?" he called, feeling foolish. "Is someone there?"

_Scott_ , the voice came again. This time it was much clearer.

"Who's there?"

_Look out over the water_ , said the voice.

Scott looked. What he saw took his breath away. It was light. A star of white light, drifting toward him over the surface of the river. And as it came, a shape formed around it. The shape of a dragon hatchling. Only small, its wings and head a little oversized. Its eyes were large and bright, fixed on his face. And he knew that dragon.

"Laela," he gasped.

The vision halted within arm's length of him, and sat on its haunches on the surface of the river, wrapping its tail and wings around it in a way he remembered very well. _Hello, Scott_ , it said.

"Laela, how can it be you?" said Scott. "How can you be here? Am I dreaming?"

_We've come back_ , Laela's voice echoed softly. _Just for a short time. See us?_

He looked up, and saw other shapes forming behind her. Some were human, some elfish, some dragons, each one with a light for a heart. He knew them, too. Oromis. Vrael. Lachesis. Carina. Menulis. Nöst. Glaedr. Einás. Brom. Every rider that he had killed or had killed was there, and their dragons were with them. The Forsworn were there too. They stood there in a great silent group, their eyes fixed accusingly on him.

_We have returned, Fárbjódr, great betrayer_ , Vrael's shade whispered.

_We are your victims, monster_ , said Oromis.

_Our blood is on your hands_ , said Menulis.

_I died in agony_ , said Carina. _Died in the grip of your dark magic. The last thing I heard was your voice. The last thing I saw was your face._

_You crippled me_ , said Oromis.

_You crippled us both_ , said Glaedr.

_Your fault_ , the ghosts hissed. _Traitor. Monster. Betrayer. Destroyer. Your fault, silver tongued bringer of death, unnatural half-breed._

"I'm sorry!" Scott cried, "I wanted to – it was all... I didn't want it to happen. I never stopped regretting it."

_You tricked me_ , said Morzan. _Tricked all of us. Said you would bring justice, but you brought us death!_

The ghosts surrounded him, all shouting their accusations, and there was nowhere for Scott to run to. Only Laela stayed by him. The ghost of the hatchling stood by his side, defiantly facing them, and when she touched him she suddenly started to grow until she was an adult. Towering over him like a guardian, she growled fiercely at the ghosts of the riders. _You killed me_ , she countered. _You murdered me. You made Scott feel my death in his heart, and you drove him mad. It was you who brought about your own destruction. I will not let you touch him._

_Murderer_ , the ghosts accused.

_Leave him alone!_ Laela shouted.

"No," said Scott.

Laela looked at him, her expression confused. _Don't listen to them, Scott_ , she said.

But Scott came forward, away from her protection, and faced the ghosts alone. "No, Laela," he said again. "No, they're right. I killed them. It was my fault. My true name is Fárbjódr – destroyer. No-one forced me to do what I did. And no matter how hard I tried to make Elfthade better, I never could. It wasn't for me to do that."

At that, the ghosts of the riders suddenly fell silent.

Laela's spirit came and stood by Scott's side. _What is it you truly want_ , Scott?

"I want to be whole again," said Scott. "I want peace. I've lived too long and suffered too much. I want to be forgiven. I want to be with Pat. I want you, Laela. Without you, I can never be whole again."

_You can have these things_ , said Laela. _If you do what must be done. Oh, Scott... our time together was the only time we were complete. We should not have been parted the way we were. But I can't make you whole again. Only you can do that._

"How?" said Scott. "What should I do? I feel so lost, Laela. I've been lost ever since you died."

Laela said nothing. Scott turned to the ghosts of the riders, which had stood and watched him in silence. "What should I do?" he asked them.

_You must redeem yourself_ , they replied immediately. _Undo your crime, Fárbjódr._

"But how?"

_Bring us back_ , said the riders. _That is your task, and no other's. Save Elfthade._

_And if you can do that_ , said Laela. _You too will be healed._

"I'll do what I can," said Scott. "I'll do my best."

_That is all you need to do_ , the riders whispered, and then they faded away into the mist.

_Goodbye, Scott_ , said Laela, her form starting to break up.

"Don't leave me!" Scott cried, reaching toward her. "Laela!"

_I will be with you_ , the dragon's voice breathed. _Always, Scott. Our time will come again._

The spirit vanished, leaving only a point of light behind. That hovered in the mist for a time, and then it leapt toward him and vanished into his body. For a moment he could see it glowing through his robe, and then it was gone, and he felt a surge of wondrous energy fill him. He turned convulsively toward the river, controlled by something other than himself. His right hand raised itself, the palm pointing toward the surface of the water, and his own voice began to speak. It formed words of power, words in both the language of the grey folk and the dark Elves, and other languages too, languages he didn't know he knew. He felt them channel this new energy, and a great beam of white light shot from his palm and hit the water. It formed a ball of bright light below the surface, and for a few seconds the river itself glowed like the full moon. Then the light went out, and he was standing there all alone in the cold mist, feeling strangely drained.

Chapter Seventeen ~ Ellery's Destiny

It was searing hot. Scott opened his eyes. He was lying on the river bank, his damp robe steaming gently in a blaze of sunshine. He felt groggy and bewildered.

He sat up, trying to remember how he had got here. What did he remember?

The memories came rushing back almost instantly. The arrival, the reunion with Pat, his confession, and finally the encounter with the ghosts in the mist.

He looked around sharply. It was a sunny day, probably some time after noon. There certainly wasn't any sign of mist – on the contrary, the air was hot and dry. The river was lower than he remembered, and full of suspended leaves and other debris. Had the ghosts been a dream, then? He didn't remember going to sleep, but the memory was vague and distorted and very dreamlike. And how could he have been talking to Laela? She was dead. Like so many others. But the memory of her was so strong that it brought a lump to his throat. What had she said to him?

In the dream... or whatever it was, he had used magic of some kind. He had cast it toward the river. He glanced at his hands, and frowned in confusion. The red scars that had been on the palms had faded to silver, and now the gedwëy ignaesia was a lot clearer than before. He didn't remember that.

Almost automatically, he glanced over at the river where he had sent his magic – or dreamed of sending it. The riverbed consisted of many large round stones, each one a slightly different shade of brown or grey. But, he noticed, there was one that stood out from the others. While they were dark, it was light, its outline wavering with the ripples in the water. He stood up, feeling a little shaky, and limped to the water's edge. There he crouched and splashed his face. The icy water helped revive him a little. When he looked up, water dripping off his beard, his eye was caught again by the pale rock. It looked like it was just within his reach. He thrust a hand into the water, stretching his hand toward the rock, but he couldn't quite touch it. He leaned forward as far as he dared, suddenly determined to get it, which was a mistake. He overbalanced, and fell face-first into the water.

The river was deeper than he'd expected. He surfaced, coughing and spluttering, and stood up, his wet robe weighing him down. The water was waist-deep, and he could feel the current tugging at his legs. Feeling annoyed, he looked around for the stone and found it again. Well, no point in returning to the shore without something to show for it. With this irrational thought, he bent and picked up the stone, and waded back onto dry land with it in his hand.

The stone was bigger than he'd thought. Like most of those in the river it was smooth. Its shape was basically oval, and it was about the right size to cup in both his hands. Its surface was ivory white, and with the water still clinging to it it looked as if it had been polished. It reminded him very much of a dragon's egg, little different from the dozens of others he had seen in his life. But it was a dead weight in his grasp, and he knew it was nothing more than a river-stone.

He regarded it for a time, feeling its smooth surface and wanting to throw it away. But something rebelled, and against all common sense he stowed it away inside his robe.

There was the sound of running footsteps from among the trees behind him. He turned, and saw Pat running toward him. The undergrowth snagged at her hair and gown, but she ignored it. "Scott!" she cried, seeing him.

"Pat!" said Scott, his heart lightening at the sight of her. The silver elf emerged into the open, and threw herself into his arms.

"There you are," she said. "I was so worried about you."

Scott kissed her forehead. "I'm sorry I went off," he said. "I needed to be alone."

Pat pulled away from him. "Have you been here all along?" she asked.

"Yes," said Scott. "How long was I gone?"

Pat hesitated. "I don't... I'm not sure," she said. "I think I slept for a while."

Scott frowned. "But why come after me?" he asked after a moment or two. "After what I did... I thought you'd never want to see me again."

"I didn't want you to die," said Pat.

"But I killed-,"

"I don't care," said Pat. "It's in the past, Scott. We have to put it behind us. We've both made mistakes, done things we're not proud of. No matter what you've done, I can still see that you're worth something. To me, you're worth everything. Forget the past."

"I can't," said Scott. "I want to, but I won't. Not until I've done what I have to do."

"There's nothing you have to do," Pat said sharply. "Stay here with me."

"I'm going back to Elfthade," said Scott. "I left it to be ruled by a pair of Shades. People who trusted me will suffer and die. I must stop Rangda and Durza. What happened there is my fault; I have to undo it."

"But why?" said Pat. "Haven't you done enough? Will you ever have done enough?"

The dream came back to Scott, and his expression became hard and determined. "I have to redeem myself," he said. "And then I can rest."

"Then I'm going with you," said Pat. "And don't say I can't!" she added fiercely, before he could reply. "I'll fight by your side. Elfthade was my home too."

"I won't stop you," said Scott. "You're not helpless, you're a fighter just the same as I am. I couldn't stop you anyway, could I?"

"No," said Pat, baring her sharp teeth in a grin. "When shall we go?"

Scott hesitated. "What about Skandar? We can't take him with us. Who will look after him?"

Pat's grin faded. "Oh-," she began, but then she broke off and looked up sharply. Scott did likewise, and even as he did so the sun suddenly went dark.

It was Ellery. The black dragon was flying down toward them, looking larger than ever, like a piece of moving night in the day. He was flying straight toward them, bearing down on them, and they could see his Berniceble eyes fixed on them.

"Run!" Pat shouted. She grabbed Scott's arm and hauled him toward the shelter of the trees, and he pulled himself together and ran.

But his lame leg was stiff and sore from disuse, and it suddenly buckled under him. He fell awkwardly, and lost contact with Pat. She reached the trees before she realized what had happened, and as she turned to come back for him as he struggled upright, they both knew that it was already too late. Ellery landed. One huge hind paw smashed into the surface of the river, demolishing a portion of the bank. The water, unable to flow over it, backed up in a mass of white foam. The black dragon's front paws landed among the trees, crushing them into woodchips, and his head immediately swung around to where Scott was trying to limp away.

"Father!" Pat screamed. "Stop!"

Ellery ignored her. He knocked Scott over, pinning him down with his snout. Scott lay on his back, utterly defenseless, feeling his bones cracking inside him. If Ellery decided to press any harder, he would be pulverized.

The black dragon's voice sounded in his head. _So you have come back for her, human._

"No!" Pat shouted again. The silver elf came running out of the trees toward her father. She took hold of Scott's arm and tried to pull him free, her other hand beating uselessly against Ellery's snout. One enormous golden eye swiveled downward to look at her. _Enough, Pat_ , Ellery's voice said, echoing in the minds of both elf and man.

"Let him go!" Pat demanded.

Ellery watched her a moment longer, and then lifted his snout. Pat hauled Scott to safety, or at least some semblance of it. He managed to get up, wincing at the pain in his chest and stomach.

Ellery made no move to stop them. Scott looked up at the dragon. _I am sorry, my Lord_ , he said, using mental speech as a form of respect. _I don't intend to trespass on your land much longer. I came to see Pat._

_So you love her_ , said Ellery.

_I do_ , said Scott. He and Pat reached the base of a large tree, and there he collapsed, clutching his chest. Pat tried to pull him away, but it was too late. Ellery's head shot forward, jaws open wide. But he was not aiming for Scott. He was after Pat. The silver elf dodged, and Ellery's teeth snapped shut mere inches away from her. Pat ran for it, and he went after her, roaring so loudly that the ground shook with it. The black dragon struck out with his claws, flattening a huge area of forest. Completely ignoring Scott, he stomped forward after the fleeing Pat, his head darting toward her like that of a heron aiming for a fish. She barely managed to avoid his teeth, and he made it quite clear that his intent was murderous when he breathed in and blew a stream of pitch-black fire straight at her. This time Pat only escaped by throwing herself to the ground, and Ellery instantly slammed his front paw down, trapping her in a cage of black talons.

But he got no further. A length of shattered wood broke on the black dragon's scales, and Scott was there. The human, ridiculously small, threw aside the remnant of the piece of wood he'd grabbed, and began to pull at the nearest of Ellery's talons, trying to free Pat. It wouldn't move, so he tried magic. But Ellery easily deflected it. The huge dragon brought his head around so that he was face-to-face with Scott.

Scott gave up his pointless struggle, and confronted Ellery. "Let her go!" he shouted.

Ellery bared his teeth. Each one was ivory white and longer than Scott's arm. Then the black dragon spoke, out loud. "You fight me?" he said. His voice was deep and growling, but he spoke slowly, the words childish and badly-formed.

"If you won't let her go, then yes," said Scott.

Ellery stared at him. Scott stared back defiantly. Pat looked on in terror. "Get out of here!" she implored. "He'll kill you!"

Ellery glanced at her, then at Scott. Then he lifted his paw and let Pat go. The silver elf scrambled upright and ran to Scott's side, clasping his hand and standing by him, facing her father.

Ellery lifted his head, looking down on the two of them. A strange sound came from his throat. It was a coarse, hacking noise that at first sounded like a cough, but then Scott and Pat realized what it was. Ellery was laughing.

_So it's true_ , he said, reverting to the silent speech. _You do love her, human._

_I would die for her_ , Scott replied.

Ellery inclined his head slightly. _Just as I would have died for my Silarae_ , he said. _I am satisfied now. You were prepared to fight me to save Pat's life, and you have proven your courage to me. You are part of my family now, human though you be._

Scott was dumbfounded. He bowed to Ellery. _Thank you, my Lord Ellery._

_I have made my decision_ , Ellery went on. _My time of waiting is over. Pat, do you wish to see your brother avenged?_

_Yes_ , said Pat.

_What are you going to do_? Scott asked.

_It is time for me to fulfill my destiny_ , said Ellery. _I am going back to Elfthade. I will destroy those who killed Isis, and I will set Kullervo free. Elfthade rejected me once, but it is still my birthplace. I shall make it mine._

_Let me help you_ , said Scott.

_You, human?_ said Ellery. _You are coming with me. And you, Pat, will come as well. All of our family will go. Now, return to your campsite. Gather your children and grandchildren and bring them to me. I shall wait for you at the clifftop._

_Yes, Father_ , said Pat.

It did not take long for Pat and Scott to prepare. They hurried back to Pat's camp, where Steve and Lifrasir were waiting. They had the dragon hatchlings with them, and Skandar as well. Pat wrapped her small son in blankets and lifted him into her arms, her bag of belongings already packed. Scott slung that on his back, and picked up White Violence. It was good to have the sword back.

Steve and Lifrasir listened as Pat told them about the encounter with Ellery. Steve immediately departed to find his brothers and sisters and bring them the summons. Scott and Pat climbed onto Lifrasir's back with Skandar, and the dark blue dragon flew them up to the clifftop where Ellery was waiting. There they settled down to wait under the black dragon's shadow, and Lifrasir left to help Steve gather the rest of their family. As for the hatchlings, they had followed Steve, having taken a liking to the one-eyed warrior.

It took an hour or so for Lifrasir and Steve to return, but they brought the other dragons with them. Skirnir, as cheerful as ever, who was very glad indeed to see his father again. Balisong and Katana, his two sisters, who were both shocked to see Scott for the first time, but who greeted him warmly enough. And then there were Peter and Sanesha, overjoyed to see their father and brother alive and well.

It was a large family, but an incomplete one, and all of them were acutely aware of it. Once they had gathered and the reunions were over, Ellery stood tall and began to speak.

_My family_ , he said, his mental tones almost warm. _Balisong. Katana. Skirnir. Lifrasir. Steve. Peter. Sanesha. Pat. And you, Scott. And the hatchlings, human and dragons both._

They acknowledged his words with smiles or bowed heads, and Ellery looked on them with a stern, almost paternal expression. The black dragon turned his head to look over at the landscape below. The soft grey-green of the forest, the silver thread of the river, the white sand of the beach and the distant slate grey of the sea, dark with storm far out from the shore.

_My country_ , said Ellery. _And my home for more than a thousand years. But I was not hatched here. I was hatched in Elfthade, which some of you have never seen. But my son Isis and my daughter Bernice both died there. And my son Kullervo is still there, and in danger. I have been gone a long time. Now I shall return. Now all of us shall return. Our time is come._

The dragons glanced at each other – none of them had known about this until now. Balisong in particular looked uneasy. _Why?_ she asked. _This is my home, right here._

Ellery growled. _Do not question me_ , he said. _I am the Night Dragon; my word here is law. We shall go back to Elfthade. Today. Now. All of you will come with me. My fight is not over yet._

_But what about Skandar?_ Pat broke in. _We can't take him with us; it's too dangerous. And he's too young to be left on his own._

Ellery's head swung around to glare at her. _Show the hatchling to me_ , he said.

Pat hesitated, but held up Skandar for her father to inspect. Ellery stretched his snout toward the child, who stared innocently at him. The black dragon's eyes narrowed, and suddenly Skandar was lifted out of his mother's arms. Pat cried out and tried to pull him back, but a strange lassitude enveloped her and she stood and watched uselessly as Skandar floated into the air, drifting up toward Ellery.

"What are you doing?" Scott demanded.

Ellery ignored him. The child continued to rise until he was hanging in the air right at the tip of the black dragon's snout, and there he stopped. He didn't seem overly bothered by this; in fact he reached out a chubby hand toward Ellery, his tiny black talons already curved and sharp. _You, little one, will not stand in my way_ , said Ellery, but he sounded thoughtful rather than angry. _No, I have a different destiny in mind for you._

"Stop it!" Pat cried. "Give him back, Father!"

Ellery didn't look at her. Both she and Scott started toward him, but the black dragon touched them gently with his magic, easily rendering them helpless. None of the dragons there made a move to help – they knew better than to interfere with Ellery.

Ellery eyed the tiny bundle of life as it hung there before him, his ancient eyes taking in the pale skin, the silvery hair, the black eyes. Skandar looked back at him, unafraid, and Ellery felt a strange fear strike at his heart. He opened his mind to the child's, touching its simple unformed consciousness with his own. I know what you are, little one, he said, knowing but not caring that the child wouldn't be able to understand him. And I know what you must become.

He felt the child's mind respond, not with words but with a feeling of strange acceptance. Grandfather and grandson were still for a few brief moments, and something unspoken, some stillness, lay between then. Then Ellery sighed and unleashed his magic. It passed from him and into the child, wrapping its fragile body into itself. Faint silver light glowed around the child's hands and feet, then brightened and spread. Within moments neither Scott nor Pat could see their son at all. Where he had been there was only a glowing ball of light, but from within it they could hear his voice, cooing with wonder.

"Stop!" Scott shouted. "What are you doing to him?"

But once again he was ignored. Ellery stayed utterly still, unblinking, his whole attention bent on completing whatever spell he was weaving. Scott didn't dare to try and interfere, knowing that if the spell was interrupted it could kill the child. He glanced at Pat, as if hoping she would know what to do.

"I don't think he's hurting him," she said quietly.

Ellery's wings twitched slightly. The dragon shuddered and then lowered his head and closed his eyes. The light faded away.

"What have you done?" Pat cried. "Father, what have you done?"

The child was gone. Where he had been there was only one thing – a silver dragon egg. Pat stepped forward as the egg gently descended toward the ground, and plucked it from the air, clutching it to her chest. Scott ran to her, and the two of them examined the egg. It was much larger than an ordinary dragon's egg, and its silver shell was patterned with black veins. Holding it in her arms, Pat turned on her father, her eyes full of horror and accusation.

Ellery settled down on his haunches, looking rather tired. _Your son is not hurt_ , he told her. _He is safe inside the egg. He will stay there for a time, and when he is ready he will hatch. In the meantime you are free to fight._

_You didn't hurt him?_ Scott said, torn between anger and fear.

_He is my grandson_ , said Ellery. _I could not hurt him. Keep the egg with you, Pat. The shell will not break unless the hatchling chooses to break it. And now we must go._

_Are you going to change me back?_ Pat asked, holding the egg close.

_No_ , said Ellery. _Pat, Scott, climb onto my back. I am releasing you from your oath, Pat._

Scott and Pat exchanged glances.

_Do as I say!_ Ellery snapped. He crouched as low as he could, resting on his elbows and laying his head and neck on the ground. Pat and Scott didn't dare argue. Pat packed the egg into the bag on Scott's back, carefully padding it with clothes in spite of what her father had said, and the two of them climbed onto Ellery's back. It was easier said than done. Ellery was so massive that it was like climbing a scaly foothill, and it was just as well that his scales were rough and that there were ridges in his skin. They climbed slowly and carefully, helping each other up, and finally reached the hollow between the dragon's shoulder blades. It was huge, of course, more than big enough for them both to sit in. Steve or one of his siblings could have joined them without much difficulty. Once they had settled into place and found handholds to anchor themselves, Ellery spread his wings, tensed like a cat preparing to pounce, and took off. Skirnir and Lifrasir followed, and so did the other dragons. The hatchlings came too, some perched on their elders, some riding the slipstream, and together they flew up and over the forest toward the sea, and away from the land of the Night Dragon. Ellery, flying well ahead, reached the storm first. Rather than fighting against it, however, as an ordinary dragon would do against an ordinary storm, he let the storm return to him. The dark clouds merged into his wings, the lightning crackled among his talons, and the wind gathered behind him and propelled him forward. His family rode on the storm with him, and together the clan of black dragons flew off over the sea, back toward Elfthade's grey shores.

Chapter Eighteen ~ Scars

The sky over Umhlanga was dark. It was not just a darkness of night, although it was indeed night. Just over the castle there was a darkness that blotted out the stars and the half-moon. From a distance it looked like a cloud, but it wasn't. It was magic. Every so often, faint lights would appear in it, some flickering like lightning, some glimmering like stars or burning like the sun. Anyone who came too close to the city would feel Berniceble fear and despair biting into them but, then again, fear and despair weren't uncommon feelings in Elfthade now. Since Rangda and Durza had taken control of the Empire, and since the last cities had fallen to them, misery had become the dominant feeling in the land. There was no joy anywhere now. Anyone who had complained that Scott's rule was a bad one had now very thoroughly learnt an important lesson – that no matter how bad a situation is, it can always get worse. And the situation in Elfthade had got worse. Immeasurably so. Anyone who even talked of resisting the two Shades was liable to be arrested and taken to Umhlanga. And those who went into the city these days never came out. For a while the rebellion led by the three men known as the Knights of Dras-Leona had brought some hope, but they and their followers had suffered a crushing defeat on the shores of the Leona Lake. Most of the rebellion had been killed or enslaved on the spot, and very few had escaped alive.
And the two Shades were not just content with keeping the ordinary inhabitants of Elfthade under their control. They had other agendas as well. Just like the riders of old, they were prejudiced against certain races – namely, the Southern Elves who had once supported the Zulus. The vendetta against them was one of the cruelest and saddest parts of this era in Elfthaden history. Rangda and Durza, fighting side-by-side with Vervada as their willing partner, sought out their secret kingdoms and settlements, and there they perpetrated Berniceble massacres. They left none alive. Within five years, the Southern Elves – the 'light' Elves, as they had called themselves – were all but extinct. If any survived, they were scattered throughout the land, lost and alone, truly knowing that their time had passed. The dwarves too had suffered, but the Shades had let many of them live on as slaves. The Humans were gone. Lacking the good sense to concede defeat, they fought back recklessly against this new Empire and, tragically but inevitably, were wiped out to the last member of their race.

And there was, of course, no chance of mercy from the new rulers. Rebels, outlaws, anyone who made so much as a token show of resistance, faced death. Many allied themselves with the new Empire – the Shades Empire, as it had begun to be called – out of simple fear. The days became dark and cold, and misery lay over everyone who lived in Elfthade. This, they knew, was true horror. This was a reign of terror. And it would never end.

Only a handful of rebels still survived, clinging on at the very edges of the Empire's dominions, but they were too weak to offer any real resistance. So far, just staying alive was their main concern.

For a while, some Elfthadens had believed that the old King would return once more to stop the two Shades. His name and deeds were remembered and talked about – how he had fallen in love with a dragon and turned her into an elf so that she could be his Queen, how he had saved Dras-Leona from his enemy, Stephen the Brat, when he came back from the dead, riding a giant ghost dragon. The stories said he was un-killable and had two souls instead of one, and that one day he would come back to reclaim his Empire and liberate them from the evil of Rangda and Durza.

But no-one really believed that. If he had ever been going to return, it would have happened by now. But he had vanished on the day the Shades took command. And no-one had seen or heard from him for a very long time.

It took days to fly over the sea back toward Elfthade. One of the consequences of Ellery's massive size was that he could not fly as fast as a smaller dragon, and he drifted ponderously over the waves, propelled as much by the storm-wind as by his wings. His family stayed behind him, sheltering under his wings or riding the wind behind him, none daring to try and overtake him. They all knew well enough that he was leading this flight, and that if they tried to go ahead of him it would make him angry.

Pat sat in the huge hollow between his shoulder blades, the wind pulling at her hair. Scott was close to her, and she could hear him muttering to himself as they drew inevitably closer to their destination. She listened closely.

"...can't do it. How can I do it, Laela, how?"

Pat realized that he was trembling. She held him close, her head on his shoulder.

And then, at last, they were there.

They arrived at night, on an isolated beach surrounded by cliffs. Ellery landed on a cliff top with a deafening thud, sending chunks of rock tumbling into the sea below. The rest of his clan landed around him, grouping themselves where he could easily see them and waiting silently for him to speak.

Ellery lay flat on his belly, his legs splayed out. He was breathing like a bellows, and a faint wheezing came from his chest. He coughed several times, making a harsh, barking sound, then shook his head and said; "You will climb down now, Pat. And your mate as well."

They obeyed. Once again, it was easier said than done. Both of them were stiff and sore after sitting down for so long, and in the end Skirnir crouched by his grandfather's leg and let them use his back as a step. Once they were on the ground, Ellery brought his head down to peer at them. His huge golden eyes blinked several times, slowly and tiredly. "Now," he said, addressing all of them. "This is what you will do. Pat, you and your mate will seek out the Shades and you will kill them. Lifrasir, Skirnir and Katana will go with you. Peter, you will also join them." He moved a little closer, his brutal face and moon-sized eyes Berniceble and fathomless. "Do not ask me to help you with this. What you began, you must finish, and if you were meant to be together you will fight side by side. If one of you dies, so must the other. But if I cannot tear you apart, neither can the Shades." He straightened up. "This is my will."

Skirnir, Lifrasir, Katana and Peter bowed their heads. "Yes, Lord," said Skirnir.

Pat and Scott glanced at each other, but then Scott took Pat's hand in his and said; "We'll do as you've asked, Lord Ellery."

Ellery showed no sign of having heard him. He groomed his wing with his teeth, nibbling at it with surprising delicacy for one so large, and then resumed. "The rest of you will come with me," he said. "I am going to the Spine to find my son and set our race free. Those who rejected me in the past will accept me now. The time when the youngster fled from his own people is past. I have come to claim my birthright."

With these cryptic words, he began to walk slowly away inland, his tail dragging. Once he was some way away from them, he took off with a few quick flaps of his wings. Within a few minutes, he had melted away into the night. Balisong, Steve and Sanesha said a few brief farewells, and followed him obediently.

The five hatchlings stayed where they were, perched on the ground around Scott and Pat's feet. Scott glanced down at them, and started a little when he saw that there was a sixth hatchling there. A white one.

He blinked. No. There were only five of them. One green, one red, one blue, one silver and one black.

"I wonder what their names are?" he wondered aloud, and irrelevantly.

Pat wasn't listening. "Scott, where should we go?" she asked.

Scott pulled himself together. "We should look for people to help us," he said. "We can't do this alone. Or we shouldn't. I left Nasuada at Farthen Dûr; we'll start there."

"The Brat's mate?" said Pat. "Why?"

Scott shrugged. "At the very least, she can tell us what's been going on while we've been gone. She's quite resourceful. And no doubt she wants to kill those Shades as badly as we do."

Pat paused. It sounded like a reasonable enough idea, so she nodded and turned to Skirnir. "Skirnir, do you know the way to Farthen Dûr?"

"Yes," said Skirnir. "Climb on my back, mother. Lifrasir, you can carry Father. Katana, stay close to us and keep an eye out for anyone unfriendly. Peter, you help her. You can take charge of the hatchlings."

Peter flicked his wings. "What am I, a nursemaid?"

"A guard," said Skirnir, rolling his eyes. "If that makes you feel braver. But keep them safe."

Peter sighed and called the hatchlings to him. They came to him happily enough, and he bade them climb onto his back. They clung there, cheeping at each other, using their wings to balance themselves. Scott and Pat mounted up, and the dragons set out.

It took only an hour or two to get back to Farthen Dûr, but they found it a very different place than it had been before.

There was a cold wind howling through the mountains, making a hollow, desolate sound among the rocky crags. The mountain which had once formed the centre of the old dwarven city was still torn open, the huge hole gaping like a yawning mouth into darkness. When Lifrasir and Skirnir landed at its peak and began looking around, they found that the ground was littered with skeletons.

Most of them were dwarfish, others human or possibly elfish, but they were everywhere, lying abandoned and exposed to the elements. Scott and Pat dismounted to have a closer look at them, and quickly decided that there must have been a battle fought there. Broken weapons lay among the bones, rusting slowly away to nothing. Scott picked up the skull of a dwarf and showed it to Pat. "Look here," he said, indicating a deep cut in the bone. "That was what killed him, most likely. Probably a sword, maybe a light axe." He tossed the skull aside. "This isn't from when we fought the Zulus here. I had the bodies properly buried or burnt. This has to have been something more recent."

Pat sniffed the air. "There are people around," she announced. "I can smell them."

Scott watched her standing there in the moonlight, poised in readiness to run or fight. "Are you sure? What sort of people?"

Pat sniffed again. "Dwarves, I think. And Elves. Skirnir, can you pick it up too?"

Skirnir's nostrils flared. "Yes," he said. "Dwarves, definitely."

Katana came to his side. "They're still here," she said.

Scott drew his sword. "We should probably-"

"Stop right there!"

The instant the voice spoke, the rocks all around them suddenly sprouted a crop of shadows. Scott and Pat backed away toward the four adult dragons, who growled warningly as the strangers emerged.

There were dozens of them, mostly dwarves, but with a few Elves among them. They appeared as if by magic from the cover all around, pointing weapons at the intruders.

Their apparent leader lit a torch and held it up, revealing himself to be a human. He was ragged and underfed, and wore an odd array of mismatched armor. There was a sword in his hand.

He took in the dragons, and rapped out a quick command to his subordinates, who backed away slightly.

"Who are you?" Scott demanded, coming forward.

The man eyed him warily. "Friend or foe?" he asked.

"Foe of the Shades, and friend of anyone who wants them gone," Scott answered promptly. "What are you doing here?"

"I might ask you the same question," said the man, lowering his sword. "Who are you? Give me your full name. And why do you have dragons with you?"

Scott sighed. "I am... Scott Taranisäii, of Teirm, son of Skandar Traeganni of the North and Ingë Taranisäii of the Ancient House of Taranis. Former King of Elfthade, known as the Riders' Bane or the Great Betrayer, although not in my hearing most of the time. And this is my Queen, Pat, daughter of the Night Dragon. These dragons are Katana, Lifrasir, Skirnir and Peter."

The man stifled an incredulous laugh. "Scott Taranisäii? Former King of Elfthade?"

"Yes. Don't bother to kneel or anything, I'm in no mood for ceremony. Now, what are you doing here? I'm assuming you're not working for the Shades."

The man blinked at him. "No, look... tell me who you really are and stop joking around."

Scott sighed. "I've never been known for my sense of humor, and right now I'd be hard-pressed to think of a worse occasion for making jokes. Now answer the question and stop wasting my time."

"Well, my name's Jarsha," said the man. "But I really don't think... uh..." he looked apprehensively at the dragons. The truth was that he would have taken them all prisoner by now, but the idea of trying to capture four large dragons was not an appealing one.

"Tell us where we can find Nasuada," Pat interrupted. "We've come to help her."

Jarsha looked helplessly at his subordinates. Several of them shrugged. He appeared to reach a decision, and pointed at one of the dwarves. "Go and get Nasuada," he said. "Fast as you can."

The dwarf dashed off.

"All right," said Jarsha. "But... look, you can't really be the King. I mean, here? Where did you come from? And if it's really you, where have you been all this time?"

"I went to find my Queen," said Scott. He kept his sword in his hand, still on the alert in case the man decided to attack. "Now, tell me what's been going on while I've been away. I assume Rangda and Durza took control?"

"You bet they did," Jarsha said gloomily. "You can't go anywhere without hearing about the horrible things they've been doing. But... look, are you really him? Scott, I mean?"

Scott stuck his sword into the ground point-first, and wordlessly held out his hand, palm-first. The gedwëy ignaesia shone faintly in the moonlight, and Jarsha gaped at it. "My gods. It really is you. What are you doing back here? You're supposed to be dead!"

"Where do people get these ideas from?" Scott said sourly.

Jarsha gave him a helpless look. "Uh..."

"He looks very healthy for someone who's dead," said Pat, snickering.

At this point the dwarf returned, and Nasuada was with him. She stared at Scott.

"You!"

"Hello, Nasuada," said Scott.

Nasuada had changed. She looked older, and tired, her face lined. But she looked tougher, too. In her hand was the green-bladed sword, Svard-Hvass. "What are you doing here?" she demanded.

"I went to find the Queen," Scott repeated patiently. "Nasuada, this is Pat, my Queen. Pat, this is Nasuada. Now, I'm assuming that you and your friends here are trying to resist the Shades?"

"We are," said Nasuada. "But how can you be back here? Where were you all this time?"

"I went away over the sea," said Scott. "So..." he eyed the Elves and dwarves who had grouped themselves behind their leader. "I have to say I'm impressed you've managed to gather this many followers in such a short space of time. But why are you still here at Farthen Dûr? Surely the Shades know about this place?"

"Spare me your sarcasm," said Nasuada. She pointed her sword at him. "Leave here," she said. "We won't attack you if you leave peacefully, but we can't let you stay here."

Pat snarled at her. "He saved your life, human. And he is your rightful King. Show some respect."

Nasuada stood a little straighter. "I haven't forgotten what you did for me," she admitted coldly. "But I can't trust you. Go now, and take your friends with you. I'm willing to put the past behind me in return for what you did, but that's as much as you'll get from me."

Scott sheathed his sword. "I suggest you think again," he said. "I'm here to help you. And if you don't accept my offer... we have a common enemy now, and time is short. So I suggest we put our differences aside. What do you say?"

"I say he's a liar," said one of the dwarves.

"And so do I," said Nasuada. "If you're expecting me to trust you, half-breed, think again. Don't think I'm stupid enough to fall for your lies. If you think you can use us to win your throne back..."

"I don't," said Scott. "And if you really don't think you can lower yourself to fight beside me, I'll go alone. This isn't about power, Nasuada. And in any case... if you'd rather have a Shade ruling the Empire, I'm quite capable of leaving you to sort it out on your own."

"We know what we're doing," said Nasuada.

"I'm sure you do," said Scott.

Nasuada hesitated, trying to decide whether there had been any sarcasm in his tone.

"You have two options," said Scott, interrupting her thoughts. "Either agree to let me help you, and we'll go somewhere a little safer and talk, or refuse me and I'll go."

Nasuada impressed him by staying firm. "I can't accept your help," she said. "You're asking me to trust you, but you're the last person I could bring myself to trust."

"Trust won't be necessary. I can take an oath in the ancient language."

"I don't speak the ancient language," said Nasuada. "The offer is meaningless."

"Lloyd can speak it," said Jarsha.

Nasuada glared at him, and he cringed.

"Ah, so Lloyd's with you, is he?" said Scott. "Very good. I was wondering what had happened to him."

"Just go," said Nasuada, her grip tightening on the hilt of her sword. "There is no way we can work with you, even if it's against the Shades."

Jarsha tugged at her sleeve. "Don't do that, Nasuada," he hissed. "We should ask the others first! What if he can help us with-?"

Nasuada didn't take her eyes off Scott. "No!" she answered sharply. "He's a liar, Jarsha. Everyone who allies with him dies." To Scott she said; "Go. Just go, before I change my mind."

"But Carnoc said-," Jarsha began.

Nasuada hit him on the leg with the flat of her sword. "Shut up!"

"I have an idea," Scott broke in. "How about I leave you to confer with your friends, and we'll meet somewhere else to discuss it with them?"

Nasuada hesitated. "I agree. However," she lifted her sword slightly "come alone. Just you and the Queen. Leave the dragons behind."

Scott nodded. "I agree. At the foot of the mountain, in one hour. I'll be waiting for you there."

Nasuada put her sword back into its sheath, nodded briefly and left, her companions following. Scott and Pat watched them go, and once they were well out of sight Pat said; "It's a trap. We should just go."

"It isn't," said Scott. "I know how she works. Lying would be too dishonorable for her. Only evil people like me do that sort of thing." He smiled thinly. "But we'll take precautions. Just in case. Katana, Skirnir, Lifrasir, you three will find vantage-points and keep a close eye on what goes on. If I don't like how things are going, I'll give you a signal. Peter, you circle overhead. Survey the area. And keep the hatchlings with you; I don't want them caught up in the middle if anything dangerous happens. Understood?"

They nodded.

"I don't understand why we have to both with them, though," said Lifrasir. "They'll never trust us. And anyway... can't we do this without them?"

"In situations like this, you need all the help you can get," said Scott. "Don't forget about Vervada. They'll have dozens of people around them that'll need killing before we can fight them directly. The more people we have fighting on our side, the better."

"But they'll never agree," said Pat. "You know what Elves are like."

"Oh, don't worry about that," said Scott. "If I really have to, I can make Nasuada an offer she'll find very hard to refuse."

"What's that?" said Pat.

"Something I happen to know she wants very badly. Come on."

An hour later, Scott and Pat sat waiting together at the base of the mountain. Lifrasir, Katana and Skirnir were nearby – Skirnir had concealed himself in a gorge nearby, and his sisters were perched on the mountainside, looking like heaps of boulders in the darkness. Peter was far overhead, his black scales nearly impossible to spot in the darkness.

Scott had seated himself on a heap of rocks, his sword across his lap, and Pat sat beside him, holding his hand. She had rarely let go of it since their arrival – it was as if she was afraid that he might be dragged away from her at any moment if she didn't keep hold of him. Plainly, she was unhappy to be back in Elfthade.

Scott stayed close to her, and silently vowed that he wouldn't leave her side again if he could possibly help it. Their long separation over the past few months had obviously taken its toll on her as much as him.

He'd made a few crude torches out of dry wood and spaced them throughout the meeting place, casting a spell on each one so that it would burn longer and brighter. The area was now quite well-lit – when Nasuada and her friends came, they would be clearly visible.

When Nasuada did come, she had three other people with her – and Scott recognized two of them.

"It's good to see you, Lloyd. And you, Carnoc... how did you get here?"

Carnoc looked at him in disbelief. He'd changed too; become leaner and harder. He was wearing a rusting breastplate and carried Ulfrid's old sword in his belt. "My gods," he said. "It really is you. How did this... how did you... where did you go?"

Scott stood up. "I went to find the Queen," he said. "I'm sorry for the absence, but I came back as fast as I could."

"As fast as-?" Carnoc choked.

Lloyd was a little calmer. "You just won't stay dead, will you?" he said.

"Sorry to disappoint you," said Scott. "Now, to begin with, why don't you tell me what's been happening these last few weeks? I saw the bones up on the mountain... was there a battle here?"

"Five years ago, yes," said Lloyd. "The Shades came here to try and remove us. We went into hiding afterwards."

The fourth person there, a small girl who looked about eleven, looked nervously at Scott and then tugged Nasuada's elbow. "Is that him, Mother?" she asked.

"It's him," Nasuada confirmed. "Come back from the dead again."

"Who's this, then?" said Scott, looking at the child. There was something oddly familiar about her...

Nasuada put her hand on the girl's head. "This is my daughter, Sif."

"I didn't know you had a daughter."

"She was born after you left," said Nasuada.

Scott blinked. "And... how old is she?"

"I'm ten," said Sif. "How old are you?" she added boldly.

"A hundred and twenty-five. Nasuada, how is this possible? How long was I gone for?"

"Nearly eleven years," said Nasuada.

A tense, bewildered silence followed.

"I see," Scott said eventually, showing no sign of surprise. "Anyway, let's get down to business. I've come back in order to fight Rangda and Durza, and I've brought some dragons along to help. However, victory would be much more likely if you were to join forces with me. Failing that, if you could give me some information about where they are and what they've been doing while I've been gone, I would be very grateful."

There was another silence.

"I don't believe this!" Carnoc burst forth suddenly. "You disappear like that for ten years, leave us all to go through hell without so much as bothering to explain why, and then you come back and expect us to help you! I can't believe I fought for you. D'you know Leonol and Ulfrid died swearing you'd show up any minute to save us? I saw them die, and the rest of those poor brave sods along with 'em, and they all did it to save your Empire while you was off somewhere, keepin' your own sorry hide in one piece." He spat at Scott's feet. "Far as I'm concerned, you can bugger off back to where you came from and leave us in peace."

Scott looked at him steadily. "I'm sorry, Carnoc. I did all I could, but I failed, and I've come back to set things right if I can."

"No you haven't," said Carnoc. "You just want your damned throne back. That's all you ever wanted."

"I've come back to set Elfthade free," said Scott. "That's all."

Carnoc snorted. "You're a liar. Leonol was right. You don't care about us. You never cared about us. All you care about is power."

"That's not true!" Pat shouted.

Scott waved her into silence. "You really think so?" he asked Carnoc.

"Yes," said Carnoc.

Scott watched him and his companions. All of them were looking at him with anger and contempt.

"I see," he said quietly. "So that's what you think."

"We do," said Nasuada. "Carnoc's right."

"You let us all down," said Lloyd. "Left us to suffer instead of you. But that's what you do, isn't it? It's what you've always done."

Pat growled at him. "Don't you dare insult him," she threatened.

"Perhaps I should show you my memories," Scott said.

Without waiting for an answer, he let go of Pat's hand and started to undo the fastenings of his robe. He shrugged himself out of the sleeves and let the garment drop to the ground, leaving him clad only in his boots and trousers.

Underneath he was thinner than anyone had realized, but sinewy. His chest and shoulders were well-muscled, his arms well-proportioned and elegant. A worn amulet hung around his neck; shaped like a dragon with an empty eye-socket like a skull, made from rusting iron.

And he was scarred. So much so that the onlookers, with the exception of Pat, winced.

Scott touched a long, pale scar that went the length of his chest, tracing it with his fingertip. "This one is from when I was a boy. A wild dragon attacked me. And here-," he indicated another scar, this one much smaller. "This is from where an assassin tried to kill me. And here-," this one was on his side, deep and puckered, obviously from a life-threatening injury. "-This is from where Vrael hit me with his sword. And here-," several long, faint scars on his upper arms and one on his stomach, "I got these when I fought the urgal clan that tried to invade Daret, fifty years ago. I went there personally to fight them off. People told me I shouldn't, but I did anyway. And here, this one, is from when I took a blow aimed at someone else, and these little pits all over my middle are from when I caught the pox during the plague in Gil'ead. I went there to treat the sick. And..." he looked straight at Nasuada, and touched a spot where his ribcage was slightly sunken, as if there was a hole under the skin. "This is where my ribs were broken while the Zulus held me captive. And these here, on my back..." he turned, and let them see that his back was a mass of painful-looking marks. "This is from when the riders had me whipped before they threw me in the dungeon. They would have executed me the next day, if I hadn't escaped." He turned around again, and continued. "And this one just above my eyebrow is from the day the dark Elves were massacred. I barely escaped that one with my life. And here-," he held out his arms, his hands palm-up as if in supplication. Both forearms were covered in ugly, raised marks. "That's from where Vervada bit me at Stephen's command. Those teeth of hers are poisonous, you know. Not deadly, but extremely painful. And here..." this was an old burn-mark on his shoulder. "This is from a magical attack. It happened on the day when..." he paused, his eyes distant. "...the day when the riders killed my dragon."

"The riders didn't-," Nasuada began.

"I assure you, they did," Scott said sharply. "There were two of them. They were under orders to kill me because my father was a dark elf. And Laela died. There, in the snow, full of arrows. I..." his voice broke. "I held onto her as she died, and saw the look in her eyes, and she said... she told me not to be afraid. And then she died." He breathed in deeply, and touched the deep, still-red mark that lay right over his heart. "And this is from where Stephen shot me."

"What's that one there?" Sif interrupted, pointing at a small scar in the hollow of his neck.

"Oh, that one?" said Scott, touching it. "That's from where Pat bit me, actually."

"Was she angry with you?" said Sif.

Scott chuckled in spite of himself, and picked up his robe. "Very."

As he was pulling his robe back on, Sif said; "And what's that mark on your neck?"

It wasn't so much a scar as a mark. It was quite faint, but was an ugly purple and red color. Scott paused in the middle of doing up his robe. "That one," he said. "Is from a very long time ago."

"Yes, but what was it from?" Sif persisted.

"It's a rope scar," said Scott.

"A what?" said Sif.

"I tried to hang myself, Sif," said Scott.

"Why?" said Sif.

"Because I wanted to die. But Pat stopped me."

He straightened his robe, and looked seriously at Lloyd, Carnoc and Nasuada. They were looking at him in shock.

"My scars are my memories," he said. "And nearly every single one of them were for Elfthade and its people. The old word for "King" comes from the name of a kind of shield, and that's what I am. I stood between Elfthade and its enemies for a hundred years, and those scars, those old injuries, were my only reward." He looked at them, his eyes a little sad. "You can call me whatever you please. Call me the Betrayer, if you want to. Call me half-breed, bastard, liar, murderer... but never say I don't care about this country. Whenever I fought to keep stability, I was fighting for you. And now I'm back to fight for you again."

Nasuada started to speak, and stopped.

"I lost as much as you did when the Shades took over," Scott added. "Believe me."

"I'll fight beside you," said Lloyd. "For a while. Not to give you back control of the Empire, but to kill the Shades."

"I appreciate your sentiments... Scott," Nasuada said stiffly. "However-"

"If noble sentiments don't impress you, there is something else I can offer you," said Scott, cutting her off.

"Oh?" said Nasuada. "Surely you aren't offering me the throne."

"The throne isn't mine to give away," said Scott. "No, it isn't that. I think..." he looked at Sif. She was an attractive child, with brown skin and blue eyes. Her hair was blonde, and she had pointed, fey features. Stephen... she had his look about her. "Stephen is your father, isn't he?" said Scott.

Sif nodded solemnly. "He died before I was born," she said.

"I expect your mother told you that," said Scott. "Yes..." he looked at Nasuada again, and raised his eyebrows questioningly.

"Durza killed him," the dark-skinned woman said coldly. "You told me as much yourself."

"I'm afraid I was lying," said Scott. "The – Stephen isn't dead. Not quite. His mind is still in there, but controlled."

Nasuada breathed in sharply. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"Because it would have been crueler to tell you the truth," said Scott. "But if you agree to help me, I can help you in return."

"How?"

"There is a way to set him free," said Scott. "If you help me, I can give Stephen his mind back."

Nasuada paused. "If you're lying..."

"No. I'll take an oath in the ancient language."

Scott stared challengingly at Nasuada, and at long last she said; "Very well. I accept your offer. Now take the oath."

Scott nodded. He switched to the ancient language, and said; "I swear on my honor as a rider that I will set Stephen free in return for your allegiance." He could feel the magic binding him to his oath, and shivered slightly. There was no going back now.

Lloyd translated his words, and Nasuada listened closely. "It's settled," she said. "We'll start making plans tomorrow."

Chapter Nineteen ~ Blood for a Shade

Scott and Pat slept in the open air that night. Nasuada still didn't trust them enough to let them enter her hideout, so Scott rigged up a hammock among some trees and he and Pat slept in each other's arms, watched over by Skirnir.

The following morning, Pat woke up to find Scott already awake. He was sitting on a log with a needle and some thread he'd got from somewhere, meticulously sewing up the tears in his robe.

Pat sat up carefully and yawned. "How long have you been awake?"

"A few hours. Since a little before dawn. Did you sleep well?"

"Better than you, apparently," said Pat. She shivered. "I had bad dreams. I kept dreaming that I was holding your hand, and then you were pulled away from me into a huge pit in the ground."

Scott smiled at her. "Don't worry, I'm not going anywhere."

"Do you promise?" said Pat. She looked at him, her golden eyes serious. "If I lost you again, it would kill me."

"I won't leave your side again for a moment," said Scott. "I promise. But I can't promise I'll stay alive. I can only promise I'll try and be careful."

"You won't die," Pat said fiercely. "Because I won't let you."

"Don't forget who we're going to fight," said Scott. "Not just one Shade, but two. And Vervada as well."

"They don't frighten me," said Pat.

Scott grinned. "They're about to face Scott and Pat fighting side-by-side. I almost feel sorry for them."

A while later, Nasuada came to join them. Lloyd and Thorn were with her, and so was Carnoc.

For the next few hours, the little group of allies talked. Nasuada gave an account of the doings of Rangda and Durza, which was as grim as it was brief. Scott betrayed little emotion while she spoke, but inside he was horrified. The atrocities which the two Shades had committed were unspeakable. They showed absolutely no concern for the wellbeing of the country; everything they did was done in order to increase their power. They had sucked the life-force out of hundreds of people, and bound the rest with magic to stop them even contemplating resistance. Torture, executions, massacres, the theft of magical artifacts... the list was endless.

Now Durza was in Umhlanga, and Rangda was roaming the country with Vervada, looking for the rebels. The rebels, who were very few in number, had been on the move for the last five years, not daring to stay in one place for too long lest they be discovered.

"I suggest we go after Rangda first," Nasuada finished. "Fighting both of them together would be suicide."

"I agree," said Scott. "Our dragons can take Vervada down once I've made an assault on her mind. Once Rangda is on the ground, we can fight her as a group. But it'll be dangerous. I've never fought a Shade directly before, but... well, Durza obeyed me for a reason."

"I don't doubt your fighting ability," said Nasuada, a shade sarcastically. "But you'd better tell us what to expect from her."

"She'll use magic before she uses her sword," said Scott. "I suggest that Lloyd and I try and wear her down." He looked at Lloyd. "I hope you remember your lessons, boy."

"Well enough," said Lloyd, unsmiling.

Once they'd made their plans, the only thing left to do was try and figure out where Rangda might be.

"That's easy," said Scott. "I'll just scry her."

"I already tried that," said Lloyd. "She made herself invisible. The dragon too."

"No-one hides from me," said Scott. "Hand me that bottle of water."

Nasuada passed it to him, and watched as he poured a small amount of it into the palm of his hand. He held his other hand over it. "Draumr kópa."

He watched the vision that resulted, then looked up at the others. "She's at Tarnag."

Nasuada started. "But that's-,"

"Yes. She's coming here. Now."

Lloyd swore. "She must have found out where we are."

"Or maybe she's just coming to look," said Carnoc.

"Anyway, it's all to the good," said Scott.

"All to the what?" said Carnoc.

"Well, we want to fight her, don't we?" said Scott. "And here she'll be completely isolated. There's no-one here to help her."

Nasuada stood up. "There's no time to lose. We have to organize ourselves. Carnoc, go and fetch the archers. Lloyd, you and Thorn go to the top of Farthen Dûr and keep watch. The rest of you..."

Scott listened as she gave out her orders. He was impressed, but to his surprise he was also feeling a little jealous. He was used to automatically being in command of other people, and seeing someone else giving the orders made him feel slightly useless.

"Skirnir, Lifrasir and Katana will attack Vervada in the air," he said, unable to prevent himself from interrupting. "I'll ride one of them."

"And I'll go with you," said Pat.

Scott nodded. "Lloyd, you be ready on the ground below. Attack Rangda the instant she's within range. I'll join you as soon as I can. The rest of you, keep your distance but attack her with any ranged weapons you've got. Throw rocks if you have to. Anything to keep her distracted. She can't fight a dozen people at once. I'll join up with you, Lloyd, and we'll show her a little sorcery. If we fail... the rest of you make like the Red Dwarves at Dragons Peak and run for it. Understood?"

Nasuada gave him an irritable look, but said; "A good plan. Get to it, everyone."

It took them only an hour or so to get into position. Scott and Pat got onto Lifrasir's back, and she, Skirnir and Katana took to the air, making a wide circle around Farthen Dûr. Peter, much to his irritation, was told to take the hatchlings and go to the safety of a nearby valley.

Thorn stood at the highest point of the mountain, his golden eyes fixed on the horizon. He was the first to see Vervada coming. When the distant silver speck appeared over the mountains, the red dragon let out a deep roar. Katana, Lifrasir and Skirnir answered it.

Sitting on Lifrasir's back, his arms around Pat's waist, Scott pushed his hair out of his face and watched the warped dragon and her rider as they entered the valley in front of Farthen Dûr and came steadily closer. He realized that his heart was pounding.

On the ground, Nasuada watched from among her archers. She realized she was holding her breath, and sighed it out again.

Something white flashed across her vision, and she nearly swallowed her own tongue. She whirled around, drawing her dagger instinctively in readiness to fight whatever it was, but it was only a bird.

A large raven, its feathers pure white. Nasuada stared at it. "Blagden?"

The raven cocked its head, its beady black eyes disconcertingly alert. "Wyrda!" it screamed at her.

"Blagden!" said Nasuada. "It is you. What are you doing here? I thought you must be dead."

The white raven was bedraggled and looked thinner than before. He must have been living on his own since the destruction of Ellesméra. He looked straight at Nasuada and said; "Wyrda!" again.

Nasuada checked the sky again. Vervada was very close now.

Bobbing agitatedly on his branch, Blagden spoke again. "Beware!" he croaked. "Beware, beware the betrayer, beware!"

Nasuada went cold. "What betrayer?" she glanced up automatically at the sky, where Lifrasir was circling, her two riders just visible on her back. "Is it him, Blagden?"

"Live forever, remember forever," Blagden intoned. "Beware!"

Before Nasuada could ask him any more questions, the white raven took off in a flurry of feathers, flying straight up into the sky like an arrow, and was gone.

On Lifrasir's back, Scott watched Vervada's approach and readied himself for the attack. This was it. As soon as she was close enough...

"Look at that," said Pat. "Is that a raven?"

Scott blinked. The white raven drew level with them in the air, and perched on one of Lifrasir's neck spines. It fixed him with its bright eyes, and said; "Wyrda!"

"A talking raven," said Pat. "Huh. Try and catch it, will you? I'm hungry."

The raven looked at them, then at the oncoming Shade, and began to speak. "Four will die, four will die, two of his and two of hers. A King chosen, a bond reforged, a promise broken and a true name fulfilled. One with a mismatched blade sees their Pat die at the traitor's hands, when the Rider with no dragon meets his Doom."

Scott batted the creature away with the back of his hand. Blagden took flight, croaking indignantly. As he hovered by Lifrasir's head, the blue dragon flicked her head toward him and deftly caught him in her jaws. The white raven's bones crunched between her teeth, and she swallowed him and sneezed. "Feathers taste horrible."

Scott wasn't listening. Vervada was upon them. "Hold onto me," he told Pat, and reached out with his mind.

He found Vervada's consciousness with ease. The warped dragon was already reaching out with her own mind, intending to seize control of his companions.

No time for half-measures. He slid out of his own body and into hers, breaking through her mental barriers after a fierce struggle, and suddenly he was inside her. He looked out through her eyes, felt her body as if it was his own. And, to his shock, he found that he was not the only one in there. There was another presence: Rangda's. The Shade was touching Vervada's mind, not controlling it, but sharing her thoughts with it.

The realization trickled through his own mind like icy water – They were linked. Rangda had bonded herself to Vervada. She was a rider.

Rangda detected his presence almost instantly. "Get out!" she screamed, and he could catch the raw fear behind the words. He could hardly believe it. A Shade, frightened.

"I'm sorry, Rangda," he said as he wrapped his mind around Vervada's, blocking her powers and protecting his friends. "Would you like to know what it feels like?"

Without waiting for an answer, he gathered his strength and took control of the dragon's body. He let his consciousness merge fully with hers, severing all ties to his own body. Vervada resisted powerfully, but he beat her down remorselessly. Her wings were his now, and he beat them powerfully, driving her straight toward Lifrasir's waiting talons. The three dragons closed in on Vervada, teeth bared, and began to rip her to shreds.

And now he paid the price for what he'd done. His mental voice joined with Rangda's and Vervada's, as he felt their pain. He could feel Vervada dying – and he was dying too.

He looked out desperately through the silver dragon's reddened eyes, and saw Pat. She was holding onto his body, which had gone limp.

The words tore from Vervada's throat. "HURT ME!" They were loud and harsh, maddened and fading. Scott fought against his own terror, and spoke again. "Pat! For the love of gods, hurt me! NOW!"

Pat heard it. She held onto Scott's body, paralyzed with fear, speaking his name and trying to wake him up. He didn't respond.

In seconds it was over. Lifrasir, Skirnir and Katana tore Vervada's wings to pieces, and the silver dragon tumbled from the sky, head-downward, her throat ripped open and gushing blood, unable to speak another word.

Pat patted Scott's cold face. "Scott, wake up! Can you hear me?"

There was no response. But when Vervada's body hit the ground far below, he shuddered all over before going limp again. In desperation, Pat slapped him.

Scott's eyes flicked open. He gasped in a breath, and grabbed hold of Lifrasir's neck, hanging on for dear life.

Relief flooded through Pat. "Oh, thank the sea and the sky! What happened to you?"

Scott's breathing was fast and shallow, as if he had just run a mile. "Thank gods," he gasped. "I thought I was lost." He pulled himself upright with an effort, and quickly touched his face as if to reassure himself that it was still there.

"Are you all right?" said Pat.

"Fine," said Scott. He looked down over Lifrasir's shoulder, and saw Vervada lying on the ground below in a crumbled heap. Lloyd and Thorn were already rushing to attack. "Lifrasir, take us down!" he yelled. "Now!"

Lifrasir didn't need any more prompting. She dived.

On the ground, Rangda pulled herself free of Vervada's broken, bloodstained form. The silver dragon was dead, and now... now Rangda knew what it was like.

The Shade looked around dazedly, her eyes blank and dead. She could feel a horrible, deep ache in her chest where Vervada had been, and it was a Bernicefying and bewildering thing for her. She had never really felt pain before. Not like this. Where had her certainty gone? Before she'd always known what to do, never been at a loss, never been confused. But now that Vervada was dead, she felt... lost.

Rangda was given no time to try and come to terms with these new feelings. She had barely extricated herself from Vervada's body before she was attacked.

Seemingly from out of nowhere, a hail of arrows hissed toward her, embedding themselves in her arms and chest. She let out a scream of anger and tore them out, flinging them carelessly onto the ground. Those didn't hurt.

Rangda drew her sword. The blade of Stephen the first rider shone a rich golden-yellow in the sunlight, and she held it ready to attack her still-unseen enemies.

More arrows came for her. She deflected them with a shielding spell, silver light forming a halo around her fingers. And then she saw the man running toward her. He was followed by a red dragon, and in his hand was a sword. A red-bladed sword, set with a ruby the size of an egg. A sword she knew all too well.

"Zar'roc," Rangda hissed, and attacked.

Lloyd was ready for her. He managed to block her first attack with a fast counter-spell, but almost instantly she followed it up with another attack, and another, and another thick and fast.

Lloyd felt leaden shock settle into his stomach as he summoned up shield after shield to defend himself. He had never imagined that the Shade would be this fast. It was like trying to fight an oncoming storm. She barely paused between each spell. It was all he could do to simply stand his ground; actually counter-attacking was impossible. He had no wish to be hit by one of her magical weapons; each one was so powerful that it instantly shattered every shield he put up against it. Any minute now and she was going to hit him directly, and when that happened he would probably die.

Lloyd started to panic. Where was Scott?

As he fought on with increasing desperation, a horrible thought occurred to him. What if Scott wasn't coming? What if it had all been a trick? What if he was going to just let Rangda kill him?

Then Lifrasir landed, and the ground shook. Scott and Pat slid down from her back and ran to join the fray, and moments later Lloyd found himself fighting side-by-side with his former master and his Queen.

Rangda let out a screech of maddened fury when she saw Scott. "YOU!" she bellowed, pushing forward to attack him with all her might. He blocked her with impressive speed, and counter-attacked in the blink of an eye.

Now things were even. Rangda was fast, but not fast enough to effectively attack three opponents at once. Lloyd, Scott and Pat sent a relentless barrage of magic at her, scarcely pausing to take breath, and now it was Rangda who was struggling to hold her own.

Still, the two Elves and the elf were not strong enough to defeat the Shade. Now it was only a question of endurance. Who would run out of magic first – Rangda, or them?

Of the three, Scott was the most skilled. He fought as quietly with magic as he did with a sword, his hands outlined in black energy, sometimes casting spells using words Lloyd had never heard before – words with a strange mellifluous sound that did not belong to the ancient language.

Pat was wild and savage, roaring the words of each spell as if they were a battle-cry, her silver hair flying and her eyes aglow. She was nowhere near as skilled as Lloyd, but she was quick and strong, and relentless.

The struggle dragged on endlessly, with neither side showing any decisive signs of winning.

After what felt like days, Lloyd's vision went grey and the red light around his hands died. He gave a little sigh and collapsed, Zar'roc falling out of his grasp. Thorn darted forward and dragged him to safety, leaving Scott and Pat to fight alone. But they too were starting to weaken.

Scott's heart sank when he saw Lloyd fall. Any minute now he too was going to be too drained to continue, and if that happened, he and Pat would both die. He gritted his teeth and fought on as hard as he could, not letting up for an instant.

And then, at long last, it happened. The light around Rangda's hands dimmed and then faded away. Her magic had failed her.

Almost instantly, she was struck by a barrage of spells from both Scott and Pat. The Shade went down, enveloped in flames, and a ragged cheer came from Nasuada's watching followers.

Scott and Pat ceased their attack and rested, both pale and exhausted. Pat was quick to begin summoning another spell, but Scott said; "Don't. You won't kill her that way."

Rangda got to her feet, slowly and painfully. She was a horrible sight. Her hair and clothes were blackened and singed, and her front was a mass of painful-looking burns, raw red and weeping thin blood. But she showed no sign of feeling it, and her eyes were burning with hatred. She was still holding the golden sword in one hand, and without warning, she rushed at them, screaming a word. "Vervada!"

Scott's grip tightened on the hilt of White Violence. He lifted it in readiness, and he and Rangda met with a deafening clash of steel.

This was true sword-fighting. The human and the Shade circled each other, their swords moving in a blur of white and gold. Every thrust, every parry, everything was elegant, fast and fluid. This was a fight to the death disguised as a dance.

Scott felt his confidence soaring as he deftly deflected Rangda's sword. Now he was certain of winning. No-one had ever bested him in swordplay, and no-one ever would.

He darted around Rangda, intent on attacking her from the left before she could turn to face him properly.

Too late, he remembered.

Pain shot through his lame leg. The knee buckled, and he fell sideways.

Pat saw him fall. Without a second thought, she snatched Lloyd's sword from the ground and charged forward.

Rangda saw her coming. Like a cat, unable to ignore sudden movement, she forgot about Scott and turned to meet the elf, raising her own sword in readiness to attack her.

Pat didn't think. She didn't recall any of the proper moves which Scott had taught her. She simply hurled herself at her enemy, roaring her hatred, and drove Zar'roc straight through Rangda's heart.

In the same instant that the blow was struck, she looked into her enemy's eyes. And then a rush of blinding energy blotted out the world, utterly destroying Rangda's body and then blasting into Pat's mind. A blur of confused images passed before the elf's eyes; words, names, ideas, places and people. Beware thy powers, Alsha, do not toy with spirits; they are not for games, my child. Words that should have been heeded. There was a scream and a roaring darkness, and a girl who howled and clawed at her face as her long hair bleached to white and a new voice entered the world, cold and silvery. I am Rangda.

Pain overcame Pat's senses, and she saw no more. She never felt herself hit the ground. The last thing she heard was Scott's voice cry out her name, and then it was all over.

The silver elf crumpled before Scott's eyes, the sword dropping from her fingers. He ran to her, screaming her name, lifting her into his arms. Her skin was cold. He felt desperately for a heartbeat.

There wasn't one.

Chapter Twenty ~ Tool of Fate

She was lost.

She ran through howling blackness and icy cold, faster and faster, the metallic taste of fear in her mouth. She didn't know where she was or how she had got there, but as she ran, she saw things that she recognized. She saw herself. Not just one self, but many different versions. She saw herself as she had been in the past. Same name, same soul, but always changing. Happy, sad, angry or afraid. From warrior to lover to mother to daughter to leader to fugitive. All different. All one. All her.

She ran and ran, never tiring, her shape flicking back and forth all the while. She could not see her pursuer, but she was always there, just behind her, dragging her own memories behind her, seeking to catch her and smother her under them forever.

And still she ran, her voice echoing all about. Who you?... not understand. Not like elf. My father, not hear for long time. Your kind are my enemies, I will tell my father if it takes me a hundred years, you stole me, the storm, the storm he said, protection, I do not owe the race of the Elves anything, you are all scum, cowards! I have no name, I am not an elf! I am a dragon!

But she did not know which one she was. Here, she was both. And a storm was gathering all around her, and she was afraid.

Caught up in the roar and flash and the savage wind, she cried out. HELP ME!

That was when she became aware that there was a third presence. It was all around her and growing stronger by the second, its warmth banishing the cold. Her fear died when he came.

A great dark dragon, lithe and powerful, his shape flicking back and forth, surrounded by a ghostly white glow. He attacked her enemy, driving it away. She turned and joined her strength with his, and the enemy's memories faded, one by one. And as they left her, a new and powerful certainty filled her. I remember now, she thought. Elf and dragon, dragon and elf, she was both.

The dark dragon changed into a dark man, and held out his hand toward her. Follow me.

She took it, and let him show her the way back.

Pat's eyes blinked open.

The first thing she saw was a pattern of leaves, glowing green in the sunlight. A light breeze ruffled her hair. She felt warm and aching.

She raised her head with some effort; it felt several times heavier than it should have, and throbbed unpleasantly. She found that she was lying in the hammock under the trees, with several blankets over her and another folded under her head to serve as a crude pillow. How had she got there? Fear bit into her, and she looked around for Scott.

He was nearby, slumped against the trunk of a tree, his face deathly pale, not moving at all.

Pat's eyes widened. "Scott!"

Scott jerked upright. "What? What's going on – Pat!" He got up and was at her side in seconds, clasping her hand. "Are you all right? How d'you feel? Is there any pain?"

Pat sighed deeply. "Scott," she said. "I thought you were..."

To her surprise, he looked guilty. "I didn't mean to fall asleep, but it's been three days..."

Pat tried to sit up, but slumped back again. "What happened?"

"You killed Rangda," said Scott. "There's nothing left of her. She tried to take your body over after hers was destroyed. You were like... your heart stopped beating for a few minutes. I had to give you some of my energy of you would have died."

Pat looked up at him. His eyes were red-rimmed; he was unshaven and disheveled, and the hair he took so much pride in was lank and greasy. He looked as if he hadn't slept in days. "So you stayed by me the whole time?"

"Of course I did," he said. "I couldn't... if you'd died while I wasn't there... and Rangda was still in your head."

"I remember it," said Pat. "But you drove her out for me. You saved me."

He blinked. "No I didn't. I tried to reach into your mind, but I couldn't get in."

"Why not?"

"You were blocking me. If I'd forced a way in, it would have hurt you."

"But I saw you," said Pat. "You were there, and you helped me..."

"Not me," said Scott. "Maybe just the memory of me." He smiled, his tired eyes a little brighter. "Sometimes when someone suffers an attack like that, they summon up something that means a lot to them. Something that helps them remember who they are."

Pat gave his hand a squeeze. "You should rest."

"I'm fine," said Scott. "Here, have something to drink." He handed her a flask of water.

Pat drank as deeply as she could. The water tasted of leaves and dirt, but it was cool and sweet, and made her feel a lot better. "So Rangda's dead," she said, once she'd emptied the flask.

Scott nodded. "Vervada too. You saved my life, Pat. This damned leg of mine just folded up, and if you hadn't done what you did... when I thought you might die, I blamed myself for it."

Pat prodded him in the chest. "Stop being silly. You always blame yourself."

Scott pretended to look contrite. "Well, all right. But it would've been very selfish of you to go and die on me."

"Don't presume to tell me what to do," said Pat, mock-indignant. "It's my life and I can die if I want to."

"Yes, but if you died I'd have to die as well," said Scott.

"Why?" said Pat.

"Because wherever you go, I go." He grinned. "And if you think you can get away by running off into the afterlife, think again."

Pat had to laugh. "You're demented. Honestly. Has anyone ever told you that?"

"Hundreds of times," said Scott, with a kind of playful sulkiness. "And if anyone else but you said it, I'd punch them in the stomach."

Pat prodded him again. "Because you know that if you punched me, I'd hit you right back."

"Exactly. Now, wait here a few moments... I'll get you something to eat."

Pat watched him as he rummaged through a bag of provisions. Not for the first time, she considered how lucky she was to have him. Since the day she had hatched, everyone she trusted had betrayed her. Einás, the old elf who raised her. Her sister, Bernice. Her brother, Kullervo. Even her own father had deceived her.

Throughout her whole life, only one person had always been there for her, and that was Scott. He had never lied to her, or fooled her. He had confided his darkest secrets to her, and made himself vulnerable to her in a way he would never do with anyone else. He trusted her completely, just as she did him.

And she noticed how he acted a little differently when she was there. She almost never saw him smile or laugh with anyone else, or make a joke, or be playful. In spite of his great age he could still make himself young – but only when she was with him. It was as if he had a lightness and a joy in him which only she knew how to release. She saw him as no-one else did or ever would. They all saw someone dark and brooding and sarcastic, with a humorless laugh and cold, commanding voice. They saw Scott the King. She was the one who saw his other side. She saw someone who was closer to what he had once been, long ago, before he became so lonely and wounded. What she knew was that underneath the mask he wore was another him, a younger him – a headstrong, mischievous, carefree boy – one who wore a touchingly serious frown when deep in thought, but whose eyes lit up when he smiled, as if the flame of life inside him was too bright to stay hidden. One who would rush into things on a whim and get himself into trouble, but somehow always find a way out again. Who would show off his abilities with a kind of cocksure showmanship, often glancing at his audience to make sure he had their full attention, and who would sulk if someone did something he didn't like – such as calling him Arren, or suggesting that he was mentally unstable. Who fussed over keeping his hair neat, and talked quickly and waved his hands about when he was excited, and swore in dark elfish if things weren't going his way, but who, in spite of his brash self-confidence, was more vulnerable than anyone she had ever known. It showed from time to time, when he talked about the past. When he spoke of Laela, or his parents, or the fate of the riders, his voice would go quiet and his eyes distant. She sometimes considered that it was moments like that which revealed the part of him she loved the most. It was the first version of him that she had seen; that sad, distant look was the one he had worn when he first looked at her and asked her who she was and said that she was beautiful.

That was the side of him she cherished, and he occasionally did show it to other people. But none of them ever truly saw it. Perhaps the mask of the King held them back.

With a little chill at her heart, she realized that his remark about following her into the afterlife had not truly been a joke. She was all he had in the world, and if he lost her, it would almost certainly destroy him. Even an immortal could only bear so much loss before they broke under the burden. It had been the same for her, and she vowed there and then that, no matter what happened, she would not let him die. If she had to stand between him and Ellery himself, she would, even if it meant her own death.

Scott returned to her side with some bread and cheese and a handful of dried berries. "I'm afraid it's all we've got," he said apologetically, offering it to her.

Pat ignored the food. She pulled him down toward her and kissed him. He kissed her back, and the two of them shared an awkward embrace.

They didn't let go for a long time.

When they finally parted, Pat had a go at eating the food, although each mouthful seemed to take a year to chew.

A thought occurred to her. "Where is everyone?"

"Oh... well, the dragons are off hunting. Peter was here a while ago, but the hatchlings wouldn't let him sleep. Little beggars never seem to stop going."

"What about Nasuada and Lloyd and the rest of them?" said Pat.

"Back in their hideout, wherever that is." Scott pulled a disgusted face. "They wouldn't let me take you there where it might've been a little more comfortable. Said they didn't want me to know where they were hiding. I told them you might die if you weren't properly cared for. Might as well have told them you had a splinter in your hand for all the concern they showed. Pack of bloody ungrateful..."

Pat growled under her breath. "I hate them. Can't they just put the past behind them?"

"Of course not," said Scott. "It's us, remember? The evil ruler and his evil queen. We're just lucky they didn't decide to try and kill us on the spot. But I don't think they hate you quite as much as they used to. You killed Rangda, after all, and that's not something anyone's likely to forget in a hurry. Do you know how many people have ever managed to kill a Shade? About four, I think, and only one or two survived it. Oh, and I think this is yours." He picked up a sword that was leaning against a tree, and held it out for her.

Pat touched the hilt. It was Rangda's sword, the yellow-bladed weapon that had once belonged to Stephen, first of the elfish riders. She hadn't had such a close look at it before, but now she did she was surprised by how beautiful it was. The blade was tapering and elegant, the hilt crafted from gold and set with round stones like little suns. On the crosspiece, just below the blade, was the name 'R`dull-Vidr'. Sunbeam. The first of the riders" blades.

"Yours by right of victory," said Scott. "And these, too." He rummaged in his pocket and produced a handful of finely-crafted silver rings. "Rangda's, too. I picked them up off the ground after she disintegrated. Took hours to find them all."

Pat took them. Each ring was silver, each one beautifully made. No two were alike. Every dragon is fascinated by things which shine and glitter, hence the tales of wild ones who hoarded treasure (although most of the time said "treasure" consisted of pieces of shiny rock and glass and other rubbish). Pat put the rings on her own fingers with some pride.

"They suit you," said Scott. "They're calling you Shadeslayer, now. Pat Shadeslayer."

Pat blinked. "Why?"

"It's an honorific thing. Take pride in it; there aren't many people who can call themselves Shadeslayer. None living, anyway. And once you've recovered, it'll be time for me to try for the same title. Word will have reached Durza about what happened by now, and I'll be my beard he isn't happy about it."

Pat shivered. She'd almost forgotten that there was still another Shade left to fight. "You're going to go after him?"

"Yes. Although it wouldn't surprise me if he showed up here in person. Rangda was his Pat, after all. Hell, if it was me, I'd throw myself into a pit of lava if it meant getting revenge. But if he doesn't come, I'll go to him."

"Do you really have to do it?" said Pat.

He nodded. "I gave my word that I would. And anyway, Durza betrayed me. Him and Rangda both. They cheated me out of my revenge and stole my Empire from me. If it weren't for them I wouldn't be in this sorry state. Well, I'll make him pay for that. Never let it be said that I don't remember it when I owe someone a bad turn."

There was a sound of voices from nearby. Scott tensed immediately, reaching for his sword, but it was only Sif. The girl entered their little clearing, giggling and breathless. She was holding a stick in one hand. When she saw Pat, she stopped and said; "Hey! The dragon lady's awake!"

Scott put his sword down. "Hello, Sif. What have you been up to?"

"Uncle Lloyd's been teaching me how to do sword fighting," said Sif. "He said I'm really good at it," she added proudly.

"Your father was a good swordsman," said Scott. "I fought him twice."

Sif lost her smile. "Mother said you were a bad man."

"Did she now," Scott said evenly. "That was rude of her."

"She said you tried to kill Father," said Sif. "She said you killed lots of people."

"Really," said Scott. "Did you know what your father did?"

"My father was a hero," said Sif, lifting her chin defiantly. "He saved lots of people, and..."

"...disturbed the peace, killed lots of people dishonorably, had me beaten and poisoned and locked in a cell for weeks in total darkness without any food, murdered my son and several of my grandchildren, ran away from a battle and left his followers to die in his place, killed my dragon and left me crippled for life, caused civil war that left thousands of people dead, sent an assassin after a pregnant woman, tried to kill a baby that was only a few days old, destroyed entire cities and killed their inhabitants for refusing to follow him, led his followers to their deaths out of pure stupidity, and then got himself turned into a Shade and left the Empire in the perfect position to be taken over and turned into the miserable place it is now. And when he wasn't doing that, he was whining and complaining and expecting to have whatever he wanted handed to him on a silver platter." Scott paused. "But he was a very good swordsman."

Sif looked at him blankly, and he resisted the urge to tell her it made her look a lot like her father. "You're a liar," the girl said eventually, sounding upset.

Scott ground his teeth. "You know what? I am very, very tired of hearing that. Oh, hello, Lloyd."

Lloyd appeared from among the trees. "There you are," he said to Sif. "Don't wander off like that. Oh, hello... Scott. Oh! Pat! You're awake! How are you?"

"Well enough, Lloyd," said Pat.

Sif was almost in tears. "Uncle, he said bad things about Father," she said, pointing accusingly at Scott. "He said he was evil!"

Pat hid a smirk behind her hand. "Your niece just learned that it's a bad idea to call the Brat a hero when Scott is around."

Lloyd didn't look amused. "He didn't get on well with your father, Sif. Don't listen to him."

"I never said he was evil," Scott said mildly. "Arrogant and stupid, yes, but not evil."

"And now he's enslaved," said Lloyd, still addressing Sif. "And the... the bad man is going to set him free whether he wants to or not. Because he promised your mother he would."

Scott sighed. "Come on, Lloyd – don't try and tell me you've forgotten what he did."

"He was still my brother," Lloyd said, with a stubbornness that was distinctly Stephen-like. "And I blame you for what happened to him."

"Me? How is it my fault? I wasn't the one who-,"

"You stood by and let it happen," said Lloyd. "You said you had the power to kill a Shade, but you ran away. Why didn't you stand and fight?"

"Because I would have died," said Scott. "Me, fight two Shades at once? On my own? You have to be joking. I would have been killed."

"And no-one would have cared," said Lloyd.

At that, Pat rolled out of the hammock. She landed awkwardly on her feet, stood upright with Scott's help, then strode unsteadily toward Lloyd and slapped him across the face, hard. Her claws left a row of gashes on his cheek. She grabbed him by the collar, almost lifting him off his feet, and dragged him forward until they were face-to-face. "I would have cared," she snarled. The silver elf almost threw the astonished Lloyd to the ground, then pointed at Sif. "If he had died, her mother would have died. If you say anything like that to him again, I'll rip your head off."

Sif ran away. Lloyd scrambled to his feet. For a moment he stood there in indecision, staring at his former King and Queen. They stared back, stone-faced. Lloyd touched the hilt of his sword, then ran after Sif, calling her name.

Scott and Pat stayed where they were, watching the young rider disappear off into the trees.

Once he was gone, both of them started to laugh.

"Oh, gods, the look on his face," said Scott, sniggering. "I'm going to remember that for the rest of my life. Pat, did I mention how much I love you?"

In spite of her lingering rage, Pat was unable to hide a grin. "He really thought I was serious."

"You weren't?" said Scott.

Pat nodded solemnly. "Of course I was serious. It makes me furious when people talk like that to you. You shouldn't let them get away with it."

Scott shrugged. "They have every right to be angry with me. A few insults is the least they can throw at me."

Pat realized her gown was torn and grubby. Her bag was sitting at the base of the tree by the hammock, so she went to it and started rummaging through it for a new one. The silver egg was still in there, and she lifted it out and examined it, feeling its surface. It was warm. And when she put her ear to it, she could hear a heartbeat.

"Is he all right?" Scott asked. "I kept a close eye on him while you were unconscious... he's alive, but he doesn't seem to want to come out. Assuming that's what your father had in mind."

"He'll hatch when he's ready," said Pat. "We can trust my father. He'd never hurt a member of his own family."

She put the egg down carefully, and took out a new gown, this one light blue. She pulled off the old one. Completely naked with the new gown in her hands, she turned to Scott and said; "You shouldn't trust them. They'll betray you again."

He eyed her appreciatively. "I don't have a choice. I made a promise."

"Then you shouldn't have," said Pat. She donned the new gown, muttering; "Elves are ridiculous. No scales, so they have to cover themselves with cloth. What were you thinking, taking an oath like that?"

He shrugged. "We have a common cause, and they wanted an oath."

"But in the ancient language? And to them? Why bother, anyway?"

"Because I want revenge. And because I made a promise. I have to bring the riders back."

"Why?" said Pat. "They were despots. You hated them as much as I did."

"They didn't have to be like that," said Scott. "Many of them weren't. They were just taught by the wrong people. Every young rider had the same nonsense ground into his head. Stop being human, be like an elf. Everyone is inferior to you. Kill people who won't obey." He spat contemptuously. "I couldn't change the world. Not even after a hundred years. But if there were new riders, and I could teach them what I know... who knows? Maybe something good could come out of it."

Pat took his hand. "No," she said softly. "It was a dream. An impossible dream."

Scott looked sorrowfully at her. "But it's a dream I still haven't given up."

Pat let go of his hand with a slightly exasperated gesture. "You've got that look again," she said, striding off to pick up R`dull-Vidr. "I don't like it. Not one bit. Those Elves are out of their minds. What were they thinking when they told us we'd been gone ten years? It's ridiculous!"

"We were gone ten years," said Scott. "Didn't you see the child? She's at least ten years old. Nasuada was pregnant when I left her here, and the Brat was the father. She can't have been born before then – we both saw Nasuada when we had her prisoner. No daughter then, or any mention of one."

"But we weren't gone that long," said Pat. "You only left here a week or so ago."

"That's what I thought," said Scott. "But we've lost ten years. Remember when we were in your father's country? Something strange happened."

"That mist," said Pat. "After you left me, I saw..."

"...Someone spoke to you, didn't they?"

"Yes. How did you know?"

"Because someone spoke to me too," said Scott. "I thought it might have been just a dream, but when they told me we'd been gone ten years, I knew it was real. What did you see, Pat?"

"Nothing," said Pat. "Just Lifrasir. She spoke to me, but... it wasn't her."

"What did she tell you?"

"She told me you would die if I didn't go to you," said Pat. "She said... she said you needed me to be there, and it was my choice if you lived or died. But then – then it was like I woke up, and Lifrasir was asleep. I asked her if she said anything later on, and she didn't remember it and there was no reason for her to lie. What did you see?"

"The past," said Scott. "Ghosts. The dead can come back, under the right circumstances. After the Brat opened the Vault of Souls, he set them free. And they came to find me."

"Who did?" said Pat.

"My victims," Scott said baldly. "The riders. All of them."

"And what did they say?"

"They told me to bring them back. They promised me... they told me I would be free of my guilt if I could do it. And after what I did, how could I ignore them? This is the only way to make things right again. If I do anything good at all in my life, let it be this."

"I believe you," said Pat. "But... how is it possible? And how would that make the time go so fast?"

"The dead have no concept of time," said Scott. "That mist was of their making. To talk to us they would have had to bring the whole land under their influence, and that was where the time went. We simply missed it. After it happened I woke up and they were gone, and I had no memory of ever falling asleep. Who knows – I could have been lying there for ten years. And your father – I wouldn't be surprised if he saw something too."

Pat listened solemnly. "What does it all mean? And how will you bring the riders back?"

"I don't know," said Scott. "But I'll find a way."

"You usually do," said Pat. "But-," she broke off and sniffed the air. "The Brat's mate is coming."

So was Peter. The black dragon appeared, skimming over the treetops, and landed neatly in their clearing. He was followed by the hatchlings, which landed on and around him in a noisy little flock.

Peter rushed straight toward Pat, nearly knocking Scott over. "Mother! You're all right!"

Pat hugged the dragon tightly. "Peter."

"I was so worried about you!" said Peter. "After you killed Rangda, and... it was Bernicefying. Father never left your side, you know. Not once. He hardly slept."

"And what have you been doing, Peter?" said Pat.

"Teaching the hatchlings how to fly," said Peter. "And fight. The black one's the strongest. Very bold. Reminds me of Skirnir."

The black hatchling waddled over to them, chirping. She was exactly the same ebony shade as Peter, but her wings were gold and her eyes silver. Pat reached down to touch her, but she seemed more interested in something that was behind her. The little dragon walked on past the elf, her eyes fixed intently on something at the far end of the clearing.

Pat and Scott turned to look.

It was Nasuada. The dark-skinned woman emerged from the trees and stopped when she saw Pat. "Oh," she said. "It's good to see you're all right, Shadeslayer."

"Hello, Nasuada," said Pat.

Scott strode forward and picked up the black hatchling. "As you can see, your new Shadeslayer is up and about again and should be strong enough to fight in a week at most. Probably sooner if I'm any judge. I'm ready to fulfil my promise – are you and your people ready?"

"We are," said Nasuada. "What do you have in mind?"

"Durza is probably smarter than to come out here himself," said Scott. "He knows we're capable of killing a Shade now. He'll be hiding in Umhlanga. And if he won't come to us, we'll go to him."

Nasuada coughed. "Are you insane? Us? Go to Umhlanga? Durza won't even open the gates – we'll be slaughtered without ever seeing him, let alone getting a chance to fight him."

"He'll give us the chance if we offer him what he wants," said Scott. "The one who killed Rangda – me."

Nasuada took a moment to figure out what he meant. "I see." She looked at him, showing a hint of what could have been admiration. "You'd really do that? Go in there alone to fight him?"

"I would, but Pat won't let me," said Scott. "She'll insist on coming too."

Pat nodded. "I'm not leaving him again."

"And afterward?" said Nasuada. "If there is an afterward. What then? You'll go back to ruling your little Empire and send me back to the mines?"

"We'll leave it to the people, afterward," said Scott, giving her his coldest look. "I think it's about time they chose their own leader. But I suspect I know what you'd prefer."

"Oh?" said Nasuada. "What might that be?"

"What the Brat wanted, of course," said Scott. "A return to the old ways. Rule by dragon rider. And we all know how well that turned out."

"That's not funny," said Nasuada.

"I wasn't joking."

"Don't you know?" said Nasuada, her voice suddenly breaking. "There are no riders left except you and Lloyd, and there never will be more. It's over."

Scott went cold. "The dragons... did something happen to them?"

"No," said Nasuada. "They're still there. Enslaved, but alive..." she was very close to tears. "But it's over, half-breed. There can't be any more riders. The Shades, they..."

"They what?" Scott said sharply. "What did they do?"

"They broke the ancient magic," said Nasuada. "Dragon hatchlings can't bond with Elves any more. The magic just isn't there any more."

Scott's grip on the black hatchling tightened, and a deep shudder went through him. "Godsdammit," he half-whispered. His mind was reeling. It was over. Rangda and Durza had destroyed the riders forever. He and Lloyd were the last of their kind and always would be. The riders could not be brought back, and his promise meant nothing. The spirits had come to him in vain. He had failed when he had barely begun his quest.

In his arms, the black hatchling wriggled and squeaked in protest. He relaxed his hold on her with some effort, and she stretched her head out toward Nasuada, straining to reach her, her mouth opening to emit a high crooning call – the kind of sound a hatchling dragon makes to summon her mother's protection.

Scott watched her blankly, not letting go of her. The hatchling struggled against him, reaching out a foreclaw, still making that strange piping call, her eyes fixed on Nasuada.

Something strange happened to Scott then. He felt icy cold all over. He shivered slightly, all over, and then a powerful force took hold of him, shooting up from the ground and into him, reaching into his mind and taking it for its own. And after that came certainty, and calm.

He looked at Nasuada, who was watching the hatchling with a strange yearning look on her face.

"Touch her," Scott said in a low voice.

"What?" said Nasuada.

"Touch her," Scott said again... but as he spoke, a hundred other voices spoke in unison with him. "Forge the bond, Argetlam."

Nasuada didn't hesitate. She reached out and put her hand on the hatchling's head.

Instantly, a glow of white light appeared all around Scott. It shone like moonlight, covering every inch of him, glowing in his eyes until black became white. The light spread onto the hatchling, and then enveloped Nasuada.

An instant later it died away. Scott slumped where he stood, his head bowed as if in shame. Nasuada looked at him, then at the dragon hatchling. All her strength seemed to have gone. She slumped to the ground without a sound.

She never knew how long she lay there, but the next thing she knew there was a presence. She could feel it inside her head, touching her consciousness. A small, gentle presence, but one which made her feel completely safe. She opened her eyes and saw the face of a dragon looking down at her. Small and black-scaled, with bright silver eyes.

And then there was a voice. In her head. "Nasuada," it said.

"What... who is it?" she mumbled.

"Nasuada," said the voice. "Please don't die."

"Who are you?" Nasuada thought. "Why are you in my head?"

"I'm Silarae," said the voice. "I'm here with you. Please get up, Nasuada. I want you to get up."

Nasuada set up. Her head ached. So did her hand. No... it didn't ache. It itched and burned, as if she had been bitten by something. She looked at the palm, and her heart froze inside her.

There was a silver circle on the palm of her hand. A shining circle of silver skin, marked indelibly onto her. It was a gedwëy ignaesia.

On the ground beside her, the black hatchling fluttered its wings. The voice in her head said; "Are you all right?"

Nasuada looked at the dragon, and knew that it was what had spoken to her. "Is this a dream?" she asked.

And the hatchling said; "No. You are a rider, Nasuada. I have chosen you."

Nasuada looked up. She was still in the clearing, and Scott and Pat were there, seeming to tower over her. Pat looked astonished; Scott strangely saddened. "Are you all right?" he asked her.

Nasuada got up. The little dragon stood by her feet, blinking, oddly calm. She looked at her palm again. "What is... how is this possible? What did you do to me?"

"Show me," said Scott.

Nasuada held out her hand so that he could see the gedwëy ignaesia. He leaned forward a little to examine it, and then sighed. "I see. I see now. So that's how it is."

"What did you do?" Nasuada demanded again. "This can't be real!"

"Can you feel her?" Scott asked. He indicated the hatchling. "Can you feel her, in your head?"

"Yes," said Nasuada. "She's speaking to me. She said her name was Silarae."

Scott nodded. "After her grandmother. Nasuada, you're a rider."

"Wh – no I'm not!" said Nasuada. "That's impossible!"

"You're not the sort of person I would have chosen, but it was up to Silarae and she chose you," said Scott. "There's no impossibles about it. You're a rider now and you always will be."

"But how did you do it?" said Nasuada.

Scott simply shook his head. "Don't ask me. You and Silarae will take some time to get used to each other, but don't worry – it's all natural. I'm sure Lloyd will be happy to teach you what you need to know. I trained him myself. Now, if you'll excuse me... I need to be alone for a while." He turned and walked away.

Nasuada watched him go, unable to think of anything to say. "But – but -,"

Pat gave her a disgusted look. "You, a rider? How appropriate. You're as narrow-minded as they were." She walked off, following Scott.

Pat caught up with Scott at the edge of the clearing. "Are you all right?" she asked, taking hold of his arm. "How did you do that?"

Scott pulled away from her. "Just... not now, Pat," he said. "I need to be alone."

Pat let him go, a hurt and troubled expression on her face.

Scott walked away through the trees, alone. Night was falling, and the last remnants of the sun were glowing red and orange on the horizon, over the mountains.

He wandered out of the trees and into the stony waste surrounding Farthen Dûr as the stars came out.

It started to get cold, but he didn't notice. He wandered on distractedly, his boots scuffing on the loose stones. He kicked one, and the hollow thunk it made as it bounced over the ground echoed among the mountains. Stopping at last, he looked up at the stars. Were they the souls of the dead, as some people claimed? He remembered the spirits he had seen in the mist, each with its little star of light at its heart.

"So that's the way it's going to be," he said aloud. "That's how it is. You choose them, I make them. I just... Isis's daughter, bonded to that woman! The Brat's mate, the one who-," he broke off and kicked the steep wall of stone at the base of the mountain. Rage burnt inside him. "You can't do this to me!" he shouted, striking the stone again and not noticing when he grazed his knuckles. "I won't let you use me again, damn you all! I'm not your tool! Let someone else do it!"

Only silence answered him. He half-screamed in fury and flung himself at the stone, bashing himself against it as if it were his worst enemy. Pain crackled through him, again and again, but he ignored it and continued to attack the stone, ranting and screaming in his red-hot, maddened anger. In the end his energy ran out, and he slid down the rock face and landed in a heap at its base. There he curled up, shaking with sobs. "I can't do this, Laela," he said. "I can't. After all I've been through? Help them? Bring them back? At that cost? It's too much, Laela, too much, I can't do it, I can't..."

But there was no answer and no comfort. There was just him and his fear.

In the end he calmed down a little, and laughed. It was a short, half-crazed, utterly humorless laugh. "But that's all I am, isn't it?" he said. "That's all I've ever been. Just a tool. And a tool doesn't choose what he does."

Chapter Twenty-One ~ At the Gates

Some hours later, Scott and Pat sat by a fire in their camp with Nasuada, Carnoc, Lloyd, Jarsha, and Sif, and talked. Katana, Lifrasir, Skirnir and Peter were there too; Peter crouched behind his surrogate parents with the hatchlings around him, and the other three sitting hunched on the mountainside behind the copse like huge guarding shadows.

Nasuada sat with Silarae in her lap, her hand on the small dragon's head. Once the initial bewilderment had died down, she had joyfully accepted the fact that she was now a rider and, though she still maintained a healthy suspicion, she was a little more friendly toward Scott, who had, after all, been responsible for forging the bond. Her friends, particularly Lloyd, were at first shocked, then suspicious, but now they had accepted that it was real they were both awed and fiercely determined. Now they had a new rider on their side; one they felt they could trust. And they grudgingly admitted that they had Scott to thank for it.

Only he and Pat appeared less than happy about what had happened. Pat was outright angry about it, and kept casting venomous glares at Nasuada. But she stayed protectively close to Scott, and wouldn't let go of his hand.

As for Scott, he appeared strangely subdued. He said very little and avoided looking at Nasuada. His expression was troubled and a little sad, and he seemed somehow... smaller than before. Somehow diminished. He took what appeared to be a white river stone from somewhere inside his robe, and turned it over in his hands while the others talked. When someone asked him what it was, he said; "A rock," and stowed it away in his pocket. As if this was some sort of cue, he finally looked up at this point and started to speak. "All right," he said. "So you've got yourselves a new rider. Congratulations. Perhaps after all this is over I can teach you a few useful things, assuming you'd be prepared to listen, which I doubt. In any case, this doesn't solve our problem or put a stop to Durza. Now, here's my plan." He paused to make sure he had their full attention. "I won't be needing any help to fight Durza. Katana, Lifrasir or Skirnir can carry me to Umhlanga, and once I'm there I'll offer Durza the chance to fight me himself. He won't trust anyone else to do it, and when I tell him I killed Rangda, he'll want the opportunity to kill me personally. All I need is a chance to meet him face-to-face."

"You're not going to do that," said Nasuada. "I'm coming with you."

"No, Nasuada," said Lloyd. "You can't. What if it goes wrong? What if he betrays you? We can't lose you. Especially not now."

Nasuada glanced at him, not without affection. "I'm your leader, Lloyd; I make the decisions here. I'm going to go with him to see that he keeps his promise. And besides – if Stephen is set free, I must be there for him."

"Then I'll come too," said Lloyd.

"No," said Nasuada. "You'll stay here, Lloyd. If anything should happen to me, I want you to take command. And take care of Sif for me. And as for you..." she looked distastefully at Scott. "I'm not going anywhere until you tell me exactly how you plan to do this. How are you going to set Stephen free?"

"I'm going to trick him," said Scott. "The spirits inside Stephen – Durza's essence – can come out if they choose to. And I know a way to make them do so." He switched to the ancient language again, and went on, "Stephen will be freed and Durza destroyed. I have the power to do this, and I will do it for you whatever the cost."

"But why?" said Nasuada, once Lloyd had translated.

"The riders must come back," said Scott. "I'm going to do this for them. To undo my crimes and give Elfthade back what I took away from it. No matter what the cost."

Silence followed his declaration.

"I believe you," said Nasuada.

"So do I," Jarsha added loyally.

"There you go then," said Scott, to Sif. "The bad man is going to give you your father back."

Sif glared at him. "I don't like you."

"Tough," said Scott, turning away. As he did so, his eye was caught by something.

It was one of the hatchlings, her scales glittering blue in the firelight. Her eyes, too, were blue, and her wings.

Everyone paused to watch the blue hatchling, and she seemed to know exactly where she was going.

"Oh no," said Scott.

But the blue hatchling ignored him. She was only looking at one person: Sif. And Sif looked back through her blue eyes. Blue. Completely different from the dark eyes of her father and mother. They were Brom's eyes. The eyes of her grandfather.

The girl smiled and reached out toward the hatchling. The little dragon sniffed her fingers, and then climbed into her lap and curled up there like a cat. Sif scratched her horns. "You're so pretty!" she said.

A gasp came from the onlookers. Jarsha, Carnoc and even Pat scrambled away, wide-eyed with fright.

Pure white light flickered into life, all around Scott, shimmering over his hair and clothes as if he were on fire. He looked at his hands and saw them glowing. "Oh no," he said again. "Not again!"

But he had no choice. The power seized control of him. He stood up jerkily and limped toward Sif, his hands stretched out toward her.

"Don't touch her!" Nasuada yelled.

He barely heard her. He laid a hand on Sif's forehead, and the power spread into her. She cried out and shied away, and the light died away, but it was already over.

Scott found he could control himself again. He staggered away from Sif, back toward Pat, before his lame leg collapsed and he fell. Pat pulled him up again, and he managed to raise himself into a kneeling position, his head resting against her stomach.

Nasuada was already by her daughter. "Sif! Are you all right? What happened?"

Sif looked a little dazed. "I feel strange," she said.

"Show me your hand," said Nasuada. Beside her, Silarae nosed at the blue hatchling, who chirped back at her.

Nasuada grabbed hold of Sif's hand. There, on the palm, was a gedwëy ignaesia.

"Oh my gods," said Nasuada. "Sif..." she looked at Scott, almost accusingly.

Scott looked up. His eyes had gone dull, but he saw the shining silver circle on Sif's palm. Sif, daughter of Stephen. Sif, the second of the new riders he must create.

Sif wasn't looking at him, however. All her attention had turned toward the blue hatchling. She looked at it with wonder and then loving delight, and ignoring her mother's entreaties she lifted it into her arms and hugged it tightly.

Scott watched her for a moment, and then something happened that shocked everyone almost as much as what had gone before.

Scott Taranisäii, former King of Elfthade, Scourge of the Riders, the Great Betrayer, the most feared and hated man anywhere, began to cry.

His sobs were weak and thin, but his shoulders shook with them. He covered his face with his hands, trying to hide it, but they could all hear him. Pat took him into her arms and held him close, saying nothing, comforting him with her presence and touch.

The others looked on, and their embarrassment slowly turned to shame. Now that they saw him there, they began to realize the truth of just how much he had changed.

This was not King Scott, tyrant and dreaded general, the shadowy figure they had feared for so much of their lives.

What they saw now was a lonely, wounded old man, one who was thin and scarred under his heavy robe, and who now sought comfort from the only one there who cared for him – Pat. He was not a warrior now, but a pathetic cripple, so broken and weakened he could barely stand upright, but he had fought Rangda and brought down Vervada at the risk of his own life, and faced their hostility without complaint, and he had given both Sif and Nasuada the greatest gift he could have – he had bonded them to their partners and begun to bring back the riders he had destroyed. And only now did he reveal his true vulnerability, which he had kept hidden for so long.

But still, none of them made any move to apologize or offer him their support.

Scott fought to control himself. He was burning with humiliation which only increased his grief, and he hated it. How could he be so pathetic – crying in front of these people who already looked on him with contempt?

But he couldn't help it. His fear and his misery overrode all else, and he clung onto Pat as if he would never let go, still able to feel glad she was there. Even if he had lost all else, he still had her.

Something nudged his hand. He looked down, his face wet with tears, and saw Sif and the blue hatchling looking at him with concern. The hatchling nudged him again with her snout, and Sif said; "Bernice asked what's wrong."

Scott blinked. "Bernice?"

"That's her name," said Sif. "Are you all right? What's the matter? Why are you so sad?"

Scott's sobs died away. He looked at Sif and Bernice. They were watching him, their expressions almost completely identical. At the sight of that, he suddenly broke into a broad grin. "By the lost gods," he said. "I never thought I would see it again."

"See what?" said Sif.

"What I'm seeing right now," said Scott. "A rider and her dragon, newly-bonded. It's always so simple to begin with. Later on it becomes complicated. But it's all so wonderful at first. The riders are returning."

"I'm a rider?" said Sif. "No I'm not."

"You'd better ask Bernice that," said Scott.

"Does this mark mean I'm a rider?" said Sif. She held out her palm.

"Yes, it does. That's a gedwëy ignaesia, child. Every rider has one. See?" Scott showed her his own palm.

Sif touched the gedwëy ignaesia where it stood out among the scars, her small hand making his rough one look much bigger. Then she looked up at his bearded, tear-stained face. "But if you're a rider, where's your dragon?" she asked innocently.

Scott sighed a deep, shuddering sigh. "She died," he said. "A long time ago."

Sif put her hand on Bernice's head. "What was she like?"

Scott smiled again, with a Berniceble sadness. "She was white. Pure white, like snow, but she had silver wings and silver eyes. When she breathed fire, it was white and silver. Beautiful. Like nothing I've ever seen. She was... always laughing and making jokes. She was like a big child, really. Always made me laugh and knew how to cheer me up when I needed it. And she laughed at me, too, sometimes. I remember the first time I rode her I was sick. I threw up everywhere, but she didn't laugh at me then. She helped me find a way to fly, she did..." his voice trailed off. "Her name was Laela," he finished simply. "And I miss her all the time."

"It was you, wasn't it?" said Sif. "You made me a rider, just like you did for Mother."

"I did," said Scott.

"Bernice says, why?"

"Because I have to, Sif... Argetlam."

That night, Scott dreamed. He slept in his hammock with Pat, the two of them holding each other close, and while a silvery moon rode over the clouds above, the past visited him in his sleep.

But it was a good dream. He dreamt that he was with Laela. He sat on her back as he had done long ago, when he was no more than a beardless boy, and the two of them flew over forests and mountains together, racing the clouds. The wind blew through his hair, and White Violence was strapped to his back, the diamond in its hilt sparkling like a star, clear as moonlight.

_Where shall we go_? Laela asked.

_Wherever we want to_ , he answered. _Forever_.

And then there was fear, and darkness, and blood. They came for him, came out of a sky that rained red. Two dragons, two riders, armored for battle, one red and one gold.

A storm gathered, and the rain and the lightning became arrows. White arrows, white wood fletched with swan feathers. Riders" arrows. They came for him, and for Laela who stood between him and them. The arrows hit him in the arm and chest, and they hit Laela. Her wing was torn to shreds, and she fell from the sky.

He knelt by her head as she lay dying in the snow, her silver eyes looking into his. _No, Laela, no!_ he screamed. _No!_

_I am sorry,_ she said. _I have to go._

He held onto her, sharing her pain. _I don't want you to die._

Riders fall and riders rise, times that go and come again. Strike them down and bring them back, half-breed. It is what you were born to do, and no other man may do it. Bring the riders back, Fárbjódr, bring them back destroyer. There is no choice and no turning from this path. Only when the King returns will you be set free.

And then he was fighting, fighting for his life, driven by madness and an agony that bit into his very soul. He fought until he could fight no more, beyond pain, beyond the edge of his strength and his sanity, screaming her name again and again.

And afterwards, when it was done and they were dead, he fell to his knees, the snow falling all about. So white and so pure, until he stained it with blood and turned it red. The white-bladed sword fell from his hands, and the diamond in the hilt had turned to black. It was all over, and he cried there amid the whiteness and the cold, all alone. Forever.

Laela...

And now it was morning. Katana had volunteered to carry her parents to Umhlanga, and was big enough to carry Nasuada as well.

The dark-skinned woman parted reluctantly with her daughter, and with Lloyd. Neither of them wanted her to go; both begged to be allowed to go with her, but she refused them.

She also refused to let Silarae come. The black hatchling was far too small to stand a chance in battle, and Nasuada wouldn't risk the prospect of losing her. Besides which, the fact that she was a rider had to remain secret.

To say that Silarae was unwilling to leave her rider would have been an understatement; in the end Sif and Lloyd had to physically restrain her. Bernice helped, and the little black dragon wailed her distress as Nasuada climbed onto Katana's back and settled down behind Scott and Pat.

Katana looked at her brother and sister. "Will you come with us?"

"Lifrasir and I will go and look for Lord Ellery," said Skirnir. "He must be told what is going on. Peter, you'll come too. Three will have a better chance of finding him."

"I agree," said Katana.

"So do I," said Scott. He had made an effort to neaten himself up, and White Violence was in its accustomed place on his back. Pat carried R?dull-Vidr, and Nasuada had Svard-Hvass. Three blades, three warriors.

They looked down from Katana's back to say their farewells.

"Goodbye, Sif," said Nasuada. "Be a good girl for me, will you? Look after Silarae and Bernice. And Lloyd..." she looked at him with a smile in her eyes. "Try not to let her get into any more trouble, will you?"

"I will," Lloyd promised, with a rare smile back at her.

"Goodbye, Lloyd," said Scott. "I know you'll never respect me again, but know that I respect you. And you, Carnoc – you've proven yourself a stronger and more honorable man than I am... not that that's much of a compliment, but even so. And Sif..." he paused. "You're a better person than your father was. I hope you stay that way."

"My father was not-," Sif began.

Scott rolled his eyes. "Katana – let's go."

Katana unfurled her wings and leapt into the sky.

The journey to Umhlanga was a surprisingly short one. Katana was a powerful flier, and when she put her full power into her wings the ground rushed past beneath her.

Within half a day they were within sight of the city that had once been Scott's capital, and almost at once he saw the great cloud in the sky. It was huge and dark, hanging over the city, a horrible shadow that made him feel sullied just to look at.

"What's that?" he called, to Nasuada.

To his surprise, she answered mentally. "The Shades' magic. They've been feeding it for years. They say it comes from the middle of the castle and goes right down into the ground. People who are taken to Umhlanga... no-one ever sees them again. They're fed into the cloud. Their lives help to fuel it. It's been getting stronger all the time."

"What else do you know about it?"

"Lloyd says it's what they used to destroy the old magic. The sort that bound dragons to Dark Elves and Light Elves. Now it's spreading out to touch everyone in the Empire. Eventually the Shades – the Shade – will be able to see into the thoughts of everybody he rules over. It will be the end of freedom."

Scott's eyes narrowed. "I've heard of this sort of thing," he said. "Shade magic... all they care about is power and control. But when Durza dies, that power will be broken."

The closer they got, the bigger the cloud got, and the darker and more ghastly it seemed. Even Katana was nervous of it. She slowed down. "We shouldn't go there, Father," the black dragon whispered mentally. "I can feel it... it's evil."

"No, Katana," said Pat. "There's no going back now."

"Land by the gates," said Scott.

Katana did so. There were people on the walls who saw her coming; they loosed arrows at her, hundreds of them. But Scott deflected them with a shielding spell, and the black dragon touched down with a thud that shook the earth.

Scott, Pat and Nasuada slid down off her back, and without pausing Scott drew his sword and strode toward the gates. He muttered a word under his breath, and then began to speak. "I am King Scott Taranisäii, come back to claim my throne! Open the gates and let me through!"

His voice echoed through the air, unnaturally loud and powerful. The guards, hearing it, stopped dead.

"Let the Shade come forward!" Scott shouted. "I have come to punish him for what he has done, and he cannot hide behind walls and guards. Tell him to come."

He stood there silently, sword in hand, and waited. Pat and Nasuada stood behind him like a pair of guardians, and Katana was behind them, looming over all three like a piece of the night.

Eventually there was a stir on the wall over the gates, and a familiar shape appeared. Stephen. Or what Durza had made him. They could see his crimson hair.

"Durza!" Scott called. "I've come for you."

There was a pause, and Durza's voice replied, magnified by magic. "Where is Rangda? You will tell me where she is."

"Rangda is dead," said Scott. "I killed her. And now I've come for you."

A howl of anguish split the air, long and loud. "RANGDA! NO!"

"So the Shade has feelings!" Scott taunted. "Come down here, Durza, and fight me. If you want revenge, come and take it, Shade."

There was another silence. "I will not come," said Durza. "You will come to me."

The gates opened, and a hundred armed men charged out. The next thing they knew, all three of them were fighting for their lives.

Scott and Pat fought side-by-side, moving almost as one being, using both magic and blade. Enemies fell all around them, and then Katana charged forward, snarling. Silver fire belched from her jaws, killing dozens of their attackers, and then she rushed toward the gates, wreaking havoc on the reinforcements as they emerged.

Nasuada stayed close to Scott and Pat, calling upon all her skill to hold her own. The two of them fought as she had never seen anyone fight before. They were partners in a way that went beyond mere love and comradeship – they were like rider and dragon. Their souls were one.

Scott wielded White Violence with the skill and grace of long practice, hacking through flesh and steel alike. A soldier charged at him. He took the man's hand off, sword and all. The man stared at it dumbly. "I shouldn't have come out here," he said.

"I'll carve that on your tombstone, you dope," Scott said, and finished him off with a ruthless upswing.

With Katana's help, the three of them slaughtered over half of their attackers. But that was when Durza acted. The Shade watched it all from over the gates, his pale face utterly emotionless. When he saw that his forces were insufficient, he calmly called upon his magic.

Katana felt it bite into her. She let out a high-pitched scream and toppled forward, landing heavily on her chest. She lay there, trying to get up again, but her legs slid out from under her. She groaned and closed her eyes. Scott and Pat fought their way toward her, Nasuada behind them... and then all the strength flowed out of their bodies. Scott felt his magic desert him. "So it begins," he muttered, and threw down his sword.

The guards were on them in an instant, knocking them to their knees and tying their hands together. Their swords were taken away, and the three of them were dragged through the gates and into the city. Scott did not resist. Pat screamed and lashed out at her captors, and was only restrained after a fierce struggle. Nasuada went down fighting. "No!" she yelled. "No, this can't happen!"

Scott glanced back at her as he was marched away. "Don't resist them," he said. "It won't do you any good."

"This is your fault!" Nasuada shouted. "You said-,"

"I said I'd go alone. It was your choice to come with me and see how this ends."

"It will end with us dying!" Nasuada screamed.

After that there was no more chance for them to speak. They saw Katana lying helpless as her legs and wings were bound with chains, and then they saw no more.

Chapter Twenty-Two ~ Prophecy Fulfilled

As Scott, Pat and Nasuada were marched through the city at sword-point; they could see how much it had changed. The houses and other buildings were the same ones that had stood there ten years before, now repaired after Stephen's attack on it, but they were the only thing that remained the same. Now the streets were dank and depressing, not dirty but unnaturally and lifelessly clean. Almost sterile. As if they were no longer the dwellings of human beings. There were a few people here and there, hunched in doorways and on benches, but all of them looked ill and dispirited. They watched the prisoners pass with dull, disinterested eyes.

The castle loomed ahead. It looked little different, but now the shadow hung over it, despoiling it. Scott felt his heart sink at the sight of it. His home, defiled... for some reason, seeing it like this really brought home to him just how much things had changed.

They were taken through the castle doors and up a flight of stairs, and on toward what had once been the throne room. They were shoved through the doors, and there it all was.

Durza was sitting on the throne that had once belonged to Scott. It was carved from black marble and decorated with images of dragons and other fierce creatures. Durza slouched on it with a kind of insolent casualness, one long leg hanging over an armrest. Of course he still looked like Stephen, but he had changed. He'd grown his hair long and was clad in black and red silk, and he was deathly pale and almost fleshless thin. The blue sword Íssbrandr was hanging from the back of the throne in its sheath. Nasuada let out a great sob at the sight of him.

Behind the throne, however, was something far more awful. It was the source of the cloud of magic: a solid column of pure energy, shooting up from the floor and up through the ceiling. It was black and grey, with patterns of red and green writhing through it, and it filled the air with a soft rush and hiss, as of water or fire. This was the centre of Durza's power. Into it, Scott knew, helpless prisoners had been thrown at the Shade's command.

He didn't hesitate. He took in this sight, and then strode forward, doing his best to hide his limp. He shoved the guards out of his way without any sign of fear, and confronted Durza. The ropes around his wrists snapped when he pulled at them with one quick movement, and he folded his arms and fixed the Shade with his most powerful stare. "Well, Durza. Are you surprised to see me?"

Durza regarded him. "I must admit that I am," he said. "You have, after all, been gone for ten years. Where did you go, may I ask?"

"A long way," said Scott. "But now I have come back. Durza, you betrayed me. This land belongs to me, but you dared to steal it from me."

Durza shrugged elegantly. "We take what we can, you and I. Unfortunately for you, I outwitted you and now the Empire is mine. So it goes."

"You swore to serve me," said Scott. "You swore it in the ancient language. Not even you can break an oath like that. You swore to serve me for the rest of your life."

"And then I died," said Durza. "The boy killed me at Farthen Dûr. My oath was fulfilled. Now tell me, why have you come here?"

"To make you an offer," said Scott.

Durza sneered. "There is no offer you can make me that I would take. Not unless you can give Rangda back to me."

"Rangda is dead," said Scott. "You have a new Shadeslayer now. But I have come for the other."

"The boy?" said Durza. "You've come for him?"

Scott nodded. "I've come to set him free."

Durza laughed out loud; a short, cold laugh. "The Mad King, they called you. You're no King now, but you're still mad. What do you care for the boy?"

"He has been punished enough," said Scott. "He has a Pat who wants him back, and I promised her I would do it. Leave him, Durza. Let him go."

"But why?" said Durza. "You cannot expect me to believe you care about him."

"The riders must come back. The boy was a rider, and I... I have killed too many riders. If I can undo some of my old crimes by giving him his life back, I will. Let him go, Durza. He's nothing to you."

"And what will you offer me in return?" said Durza.

Scott looked him in the eye. "Me."

Durza blinked, seemingly for the first time. "You cannot mean..."

Scott nodded. "If you let the boy go, you can have me. Take my body for your own and let him go."

"NO!" Pat screamed. She fought to get to him. "No, Scott! Don't do it!"

He glanced at her. "I have to," he said. To Durza he said; "This body of mine would be a powerful host for you. You know what it can do. You know the power in my blood. Power no-one else has. Not even you."

Durza was looking at him with an expression of complete incredulity. "You would honestly do that? You would sacrifice yourself, for him?"

"Yes," said Scott.

"Let us speak in the ancient language," said Durza. "I will not let you lie to me as you did to so many others, Silvertongue."

"As you wish," said Scott, now using the old tongue.

"I don't believe you," Durza said bluntly. "You value your life far too highly to simply throw it away like this. You always have. Now tell me the truth. Why do you want to do this?"

"Because I have nothing left to live for," said Scott. "I've lost everything I had. The Empire. Isis. My son is dead."

"But what about her?" said Durza, pointing at Pat.

"Her?" Scott said dismissively. "She's nothing to me. Merely a means to an end. I wanted an heir and she provided one. You can kill her now for all I care."

Pat, held back by the guards, heard every word. She felt as if she had been stabbed through the heart. She stared at Scott, utterly shocked. It couldn't be true, it had to be a lie... but he had used the ancient language. She began to cry.

"I only have one thing left to live for," Scott went on, ignoring her. "I want to make amends for what I did. I can't bear to live with the guilt any longer. Take me, Durza. Let me die so the boy can live."

Durza hesitated. "This is... not possible."

"Look at me," said Scott. "Look at me, Durza, and see."

Durza looked, and he saw. Saw how frail his former master looked. Saw the graying hair and the ragged robe, the pale face and hollow eyes.

He laughed. "You're pathetic, half-breed. Pathetic. Look at you. You can hardly stand. And to think I used to be afraid of you."

Scott looked at him steadily. "You see now? I'm done for, Durza. I'm dying. This is my last deed in life, and let it be a noble one."

Durza laughed again. "Very well," he said. "I accept your offer. I think your mind will be a much more interesting one than this fool's. Now come forward and open your mind to me. Guards... you are dismissed."

The guards departed, leaving Pat and Nasuada behind.

Scott walked toward Durza's throne, making no effort to hide the limp now. Let the Shade see it. Let them all see it. This was it.

Durza sat up straight on the throne. "Kneel," he said.

Scott knelt, and Durza placed a thin, pale hand on his forehead. "Elves are all the same," he sneered. "Honor and justice, oh dear me. I'm glad that I will be the one to finally kill the man said to be unkillable."

Scott looked up at him. "Get it over with, you imbecile," he said, and opened his mind to the Shade.

Durza entered his mind, and Scott shuddered as he felt the cold needle into him. It spread through his body in an icy torrent, numbing his senses. He gasped and began to shake. It would all be over soon.

From somewhere far, far away, he heard Pat scream his name. But he could not answer.

Pat looked on helplessly, able to do nothing but see it all happen. See her Pat shake all over, his head bowed and an expression of agony contorting his face. See Durza sit there on his stolen throne, his eyes closed in concentration.

And then it happened. The red faded from Durza's hair, and it slowly changed back to brown. The tattoos on the forehead disappeared. His eyes blinked open, and maroon became intense dark brown.

Stephen screamed and staggered backward, falling limply onto the throne. Then Scott screamed too. He put his hands over his face, pulling at the skin as if trying to tear it off, and reeled away from the throne, flailing desperately. He staggered toward the wall, and hit it, hard, nearly collapsing. Strange sounds escaped from his throat, as if he were being strangled. He took several wobbly steps toward Pat, and fell at her feet, grabbing hold of her gown as he did so. She seized his wrists, looking down at him in terror.

His eyes snapped open, and they were no longer black. They had turned the color of blood.

Pat tried to pull him off her, but he wouldn't let go. He stared at her with a blind, pleading look in those ghastly eyes.

"Scott," she whispered. "Oh gods, no, what have you done..."

He blinked, just once, and focused on her. She saw him mouthing desperately, trying to speak, but not a sound escaped him. His bloody eyes glistened, and two large, weeping tears slid down his cheeks as he gasped for air.

He let go of Pat's gown with a sudden motion, and then fell to the floor, convulsing horribly and tearing at his robe.

Nasuada looked on in horror, but then looked at the throne. Stephen was there, sprawled over it, and she ran to him and touched his cheek. It was warm. His eyes opened slowly, and he looked up at her. "Nasuada..." he whispered.

"Stephen," said Nasuada. She lifted him into her arms and hugged him tightly, tears streaming down her face.

And still Scott twitched, still he struggled. Pat knelt by him and tried to hold him still, calling his name.

And then, quite suddenly, he stopped moving. He lay on his back, his chest heaving and fists clenched, his crow-black hair lying over the floor. Black... Pat touched it, suddenly confused. Black, it was black...

Scott's eyes opened. He pulled himself upright with a strength that astonished her, and stood there, looking around with a slightly bemused expression. He looked at his hands, then patted himself down as if checking he was all still there. Then he examined his hair, pulling a lock of it around so that he could inspect it. He sighed, and then looked at Pat. She looked back silently, her mind frozen in horror. He was not Scott any more. He was Durza, standing there in her Pat's body. She had lost him forever.

Scott looked at her, not hostile but oddly thoughtful. Then he turned away and strode back toward the throne. Nasuada was there, holding onto Stephen, who was looking weak and bewildered. But he was alive.

The boy looked up in time to see a familiar figure approach. Nasuada screamed and tried to drag Stephen away, but the horrible figure of the possessed Scott shoved her aside with ease and pulled Íssbrandr out of its sheath, holding it loosely in one hand. He stood over the helpless Stephen, looking at him with burning hatred. "Stephen Shadeslayer," he intoned. "Stephen the Brat... do you know who I am?"

"Scott," Stephen spat.

Scott grinned horribly. "Good," he said, and stabbed Stephen through the stomach.

"Stephen!" Nasuada screamed. She rushed at Scott, heedless of her own safety, but a hard blow to the chin knocked her down.

Stephen slid off the throne and onto the floor, writhing and screaming. Blood poured from his stomach, welling up between his fingers and making his hands sticky with it. His legs kicked and scrabbled at the floor like those of a dying rabbit. "Oh gods no!" he screamed, again and again. "No! Please no! I don't want to die!"

Scott stood over him, watching him with a cold, dispassionate eye. "No-one cares, Brat," he said. "No-one cares. No-one ever cared. Live in lies, die by a lie. I warned you once. Warned you of the consequences. But you wouldn't listen, you arrogant, self-centered repulsive child. You think the world revolves around you? Think it cares about what you do? Well guess what... you were wrong. It took a long time, but now I have my revenge. Goodbye, Stephen Shadeslayer."

Stephen's struggles slowly lessened as his blood pooled on the floor beneath him. He slowly went limp, his eyes glazing over, his hands falling to his sides, the fingers uncurling to reveal the gedwëy ignaesia. Only a shadow of glory. Never anything more.

Scott, watching him, lost a little of his cold rage. He knelt by the dying boy, and whispered something in his ear.

Nasuada came to crouch by his side, and this time Scott made no move to stop her. She held Stephen's bloodied hand. "Stephen... no."

Stephen looked at her. "I... didn't want..." he whispered. "...Nasuada..."

And then it was all over. Stephen Shadeslayer, son of Brom, was dead.

Scott turned away contemptuously, closing his ears to Nasuada's sobs. He walked toward Pat instead.

The silver elf watched him coming with a hopeless expression. This was it. She was going to die at her own Pat's hands. "You betrayed us," she said, not knowing whether the true Scott would be able to hear her.

Scott stopped in front of her. "Are you all right?" he asked.

Pat blinked. That voice...

He saw her expression, and touched his face. "How do I look? Do I look any different?"

Pat looked at him, and saw something that made her heart skip a beat. There were no tattoos on his face. His hair and beard were still black. But his eyes... One eye was the glittering black she remembered. The other remained red.

"Scott?" she said.

He grinned at her. "Yes, Pat?"

"Scott, is that you?" said Pat. "Is it you in there?"

Scott nodded. "Yes, it's me, Pat."

"But your eyes..."

He looked nervous. "What about them?"

"One of them is red," said Pat. "The left one."

Scott touched it. "Oh dear. I didn't think that would happen. Just a side-effect, I suppose."

"Scott, what happened?" Pat demanded. "Where's Durza?"

Scott rubbed his forehead. "Durza is dead. The arrogant fool deserved it."

"Dead? But... he took your body, and..."

"He thought he was going to," said Scott. "That's the thing about Shades. They only think about power. I offered him something he wanted, and he just couldn't resist. It blinded him to everything else. He fell for it hook, line and sinker. Me, give him my body to play around with? Hah! Not likely."

"But how?" said Pat, still not quite believing it was him.

"I'm a dark elf," said Scott. "Or half of one. Our mental powers are very strong. Strong enough to overcome a Shade's essence. It took a while to fight him off, but I managed it in the end. He wanted to absorb my mind... I absorbed his. I've got all his memories. His powers, too."

It was him. Pat knew it was him. The voice, the face, it was all there, all unchanged. Only the eye had changed. "Oh, Scott!" she cried. "I thought – but you said – you didn't care for me, and..."

"Oh, Pat, you're not stupid enough to think that was true, are you? It was a lie."

Pat only held back a second longer. She practically threw herself into his arms. He hugged her tightly and kissed her on the forehead. "I'm sorry about all that, Pat," he murmured. "It was so hard... but I couldn't tell you what I was going to do. If you'd known, Durza could have suspected something from your reactions. Lying to a Shade is very hard."

They parted reluctantly, and looked toward the throne. Stephen lay dead, Nasuada hunched over him and sobbing brokenly.

"You killed him," Pat said softly.

"Yes," said Scott.

Nasuada looked up, her pretty face twisted with pain. "You killed him!" she screamed, pointing accusingly at him. "You lied!"

Scott pulled a scrap of cloth from his pocket and began wiping the sword blade clean. "So it would appear, yes."

"But you took an oath!" said Nasuada. "You swore it on your honor as a rider!"

Scott limped forward until he was standing over Stephen's body, Pat by his side. "You forgot something important," he said. "I'm not a rider any more... thanks to the Brat. And I have no honor. I'm the Great Betrayer. No-one can trust me."

"But you said it in the ancient language!" said Nasuada.

Scott pointed the sword at Stephen's body. "He was right about me," he said. "He was an idiot, but he was right. I can lie in the ancient language. If I have to. Anyway... I set him free, didn't I? Just as I promised."

"You killed-,"

"I never promised I wouldn't kill him afterwards. I told you I came here for revenge... now, I've had it. The Brat is dead.

Nasuada broke down. "You lied... you liar..."

"I'm a bastard," said Scott. "Lying comes naturally to me. Bastards are born deceitful. Forget him, Nasuada," he added more kindly. "He was worthless. All the Berniceble things that have happened over the last ten years... they were his fault. I tried to keep stability. He destroyed it. His arrogance undid everything I worked for a hundred years to bring about. For that I could never forgive him. He was never the one to bring back the riders. I am."

He walked past her, past the throne; dropping the sword, he limped toward the great column of magic. For a few moments he paused there, watching it rush and swirl, its light playing over his face.

"Use me one last time and be done with it," he said, and thrust his hand into the maelstrom.

At once he went rigid. The white light appeared once more, all around his skin, hair and clothes, brighter and brighter until Scott Taranisäii was transformed, his dark shape becoming one of pure light.

Light which spread into the column of dark controlling magic, spreading through it like clouds over the sky, more and more of it, pouring out of him in an endless flow. The blackness turned to grey, and then flashed into pure white. Pat and Nasuada, looking on in wonder, saw the shapes moving through it. Some human, some elf... some dragon.

Wings and talons and hands appeared, flickering through the great rush of magic, eyes blinked and were gone, and up and up it all went, through the roof and out into the sky above, banishing the darkness. Through the land it went, out to touch both man and dragon with its healing warmth.

Once it was all over, and the light around him died, Scott withdrew his arm and toppled backward like a falling tree.

Pat ran to him, lifting him back to his feet. He was frighteningly light in her arms, as if there was hardly anything left of him. "It's done," he murmured feverishly. "It's done, Pat. The ancient magic is remade. The riders can return. It's over, now, let me go, let me rest..."

Chapter Twenty-Three ~ A King Chosen

The castle was in pandemonium. Now that Durza was dead and the Shades' magic dispelled, the controlling power in the minds of Umhlanga's citizens faded away and they were free. Free, in the first instance, to panic.

Several riots broke out in different parts of the city, as semi-crazed and infuriated people started attacking the guards that had oppressed them. And there was no-one there to bring order. Durza was gone.

In the throne room, Pat half-carried Scott toward the door. He was so weak he could barely stand, but his mismatched eyes remained open and alert. The door opened before they reached it, and several guards came hurrying through. They saw Stephen's body, and Scott standing there, and stopped.

"My Lord!" one of them said. "It's you! And you, Queen Pat... kneel, you idiots!"

The guards knelt. "We are yours to command, Sire," their captain said.

Scott raised his head with some effort. "My sword..." he half-whispered. "Bring me... my sword."

"Yes, Sire," said the captain. He stood up and pointed at one of his subordinates. "You! Go and get the King's sword. Get the Queen's, too."

The man hurried out.

"We're so glad you're back, Sire," said the guard captain. "And... so sorry for what we did. The Shade's magic..."

"I understand," said Scott. He made an attempt to stand unaided, but almost fell. Pat caught him and held him up.

"Are you all right, Sire?" said the man.

"I'm... fine," said Scott. "Just a little tired right now."

The guard returned carrying White Violence and R`dull-Vidr, and held the swords out toward his King and Queen with a reverential gesture. Scott took hold of White Violence's hilt, pulling the weapon toward him. He couldn't lift it properly; it hung from his hand, the point touching the floor. But he seemed to take comfort from holding it. He made an effort to put it back into its sheath on his back, but was unable to. In the end Pat gently took it from him and put it into its sheath.

"Thank you," he murmured. "All...complete now. Just me and my sword." He laughed a short, sad kind of laugh.

Pat took her own sword from the guard, and put it back into its own sheath. Then she pointed at Nasuada. "Take her prisoner," she said. "But don't hurt her."

The guards advanced on Nasuada. She only put up a token resistance before she was overpowered and brought before Pat and Scott.

"What shall we do with her, Sire?" the guard captain asked.

Scott looked at Nasuada. She recoiled when she saw his red eye, but still had the courage to shout; "You betrayed me! You used me! You liar, you-!"

"Treat her with respect," said Scott, his once-powerful voice barely audible. "She is a rider. Lady Nasuada... Shur'tugal... I'm sorry."

Nasuada stared at him, blinded by tears. "Stephen is dead."

"Lloyd... is waiting for you," said Scott. "He loves you, Nasuada. He'll be a father to Sif... go to him. I will..." his voice trailed off.

"Sire?" said the guard captain. "Shall we take her to the dungeons?"

"Take her to... a guest room. Give her clothes and food, but guard her. Captain... Murnoth... where is Lord Kullervo? Where is the lord of dragons?"

"He's in the dungeons, Sire," said Murnoth. "The Shades had him in there for a long time... shall we go and get him?"

"No. Take me to him now."

"You should rest," said Pat. "Go to him later."

"No, no," said Scott, waving an impatient hand. "Now. Must be now. Lead the way, Murnoth."

The captain nodded and walked out of the room. Pat followed him, leading Scott.

They journeyed laboriously down through the castle, down endless flights of stairs, down and down into the lower levels. It took a long time; Scott seemed to grow weaker all the time. But he made no complaint.

At last they reached the dungeons; a dark series of subterranean corridors, each one lined with cells. There were interrogation rooms and torture chambers, and a hulking dungeon master who showed them the way to a cell at the end of the deepest corridor. Pat looked at it in confusion.

"You're mistaken," she told the guard captain. "There aren't any dragons down here. There can't be."

"See for yourself," said the dungeon master. He unlocked the door and threw it open. Pat helped Scott into the cell. A guard brought a torch, and they saw.

The cell's occupant was a man, who was slumped in a corner. He was pathetically thin and pale, clad in stinking rags. His hair was long and lank, flame-orange in color, and he had a ragged red beard. And when he raised his head to look at them, they saw that his eyes were gold.

Pat's heart leapt. "...Kullervo?" she faltered.

The man watched her unsteadily. "Pat," he rasped. "Pat, back from the dead. Have you..." he broke off into a fit of coughing. Pat carefully let go of Scott, who steadied himself on the doorframe, and ran to her brother's side.

It was Kullervo. She knew it was him. The eyes were exactly the same. His fingernails were claws and his teeth sharp. His new face was strong and fierce, with a heavy, aggressive jaw and thick nose. He was broad-shouldered and looked as if he would have been very powerful and muscular if he had not been half starved to death.

Pat took his hand in hers. "Kullervo, what did they do to you?"

Kullervo coughed. "The Shades... their punishment... they kept me prisoner. Wanted to use my life-force to help them conceive a child. They failed. I mocked them, and they did this to me." His hands curled into fists. "Cursed me. Mutilated me. Took away my dignity. Made me into this..."

Pat hugged him tightly. "It's all right now," she breathed. "Kullervo, you're safe. I've come to save you again."

"It's too late for me," said Kullervo. "I'm lost. Nothing can change me back now."

"Father is here, Kullervo," said Pat. "He came back to Elfthade to save you. He can change you back."

Light returned to Kullervo's eyes. "...Father? He's here?"

"Yes," said Pat. "Come with me, Kullervo."

She helped him up and led him toward the door. There, Scott was waiting. Kullervo, swaying where he stood, stared furiously at him. "You. What... are you doing here?"

Scott pulled himself up to his full height using the doorframe. "The Shades are dead," he intoned. "Elfthade is free. The riders can return. You can go back to your people, Kullervo, but... you must... there are new riders. Meet with them, and remake the oath. Renew the alliance. This is... my last request."

Kullervo looked at him suspiciously. "I will not submit myself to your rule. The dragons are free."

Scott shook his head. "No. No rulers. No trickery. Just this. Dragons and Elves must work together. They need you now, Kullervo."

"I'll do what I can," said Kullervo.

"Good," said Scott. "Now... let's go, Pat. I want to see the sky."

They emerged from the castle doors and then passed through the city, heading for the front gates. And every moment Scott got weaker and weaker. Kullervo helped Pat to carry him; brother and sister took hold of his shoulders and half-dragged him, ignoring everyone they passed.

When they were about halfway there, he started to cough; deep, hacking coughs that shook his frail body in their arms and left him gasping for air. But he refused to stop and rest, and kept urging them to hurry on in his weakening voice.

The gates were opened to let them through, and that was where he tried to stand unaided. Pat and Kullervo loosened their grip on him, and he collapsed against the gatepost and lay there, his head lolling, eyes half-open.

Pat took his hand. "Scott, you have to rest," she said. "You're sick. Let me get someone – a healer, or..."

He clasped her hand. His skin was cold. "Pat," he whispered. "Listen to me..."

"I'll get a healer," said Pat. "Just wait-,"

"No. No-one can help me now." He opened his eyes fully and looked up at her. "I'm dying, Pat," he said.

No!" Pat almost shouted. "Stop it! Get up!"

"I'm sorry, Pat. I wanted to... I have to speak with your father before I die. Take me to him. Please."

"But there has to be something – a potion, magic-,"

"I've lived beyond my years," said Scott. "I should have died a long time ago. The power that kept me alive... it's all been used up. It's my time. Justice... my life for the riders... I have given back what I took from them."

Pat clung onto him desperately, and she saw something dark fall from his sleeve and onto the ground. It was blood. She grabbed his hand, pulling back the sleeve. More blood was running down his arm. It trickled over her fingers and soaked into her gown, staining it.

"Take me," Scott whispered again. "Take me to Lord Ellery. Please."

Pat, tears running down her face, looked around at Kullervo. "Help me," she said.

Kullervo came to her side, and between them they lifted Scott and carried him out of the city and into the open air.

Katana was still there, but people were taking off her chains. The black dragon shook off the last of them and ran toward her parents. She spread her wings over them in a protective gesture, and brought her head down to look at them.

"What happened? Are you all right? What's wrong with Father?"

"He's sick," said Pat. "Katana, are you hurt?"

"I'm fine," said Katana. "The Elves set me free – what happened to the Shade? Did Father kill him?"

"Yes," said Pat. "Durza is gone. It's over."

"But who is this?" said Katana, sniffing at Kullervo.

"This is Kullervo, my brother," said Pat. "Kullervo... my daughter, Katana."

Kullervo touched Katana's snout. "You have your mother's look about you, Katana," he said. "And your father's as well, I think."

"Lord Kullervo?" said Katana, bewildered. "I don't understand. How can you be human?"

Kullervo snarled. The deep, guttural sound rumbled dangerously in his throat – a dragon's voice coming from a human. "I am a dragon," he said. "Never call me human, Katana Nightscales. Never."

"I'm sorry," Katana said hastily. "Father... what's wrong with you? Did the Shade-?"

Scott looked at her, then up at the sky. "Here," he whispered. "Let me rest here, and... wait for him."

Pat and Kullervo laid him down as gently as they could, and Pat did her best to make him comfortable. He laid very still, his expression strangely peaceful. Pat took White Violence from its sheath and put it into his hand, and he held onto it, seeming to take strength from it. Before she could withdraw her own hand, he grabbed it with a sudden movement. "Pat," he said. "Don't... don't leave me. I don't... want to die alone."

"I'll stay," Pat promised. "Scott, you can't die. You can't."

"Can. Will. Pat, listen... my robe. In the pocket. There's – bottle of potion in there. Strengthening. Will keep me alive until he comes."

Pat obeyed. The bottle was small and had a crack in it, but was full of a thick greenish potion. She took out the cork and poured some into Scott's mouth. He swallowed it, and a little color came back into his face. He sighed. "Thank you."

Pat stayed by him, holding his hand, Kullervo by her side. And, from the city, people slowly began to gather around their dying ruler. They formed a silent crowd around Katana, who lay down by her parents, not taking her eyes off them.

Scott drifted in and out of consciousness, sometimes mumbling something inaudible. Once or twice Pat thought he had died, but his hand maintained a little pulse of life in hers.

After an hour or so had passed, he shuddered and let out a little cry of pain, and a patch of wetness appeared on the front of his robe. Pat pulled it open, and saw something that shocked her.

The arrow-wound on his chest had started to bleed.

"Scott, what's happening to you?" Pat half-whispered.

He didn't seem to hear her. His head moved a little, and she felt his fingers twitch a little in her grasp. Then he started to speak, his voice only just audible. "...of earth formed... in fire forged... then to be blown away by a gust of wind in the night... from the void we come, to the void we return..." he broke off in a fit of coughing. On his chest, a cut left by Stephen's sword long ago started to ooze blood.

As the time dragged on, he stayed awake, and spoke on in a low, fevered voice. "I remember the words... at the coronation..." he lifted his head slightly to look at the people standing all about. "Words in the ancient language. They... spoke them over me before they put the crown on my head. May you be judge and warlord...master and protector... care for your people before all else... may you live long and may you shield us from misfortune. I did... a shield breaks. But you... had me all the same, and I never stopped... may I be remembered for what I tried to do, even though I failed."

"You didn't fail," said Pat. "You did what no-one else could do."

He looked at her, his eyes darkened and fading. "Pat," he said. "Have to... I'm sorry. So sorry for... ruining your life."

"You didn't ruin anything," said Pat. "My life... my life was only complete when I was with you."

He smiled. "As was... mine." He shuddered and winced again, and the arrow-wound bled more profusely. Then, as Pat watched helplessly, it happened.

Every old wound, every scar that should have killed him, slowly reopened. The faint pockmarks from the plague that had ravaged him years ago became a raw and horrible rash. He began to shiver, and sweat beaded on his face.

Pat started to cry. "No, Scott, no!"

His eyelids fluttered, but he said no more. He was no longer able to. But she felt a familiar presence touch her mind. "Pat," it said. His voice. "I want to ask you for something."

"Anything," said Pat.

"After I die, take me to Teirm. To the vault there. Lay me to rest in the tombs of the House of Taranis, beside my mother. Carve my name on the stone. My true name. I'll tell it to you now, Pat."

Pat fought herself back under control. She knew how important this was. Revealing your true name to someone was the ultimate sign of trust.

"Fárbjódr," he said. "It is Fárbjódr. My true name. Destroyer. That's all I ever was. I fought against it, but there was nothing I could do. But the tomb – my tomb – can you do that for me, Pat?"

"I will," Pat promised.

"Thank you."

He said no more after that.

And then, at long last, as Scott lay hovering between life and death, the sky began to darken. Clouds gathered – black, roiling clouds. A fresh, green smell arose in the air, and all those there breathed it in and felt refreshed. Then a great fork of lightning split the sky.

Scott's eyes snapped open. He looked up at the sky as the rain began to fall, and a faint smile appeared on his face. I know this storm, he thought.

Ellery came from the West. Katana saw him first; the massive shape of the black dragon, riding on the wings of the storm, so big he was less like a living creature and more like a kind of natural force.

Katana raised her head and roared. Pat looked up, and her heart leapt when she saw Ellery coming. She looked down at Scott again. "He's coming," she told him. "My father is coming. He'll be here soon. He can save you, Scott. His magic can do anything."

Scott looked at her, and the hint of a smile showed in his mismatched eyes.

When the people saw Ellery coming, they fled back into the city in panic. Only a very few remained, standing about the base of the walls, poised to run but wanting to see what was going to happen next.

Ellery came flying steadily, and his family was with him – Lifrasir, Balisong, Skirnir, Steve, Peter and Sanesha. And behind them came the wild dragons.

Hundreds and hundreds of them, their scales glittering in every color of the rainbow, following Ellery in a vast flock. Many were large. But none were as large as him.

Ellery came down to land by Katana, who moved aside to make room for him. The old dragon stood taller than the walls of Umhlanga, so big he could have demolished the entire city with his bare paws. But he brought his great head down to look at Pat with an almost graceful motion, while behind and around him the dragons landed. Soon the landscape was thick with them; all huge and proud, uneasy to be gathered like this. Occasionally one would snap at another and a brief scuffle would break out, but every dragon kept its eyes on Ellery.

Pat stood up to talk to him. "Father," she said. "You must help us."

Ellery sniffed at her. "You are uninjured?"

"Yes," said Pat. "But Scott is-,"

"Kullervo," said Ellery. "Where is he? Have you found him?"

Kullervo stepped forward boldly. "I am here, Father."

Ellery peered at him. "You are not my son, human."

"He is," said Pat. "He is your son. Trapped in human form, but still your son."

"I am," said Kullervo. "Father, I... is it truly you?"

Ellery blinked. "Yes. You are my son, Kullervo. Stolen from me while you were still in the egg, then lost for a thousand years... my son. I have come to find you and protect you. Who did this to you?"

"The Shades," said Kullervo. "It was punishment."

Ellery snarled. "Tell me where I may find them. I will make them suffer."

Kullervo shook his head. "They are dead, Father. Both of them."

"You are certain?"

"Yes. Father, listen to me." Kullervo knelt by Scott, entreating his father to look at him. "The human is dying. He killed Durza and gave up his own life to undo the Shades" magic. He made us bring him here to speak with you. He saved my life. I beg you, Father – save him. Heal him with your magic."

Ellery peered at Scott. "You are badly injured, human."

"My... my Lord," said Scott. "I waited for you. I had something I wanted to ask you."

"Speak."

Scott managed to lift his hand. He reached out as if to touch the giant dragon, but his arm fell back onto his chest. He lay still for a few moments, his breathing harsh and shallow, and a slow tear trickled from the corner of his red eye. "Take – take care of Pat for me," he said. "Keep – our children safe. Please."

"I shall," said Ellery. "Die in peace, human. I shall... remember you."

"Father, you have to help him!" said Pat. "Use your magic, please!"

Ellery's great eyes turned slowly to look at her. "I cannot," he said. "What must die, dies. There must be no interference."

"But he leads the Elves," said Kullervo. "He honours the dragons. Who will lead his race now, if not him?"

"I shall lead," said Ellery.

Pat and Kullervo stared at him. "But-," Pat began.

"Be silent," said Ellery. "Elfthade is where I was born. I was content to remain in my new land, but you brought me back here. Now I shall make this my country, and rule here over man and dragon alike."

"You can't," said Pat. "Elfthaden law says that-,"

"I will be Lord over this land," said Ellery. "No-one may stop me."

Scott started to shake. For a moment Pat thought he had gone into the final convulsions of death, but as she tried to hold him still she realized that he was laughing.

"The throne – the throne of Elfthade is yours, Lord Ellery," he gasped. "I give it to you. And may you... be the King no human ever could be." He stretched out his hand toward the great dragon, and intoned; "May... may you be judge and warlord... protector... master... live long... care for your people above all... be a shield from misfortune."

Apparently exhausted from the effort, he let his hand drop and became still once more. But his hand still maintained its new strength. He reached into his robe and brought out a large white river stone, resting it on his chest amid the drying blood. So much like an egg. Frozen tears and bloodied snow... Laela.

With his last strength, he gripped the stone. "I'm ready, Laela," he whispered. "Ready to see you again."

From somewhere far, far away, he heard Pat's voice. "I don't want you to die."

Scott smiled faintly. Frozen tears, blood in the snow...

The stone fell out of his hand and rolled away, coming to rest on the ground beside him. He watched it as his vision slowly faded to grey. He was no longer aware of any pain. All he felt was the cold, slowly numbing his body.

Everything was going white. White and cold. The snow, blood in the snow and frozen tears on his face... he could almost see the snowflakes drifting down from the sky to melt in his hair.

And then she was there. Laela. The great ghostly dragon, looking down at him with her silver eyes. He drifted amid the whiteness, and she was there with him, her warmth and her love enveloping him. It's time, Scott, she said.

Yes, he said. Yes, Laela. Time for me to go to you.

She grinned, her eyes full of mischief and wonderful life. You always get it wrong, she said. Always and always. Silly boy. You're not coming to me. I'm coming to you. See?

But we'll be together again?

Yes. Forever.

In the world of the living, Pat saw Scott gasp one last time and finally stop breathing. She let out a Berniceble cry of despair, one which rose into the sky where the clouds of Ellery's storm still cast a shadow over the earth.

It started to snow.

Chapter Twenty-Four ~ A True Name Fulfilled

How long Pat cried over Scott's body she never knew. She knelt by him amid the falling snow, wracked by sobs, overcome by a grief so profound that she felt as if it were crushing her.

Not like this. It shouldn't have been like this.

She remembered a time, long ago, when she had been young. Lost and alone in the world, hardly more than a hatchling. Trapped in the form of an elf, cast out by the riders, betrayed by her friend. She had been taken in by Rangda and Durza... the two Shades had chosen to help her because Rangda wanted the allegiance of a dragon.

She remembered the cave at the edge of the Spine, near the village called Carvahall. It had been a home to her for those few months, and that was where it had all changed.

When she found that she was not the only one being cared for by the Shades. There had been one other person there. A human boy. Just as young as she was, by human standards, lying curled up in a corner of the cave, pale and shivering with fever, his handsome face twisted with pain, his curly hair stuck to his face with sweat. She had asked who he was, and Durza had replied. "He is a rider. His dragon is dead. Now he is an outcast like us."

Pat had looked at him, and even though she hated riders her heart had gone out to him. Just like her, he had been imprisoned and punished, and betrayed. Later she saw the marks of a whip on his back, the deep welts red and infected. They had meant to kill him; his fingers were broken from where he had tried to fight his way out of the cell they put him in. Only luck had set him free, and fate had brought their paths together.

She had helped to nurse him back to health; bathing his fevered brow and treating the marks on his back, bringing him food and keeping him warm. He had opened his eyes after a few days, and she had seen the Berniceble loss in them. _Who are you? You're beautiful._

My name is Pat. How do you feel?

Better.

Later he had said, _I'm Scott. Scott... Taranisäii._

Scott Taranisäii, born in Teirm, illegitimate son of Lady Ingë of the House of Taranis and the dark elf Skandar Traeganni. Once a rider, but now a worthless traitor and criminal being hunted by the riders all over Elfthade.

They had talked and shared their stories. He was quiet and reserved, and could not speak of his lost dragon at all. She often heard him crying for her in his sleep.

He only seemed happy when she was with him, and rarely spoke to anyone else. It was as if she were the only thing left he could rely on in a world that had turned on him and tried to destroy him. And she stayed by him because it was the same for her. They had both lost everything they cared for, but in the depths of despair and loneliness they found each other. Then, one day, she had gone out to walk among the trees, and had seen him there, hanging by the neck.

She had panicked and run to him, cut the rope and took him down, and felt hot all over with relief when he started to breathe again. Later, when he was recovered, she asked him why he had done it. Because I wanted to die, he said. I wanted to be with Laela. There's nothing for me here.

There was. She had ached to tell him that. But there wasn't. What did he have?

When he asked her why she had stopped him, all she could say was, _I don't want you to die._

He had smiled at her then; a sad, haunted smile. _That's the most wonderful thing anyone has ever said to me._

After that she kept a close eye on him, afraid he might try and kill himself again. But he never did. It was as if, now he knew that she cared whether he lived or died, he had something to live for; her.

It was not long afterward that he told her he was in love with her. And in spite of the seemingly impossible gulf that lay between them because of their different species, she had come to love him back.

But ever since that day when the bond between them was made, it seemed as if the world around them would do nothing but conspire to tear them apart. When she had prepared to leave him and resume her search for her father, she had warned him of it. We cannot be together, she said. I am a dragon, you are a human. Nothing can ever change that. No-one will ever accept us. It was a dream. Nothing more.

But during those long years in her father's country, as she watched their children grow up, she had missed him more and more. And in spite of how mad, how dangerous and how impossible it had all seemed, she had gone back to find him again.

She found him changed. Older, sadder, the passionate energy he had once had in abundance now seemingly gone forever. But he remembered her, and he still loved her, and the more time she spent with him the more she realized how little he had truly changed. Inside, he was still the same man.

And she had done everything she could to stay with him. She had defied her father and lost her old home forever. She had even chosen to shed her true dragonish form, which she had worked so hard to regain, simply in order to be with him. Yet despite all they had both done for each other, and all they had been through together, it had come to this.
Five years of happiness – a mere five years for a pair of immortals, when they should have had eternity, and she had lived only to see him come to this pitiful end.

Ellery watched her in silence. Several times he made a move to leave her, but he didn't. He stayed with her, guarding her, letting his presence be the comfort he offered.

Kullervo looked on, forgetting his misery in the face of his sister's grief. His tiny human form felt weak and useless, every fibre of it a torment and prison to him. He had never been able to understand why Pat – the sister he had loved all his life – would choose to become an elf when she had been born a dragon. It had hardened his heart toward her for a long time. But now, when he saw this, he understood.

He had begun to understand when he had seen Thornessa die, cut down by her own kind when the Shades came for him, and when he had mourned her alone in his cell, feeling a deep ache in his chest. Losing her had been as painful as losing his rider all those years ago, and now he saw Pat cry for her Pat he knew it was just the same for her.

He said nothing. He crouched by Pat in the snow, and silently put his hand on her shoulder. She turned and put her arms around him, hugging him tightly. The gesture took him by surprise. His dragonish instincts told him it was an attack, but after the initial jolt of fear he breathed out and hugged her back awkwardly. So this was what Elves did. It wasn't so bad, actually...

He held Pat as she cried, shivering amid the falling snow. The fire inside him had gone out, and it was so cold...

Scott knew nothing of it. Pat's cry was the last thing he heard in the living world, and then blackness closed over his senses and carried him away.

He forgot about Pat. He forgot about Ellery, and Stephen, and Elfthade. Everything, all his mortal concerns, were lifted from him like a heavy load he had carried and could now set aside. He drifted away through the darkness, utterly at peace, feeling no fear or regret over what had happened. It was all over now. He was free. He could rest.

But the void did not go on forever. As he floated on through, it opened up before him in a blaze of light, and he found himself able to wander as he pleased, through the long pathways of his own memories. He saw himself as he had been at different times in his life, always changing, never still. From solemn child to rebellious youth, into the darkness of death, pain and madness and out again. And on and on, through blood and fire and ice, on through the endless years and out the other side, until he saw himself from above, lying dead in the snow beneath Ellery's gaze while Kullervo tried to comfort the weeping Pat.

I look so small, he thought.

And so unimportant, too. He looked at the body that had housed his spirit for more than a hundred years, and it meant nothing to him. It was just a thing now. He didn't need it any more.

He turned away, and let himself float back into the past, singing softly to himself. _S mithic teárnadh do na gleannaibh, O"n tha gruamich air na beannaibh, S ceathach dùinte mu na meallaibh..._

He looked back on his memories, the good and the bad, with a strange serene acceptance. No matter what they were, whether they had been happy or painful, light or dark, they were all part of him, and without them he would not exist. He had been wrong to try and bury them, and now he let them rise up within him and be real once more. And, at long last, he was at peace with himself.

That was when someone came to meet him, walking out of his memories toward him. He let his feet touch the ground, and they met in a snowy forest, where the wind smelt of ice and pine-needles. But he felt no cold.

Scott stepped forward, his boots crunching softly on the snow, watching the figure that came to meet him.

It looked so much like him that it would have frightened him, if he had been still capable of feeling fear.

The one who had come to find him was as tall as he was, and clad in a black robe and fur-lined boots just like his own. She was a girl, no more than seventeen years old, and she had the pale, angular face and pointed ears of a dark elf. But her hair, black like his own, was curly. She smiled at him and held out a hand.

"Hello, Father."

Scott touched her face; it was warm and real. "Who are you?" he asked in wonder.

The girl laughed. "Don't you know me, Father?"

"No..."

"I am Lialana Taranisäii. I am your daughter."

Scott's eyes widened. "Flell..."

"Yes. Flell's daughter, by you."

"But you're dead. They killed you after you were born."

Lialana smiled. "But you're dead too, Father. And look – everyone came to see you."

She pointed at the trees all around, and he saw people walking through the forest toward him, appearing from out of the darkness. And he recognized every single one of them. They were all the people he had ever known. A hefty, dark haired man clad in red ambled over to him and clapped him on the back. "Good to see you again, mate."

"Morzan!"

"Yeah, that's me, right enough," said the man. "All back again now, aint we?"

Another man came to stand by Morzan; slimmer, taller, with bright blue eyes that matched his clothes. "Hello, Scott."

"Brom."

"Yes," said Brom. "All of us."

They came to him, one by one, smiling and contented, the past all forgotten now. There was a middle-aged man with straw-coloured hair, a shaggy beard and a freckled face.

"Roland! Old Roland!"

"It's good to see you again, lad," said Roland.

"Did you find the gods, Roland? Were they real?"

"They were real, all right," said Roland. "To me. Because I believed. That's all it takes, just as I always said. You ought to know that by now, young man."

And there were three young riders; two boys and a girl.

"Hello, Master," said the girl. "D'you remember me?"

"Kaelyn. Of course I remember you."

The girl smiled at him. "Do you remember when you taught me how to sing that dark elfish song?"

"Can you sing it yet?"

Kaelyn shook her head. "I'm sorry, Master. But the words just wouldn't ever come right for me."

"I can still swear," said one of the boys. "In dark elfish, like you taught me."

"You watch your language, Gern," Roland said sternly.

Scott looked around at the people who had once been his friends, his followers. The thirteen Forsworn, all there to meet him, all bright and real, each one haloed by the faint light of their dragons' soul. Tranah and Strein. Vander. Orwyne. Ana and her brother Elric. Lalla. Tuomas, Gern and Kaelyn, who had once been his apprentices. Roland, his face lined and grandfatherly, eyes warm. And then there was Morzan, his oldest friend, and Brom, who had betrayed him, their old enmity now forgotten. And Isis. The presence of the black dragon was all around him, fierce and Berniceble, but protective. Still a part of him, even now.

"We waited for you, sir," said Tranah.

"So we did," said Ana.

"We knew you'd come one day," said Kaelyn. "You always came when we needed you, didn't you?"

Scott bowed his head. "I betrayed you," he said. "How could you ever forgive me for that?"

"In death, all is forgotten, and all forgiven," the Forsworn intoned in one voice.

Lialana took hold of his hand. "Come with me," she said.

She led him away through the trees among the falling snow, and he found more people waiting for him. They were tall and pale, black haired and black eyed, each one robed and silent, their faces tattooed with blue spirals. At their head were two women. One wore a silver circlet on her brow, and the other was old, clad in silver and leaning on a staff.

Scott bowed his head toward them, and the old woman smiled and gently lifted it again. "Do not bow to me, Sire," she said.

"Arthryn. Saethryn. I'm so sorry. I shouldn't have-,"

"Do not apologize," said the woman wearing the circlet. "It was our time, as we told you. We were content to know that you would live on to remember us. Look there."

She pointed, and the dark Elves silently moved aside to let someone come forward.

Another dark elf, but this one was short and wide-shouldered, almost ungainly, but graceful in a way as well. One of her eyes was covered by a patch.

Scott knelt before her. "My Lady," he breathed.

The elf smiled on him. "Scott, son of Skandar Traeganni. I am honored to meet you. I am Tynyth Traeganni, the one-eyed. I am your ancestor. Just as I did, you faced those who would blind themselves in their desperation to find enlightenment, and forget to love while they are fighting hate. And you prevailed. Rise, Great King."

Scott stood. "I wanted to find-,"

"I know," said Tynyth. "See there. They will show you the way."

She pointed him toward two figures who stood among the crowd. A man and a woman, hand in hand. The man was a dark elf, one who wore a pointed beard like his own, and the woman was human, her brown hair long and curly.

The woman embraced him. "Scott, my son. My dearest child."

"You grew so strong, didn't you?" said the man. He smiled. "My son, my half-breed son. My son, the Great King. We're proud of you. We always were."

Scott stood before his parents, seeing the love in their eyes. "Why did it all happen to me?" he asked them. "Was it really fate? Everything I loved, I lost. Why?"

"It doesn't matter now," said his mother. "None of it does. You should not bring mortal concerns here. Forget the past."

But he could not. He tried, but a strange sound distracted him. It was faint, but it seemed to be coming from all around. He glanced up irritably, wondering where it was coming from, and suddenly realized it was the sound of someone crying. And they were saying a name. A name he knew.

He froze. "Someone's calling me."

His mother touched him on the forehead. "It doesn't matter," she said. "Close your ears to it."

"Where's Laela?" he asked. "Where is she?"

"She is not here," said his mother.

"Then where-?"

But the sound would not go away. He could hear it in his ears, distracting him, and it made his heart ache with sudden longing. It was pulling him toward it, taking him away, and he took hold of his mother's hands, suddenly frightened. "Where am I going, Mother?" he asked. "What's happening to me?"

She held onto him, her expression suddenly troubled. "No," she said. "Don't go, Scott. We waited so long for you to come, you can't leave."

But her voice was fading away now, and suddenly he felt drowsy. "I need to sleep," he said. "I'm so tired..."

"Rest, then," she whispered.

Scott nodded vaguely. Everything around him was growing hazy and unreal, like a dream. "Yes..."

And then, suddenly, he was lying down in the snow. He felt warm and safe, and he could see the faces of his friends all looking down at him, keeping watch.

"Rest now," they said. "You can rest."

He smiled. "Yes. I can rest..."

Then he slept, a deep, peaceful, dreamless sleep.

Time passed. Maybe hours. Maybe days. Maybe years. But of course there was no time here. No time for the dead.

And then he heard a voice calling him from somewhere far away in the darkness.

"Scott? It's time to wake up."

He stirred and yawned. "Laela? Is that you?"

"Yes. You've rested long enough. Time to get up. Everyone's waiting for you."

Scott sat up, suddenly aware that he was cold and wet. There was snow all around, and more falling from the sky. He yawned again and stretched. All the pain was gone, and he felt young and strong. His sword was lying by his hand, and he saw that the diamond in the hilt was no longer black, but as clear and sparkling as the day he had found it. And, sitting in the snow and peering up at him, was Laela.

"Laela!" he said, reaching joyfully toward her. "There you are!"

Laela was a hatchling again, no bigger than she had been on the day when they had first met. She nuzzled his hand, crooning deep in her throat. "How do you feel?"

"A little tired, but I'm fine." He smiled and brushed the snow off his robe. "More than fine. It's all over now, Laela. I can rest. We both can." He chuckled to himself. "So, the old man finally kicked off," he said. "And just when everyone was starting to think I'd never go. I'll bet plenty of people were glad to see the back of me-," he froze.

Pat was standing over him, with Kullervo by her side, staring at him in astonishment. He looked at her blankly. "Pat? What are you doing here?"

He examined his surroundings, and saw everyone standing where they had been before – Ellery, surrounded by his fellow dragons, and the people of Umhlanga, standing in a crowd some way back, watching him. He touched his face, his hair, examined his hands and checked his chest. It was covered in faded silvery scars, but there were no wounds, no blood, no pain.

He looked at Pat again. "...I'm not dead, am I?"

Pat didn't reply. She practically threw herself at him, wrapping her arms around him in a fierce embrace.

Scott held her tightly. "I'm so sorry, Pat," he murmured. "I can't seem to stay dead, can I?"

The white hatchling watched them calmly. The snow around her was littered with fragments of broken stone – the remains of the rock he had carried with him from Ellery's country. No, he realized. Not a stone. An egg.

"So this is Pat," said Laela. "Have you been looking after my rider?"

Scott let go of Pat and looked at the little dragon. "Laela?" he said. "What are you doing here?"

She fluttered her wings. "Aren't you happy to see me?"

"Yes, but-,"

Laela rolled onto her back and kicked her legs in the air. "Yes, but. You haven't changed a bit, have you? Everything's always "yes, but", with you."

"Yes, but how can you be here? And alive?"

Laela grinned at him. "Can't seem to stay dead, can I? Every destroyer needs a savior. I came back for you."

"How?"

"I learned things in the North too."

Later, Scott and Pat sat together in the snow and listened to Laela tell her story. "It was when we were with the dark Elves. Arthryn, the old seer... she spoke to me one night when you were asleep. And she told me..." the white dragon paused, her little face solemn. "...She told me you would lose me. She didn't say exactly how, but she told me there was nothing I could do to stop it. That you would lose me and the pain would tear you apart. She told me about your future, and when I knew what would happen to you, I was... I was horrified. I didn't want it to happen, I told her I wouldn't let it. "There's nothing you can do", she said. "All of us are tools of fate". And I couldn't tell you. I wanted to, but... how could I have? I couldn't stop thinking about it."

Scott listened. "You were very depressed. I remember that."

"Of course I was," said Laela. "I kept trying to think of a way to stop it... I talked to everyone, asked them for their advice, but they all said the same thing. But then I spoke with Hyrenna. The old dragon, the one who never spoke... she spoke to me. I begged her to tell me a way to save you, and she did. She said; "there is a way. Only one way. But it is a way that will cost you dearly". But I said I didn't care. "He's my rider", I said. "I would die for him". And so she told me what I had to do. It was Berniceble, just as she said. But I did it anyway."

"Did what?"

"Tore out my heart," said Laela. "And put it into you. My soul. My life-force. I buried it inside you while you were asleep. It cost me my magic, but when they killed me, a part of me lived on in you. Our link survived my death. Just weakly, but it was still there. Watching over you. Waiting. On the day you died, we could be reunited... but you didn't die. You cheated death, over and over again. But when you came to Ellery's country, there was so much magic in the air there that it allowed me to come back, just briefly. And before I was dragged back, I worked my magic through you to create the egg. When you died, it gave me my chance. I came back into the world of the living as you left it, and went into the egg. Then I was reborn. And you..." she grinned. "You followed me back, didn't you?" She sat back on her haunches, wrapping her tail around her claws. "And here I am. Come back into the world to find you again."

Scott picked her up off the ground and hugged her to his chest, his eyes full of tears. She wriggled out of his grasp and climbed onto his shoulder, anchoring herself there with her claws. "Now then, you big softy," she said. "No need to crush me to death."

Scott grinned, and his tired old face suddenly looked a hundred years younger. "And here I thought I was going to meet you again in the afterlife." He looked at Pat. "It's over, Pat. All of it. No more fighting, no more killing. We can live now. As we should do."

"Yes," said Pat. "As we should."

Ellery had listened to all this in silence. Now he stirred and said; "I am pleased to see you well again, human with a thousand lives. My daughter would not have been content without you by her side. But the ruler-ship of this land is mine."

There was a tense silence. Scott stood up, Laela perched on his shoulder. Then he bowed to Ellery. "My Lord," he said. "Sire. The throne is yours. Elfthade is a land of dragons. It needs a ruler who is wise and powerful, and no-one is wiser or more powerful than you. My time is over. Now yours is beginning, King Ellery, greatest of dragons."

That seemed to please Ellery. "Yes. But what about the riders? You said they were returning."

"They are," said Pat. "Two more have come. And there will be others. They'll want to rule, Father. It's inevitable."

"The riders shall rule this land," said Ellery. "And I shall rule the riders. They will answer to me. These will be riders of my making, not of the old ways. They shall be led by their dragons. Not by the Elves." He turned away to face the endless ranks of his own kind, his huge dark form towering over all of them, and roared.

Thousands of voices answered him. Every dragon raised its head and roared back, and then Ellery spoke, letting everyone hear his great voice. "Dragons! This is the coming of your time. No more will elf and human dominate this land. Elfthade is yours. I give it to you. Make your Bernicetories wherever you choose, let Elves be your brothers, not your masters. Dragons of Elfthade, let your voices be heard!"

And the dragons roared. They answered their master's command with all the ferocity and power their voices could muster, and then flew away, flying up and over the city to disappear in every direction, away over the land.

Kullervo watched them go, his expression full of longing. "I would give anything to go with them," he said.

"You shall, my son," said Ellery.

Kullervo bowed his head, his whole demeanor one of deep and Berniceble shame. "I can't," he said. "A human does not fly."

"You are no human, Kullervo," said Ellery. "I shall undo the spell and change you back."

Kullervo looked up at his father, and then suddenly fell to his knees in the snow, tearing at his hair. "You can't," he sobbed. "No-one can. The spell is irreversible. I will be trapped in this hideous form for the rest of my life."

Ellery said nothing. He touched his son's head with his snout, and put forth his magic. It was black magic, black as his scales. It didn't glow like ordinary magic; it was a darkness imposed on the world, that made all else around it appear the brighter. The magic enveloped Kullervo, covering every inch of him. His outline rippled slightly, and his hands twitched.

Then he screamed. He fell forward onto the snow, convulsing and making horrible, animalistic screeches of agony. Scott and Pat, looking on, cringed.

As the magic continued to move over Kullervo's body without any apparent effect beyond simply tormenting him, Pat couldn't take it any longer. "Stop it!" she screamed. "Father, stop it!"

Ellery withdrew his snout. The magic faded, and left Kullervo sprawled on the ground, his back heaving, completely unchanged. Before they could make a move to help him, he pulled himself into a kneeling position and looked at his hands. A Berniceble cry of despair escaped him, and he began to claw at his own face, as if trying to tear it off. But then, in the midst of it all, he was disturbed by a pair of hands that took hold of his shoulders.

Together, Pat and Scott lifted him to his feet, pulling his hands away from his face to stop him from hurting himself.

"Let go of me!" Kullervo screamed.

"No," said Pat. "You're my brother, Kullervo. Be still."

Kullervo glared at her, unable to stop the tears from flowing down his face, mingling with blood. "Let me go, Pat," he said hoarsely. "Let me die."

"No," this time it was Ellery who spoke. The giant dragon looked his son in the eye, his brutal face almost gentle of expression. "You are my son, human or no. Nothing will ever change that. I am proud of you, Kullervo."

Kullervo wrenched himself away from Pat and Scott. "I'm not your son any more!" he screamed. "I'm nothing! Nothing!" With that last cry, he ran away through the snow, as if he could escape from himself.

It was all for nothing. He got only a short distance before he staggered and fell, too weakened from his ordeal to go any further. Pat and Scott ran to him. Before they got there, Laela launched herself from her perch, landing by Kullervo's side. She nudged him with her snout, crooning deep in her throat, and he looked dully at her.

Scott and Pat lifted the lord of dragons off the ground between them, and this time he made no effort to resist.

"We'll take care of him, Sire," Scott told Ellery, and helped Pat carry him back into the city. Laela caught up with Scott and climbed up his robe and back onto his shoulder, where she perched, her silver eyes bright.

They returned to the castle more or less unhindered, and in spite of his fatigue Scott did what he always did in these situations: he took charge.

The remaining guards in the castle were quick to subordinate themselves to him again, and in what seemed no time at all he had sent them off in every direction to carry out his orders. In short order, the city had been brought back under control and Scott was in the throne room with Pat and Laela, standing by Stephen's body.

The column of magic had faded away by now, and Stephen's corpse lay discarded on the floor as if it were nothing more than a piece of garbage. Scott inspected it, taking in the pale, still-contorted features without any expression showing in his mismatched eyes.

Pat stood by him. "Did you intend to kill him?" she asked.

Scott glanced up at her. "Yes. Does that bother you?"

Pat paused. "It wasn't very honorable of you."

Scott shrugged. "The boy deserved it. If he'd been allowed to live, he would have done nothing but cause trouble for the both of us. Do you think he'd have accepted the new order, or the new King? Never. And some people still look up to him. It's best for all of us to have him out of the way."

He turned to the pair of guards who had accompanied them into the room. "Do either of you know if there's a herbalist anywhere in the city?"

"Yes, Sire," said one of them. "There's one in the castle. Shall I fetch her?"

"Yes. And while you're at it, send for the tailor, would you?"

The guard saluted and hurried away. When he returned, he was accompanied by a rather short woman who had a mass of curly brown hair and a quirky, freckled face.

She and Scott regarded each other for some time.

"You!" said the woman.

"Angela of the Werecats," said Scott. "Good gods. What are you doing here? I thought you would have had the sense to get out of the city."

"I was working as a spy for the rebels," said Angela. "No point in concealing it now... but what are you doing here? I thought you were dead! And-," she saw the body on the floor, and her face fell. "Oh no. Stephen! What did you do to him?"

"Killed him," Scott said briefly. "Stab wound through the stomach. Guards... this woman was a Zulus sympathizer and a traitor. Let her attend to the body, but don't let her out of your sight. Once she's done her job, kindly escort her to the dungeons."

Angela gaped at him. "You can't do this! I saved your life!"

Scott looked at her coldly. "Prepare the boy's body for burial. I'll deal with you later."

He and Pat left her there with a guard watching over her, and exited the throne room. Outside they found the royal tailor waiting for them. She was an improbably hefty middle-aged woman who wore an eye patch and who bowed rather than curtsied to her King and Queen.

"Good to see you back, Your Majesties," she said, as if they'd just returned from a day out. "What can I do for you?"

"I'd like you make me a new robe," said Scott. "You know the style I prefer."

The tailor nodded. "Black, I presume?"

Scott paused. "I think I'll go with white this time."

"Right," said the tailor. "I think I've got the perfect fabric already. I'll have it ready in a couple of hours. Anything else you need?" she looked at Pat.

Pat barely paused to think about it. "Whatever you think would suit me," she said. "In silver."

"Right you are, Your Majesty," said the tailor. "I'll have it done in a jiffy." She nodded politely to the two of them, and strode off.

Pat watched her go. "You never did tell me how she lost her eye."

"A tavern fight, I think," said Scott. "A bit strange, yes, but as tailors go she's one of the best. Now... I'm going upstairs for a bath and a shave. I should probably have a haircut, too. I feel like I've got a small furry animal nesting on my head."

"Shall I come with you?" said Pat.

Scott paused. "No... not right now. I'm feeling quite tired. You have a wash and neaten yourself up, and we'll meet afterwards and have something to eat. All right?"

Pat nodded. "Fine... I'll see you later."

Scott walked off, Laela still perched on his shoulder. It was strange, Pat thought. They'd hardly spoken to each other, at least not out loud, but they looked so natural together, in a way that went far beyond what it had been like with Isis. Her brother had been Scott's closest friend and the two had worked well together, but this was something else. This was the true pairing of a rider and a dragon. Two bodies, one soul.

To her surprise, Pat found she was feeling jealous.

Almost instantly, the feeling made her ashamed. Laela hadn't done anything wrong. But still... Pat scowled and turned away.

Chapter Twenty-Five ~ Resolutions

Even at the height of his powers, when he had had servants to wait on his every command, Scott had preferred to keep on doing some things himself.

Shaving was one of them. He sat down at the table in his old bedchamber, which had been abandoned during the Shades" reign and left more or less untouched, and examined himself in a mirror.

He hadn't changed much. His face was still his. Thinner and paler, and grubby, yes, and his beard had gone rather wild... but it was still him. His hair was still graying and was hopelessly matted from having gone without being washed for so long. He was a mess.

But his eyes...

He stared at his reflection for a long time.

His eyes were Berniceble. One was still black, still his. But the other, the red one... that was Durza's eye. And it was cold and powerful and utterly soulless.

"My gods," he said out loud. "What's happened to me? I look..."

Evil. He looked evil.

Laela jumped off his shoulder and onto the table, and sat there, looking at him. He looked back at her, taking in the white scales, the silver eyes... Laela, she was Laela. Laela, reborn. Laela, his lost dragon. Laela, who he had missed all his life. But somehow he was unable to accept it. It was... too much to grasp. Too impossible.

He realized, with a little jolt of surprise, that he could feel her mind touching his. She was there, in his head, her consciousness linked to his, just as it had been all those years ago. It wasn't like the link he had had with Isis. This was a true link. A rider's link, such as he had not had for a hundred years. And he knew that she was feeling what he was feeling.

He sought for something to say, but couldn't, and while he sat there, feeling like an idiot, he saw, quite suddenly, that she was trembling.

"What's wrong?" he asked, the words feeling clumsy and stupid on his tongue.

Laela looked away from him. He could sense her distress, and she curled up on the tabletop, covering her head with her wings.

Scott reached out to touch her, but somehow his hands stopped before they reached her. This was wrong, he thought wildly. All wrong. Where was the absolute trust and understanding they had once had? Where was the love? This wasn't the Laela he remembered, this was a stranger. An irrational fear bit at his heart. He wished Pat was there.

He forced himself to calm down. No, he thought, no, he was being stupid. There had to be a way to fix this... whatever it was.

He reached out again. Not with his hands, but with his mind. He made contact with Laela. Felt the white dragon's mind, so simple and delicate, like a flower. "What's wrong?" he asked.

Laela looked up at him from behind her wings. "I feel," she said. "I feel..."

"What? What is it, Laela?"

"I feel like I don't know you any more," said Laela.

A wave of deep and Berniceble loss washed through him then, when he saw the look in her eyes and felt her fear and confusion. "You don't," he said out loud. "You don't... you don't know me any more, Laela. I'm not who I used to be. Oh gods..." he covered his face with his hands. "Why did you come back, Laela? Why did you have to save me?"

Laela raised her head. "I came back for someone I knew," she said. "I came back for the boy I hatched for all those years ago."

"That boy died when you did, Laela," said Scott. "This monster you see here is all that's left of him."

"You're not a monster," said Laela. She stood up, taking her wings away from her face, and reached out to touch his cheek with her snout. "You're..."

"A monster," said Scott. "Don't say I'm not, Laela. I am. I killed the boy. Not in a fair fight. I killed him when he was unarmed and helpless, while the woman he loved was watching. It was murder. And I didn't care. I was happy to do it. I watched him die without any pity. And I killed so many others just the same. You were wrong, Laela. We couldn't escape from our true names. It was all decided for us. I became the Great Betrayer, just as Arthryn said I would. You can't change that. No-one can."

Laela watched him silently. She saw the careworn features, the graying hair, and most of all the red eye, like a ghastly ruby set into the socket, and she knew it was true. This was not Arren Cardockson, the leatherworker's adopted son who called himself Scott Taranisäii. This was not her rider and bonded partner. This was... this was a stranger. A red-eyed, ageing stranger whose voice had a Berniceble edge of despair in it. This was the Great Betrayer.

She couldn't bear to look at him any longer. She turned away, feeling more alone than she had ever imagined was possible. After so long trapped in the netherworld, she had returned for... for what? For someone who had died a long time ago. That was all.

Scott watched her. "I should have died," he said softly. "You should have let me die, Laela. I came here expecting to die. After so long... why me, Laela, why me? Why do I keep being pulled back from the brink like this? Most people never get more than one chance to live – so why me? I don't deserve it. I don't deserve any of this. Not Pat. Not you. Not life. I deserve to die. Why can't I just die?"

Laela was silent for a time. "What are you going to do?"

Scott shrugged irritably. "I don't know. This afternoon I'll make an announcement and hand the ruler-ship over to Ellery. Then, once it's all been sorted out, I'll leave. Find somewhere else to go. Who knows... maybe there's a place for me out there. I'm tired of being responsible for things all the time. I never wanted to be King, any more than I wanted to be a destroyer. I just wanted to be... me." He laughed bitterly.

Laela froze.

"And perhaps the dragon will be a better ruler than I was," Scott went on. "Who knows? This place has had its share of bad rulers, so I'll bet no-one will notice another one. And these new riders..." he snorted. "Probably they'll go on ruling here under him until they can't distance themselves from their power any more and become despots until another Great Betrayer comes along. At least I'll be well out of it."

As he spoke on, his words laden with bitter sarcasm, Laela felt a wonderful joy lift her heart. She turned around and looked at him, and now she could see it. Why hadn't she noticed it before?

"Why, you horrible, selfish, cynical ingrate," she said. "By the sea and the sky, I can't believe what I'm hearing."

Scott gave her a sullen look. "Believe it, you overgrown lizard."

Laela rushed at him and wrapped her wings around his neck, hugging him tightly and rubbing her head against his cheek. "It really is you!" she cried. "You big liar, you haven't changed a bit!"

Scott submitted to the embrace, wincing as her claws dug into his skin. "Oh, get off me, will you?"

Laela pressed herself against him, as if trying to make herself disappear into him. "It's you!" she said again. "You're the Scott I remember, all of him! Oh, you've grown a beard and done something funny to your eye, but you're my Scott, just as I remember you. Oh, thank the stars. I came back for you, and I found you."

"You have?"

Laela finally let go of him. Her eyes were full of joy. "I have," she said. "And I'm very glad indeed."

Scott looked at her rather suspiciously. Then, quite spontaneously, he grinned. "Now I know you," he said. "You're my Laela, aren't you? You're the dragon who hatched for me in Ellesméra that day. The one who bit old Nöst on the tail and then led him on a chase for two hours. The one who... oh, gods, Laela!" he picked her up and hugged her to his chest, tears suddenly leaking from his mismatched eyes. "Losing you hurt so much, I thought I would die... but you're back. You're back and I've found you again."

Laela rested her head on his shoulder. "Yes," she said. "It's all over now, Scott. We're together again, and now we can have our time back. We did what no-one else could do, you and I. We fought death itself, and won."

It was a long time before Scott let her go. She sat back on the table, eyes bright. "Tell me everything," she said, reverting to the mental speech.

There was a bowl of hot soapy water on the table. Scott pulled it toward him and began washing and lathering his face. He picked up his razor. "All right," he said.

And so he did, while he meticulously shaved away the fresh stubble that had appeared on his face, then rinsed and began trimming his beard, restoring it back to its old neat self. He said not a word out loud, but in his mind, and in Laela's, he was talking. He told her of his wanderings in the wilderness, his capture and trial by the riders, his imprisonment and escape, the meeting with Pat, his bonding with Isis, the rebellion, the Forsworn... everything. He told her about the invulnerability spell, his mental voice hushed, and spoke on and on while he trimmed his hair and cleaned and filed his fingernails. He showed her images of everything he had experienced during their long separation, hiding nothing. Laela listened seriously and didn't interrupt.

A tin bathtub full of hot water had been placed by the hearth, with soap and scrubbing brushes and a bottle of hair lotion.

Scott stripped off his robe without embarrassment. As he bent to unlace his boots, Laela looked at the scars that rippled over his thin back. She winced. "You've suffered. I can see that."

Scott kicked off his boots. "You can't fight a war without collecting a few injuries," he answered, reaching back to touch the silvery marks.

Once he'd bathed and washed his hair, he climbed out of the bath and wrapped his dripping body in a towel.

There was a knock at the door. He went to answer it, and found it was the one-eyed tailor. She was holding a bundle of white cloth, and said; "Your new robe's ready, Sire."

Scott took it. It was finely-stitched, made from thick, durable snow-white woolen fabric and lined with soft silver silk. There was some silver embroidery around the collar and cuffs.

"Nothing too fancy, unfortunately," the tailor said apologetically. "Didn't have time for anything better. How d'you like it?"

"Excellent, as always," said Scott.

The tailor smiled and bowed her head. "Thank you, Sire. I'll leave you now."

Scott retreated back into his room, where he put on the robe. He sighed. It was good to have a new outfit, after spending so long wearing the sorry remains of the last one, which hadn't been all that good in the first place.

"I haven't worn white in decades," he said. "How do I look?"

Laela regarded him critically from her perch on the table. "Like a clothes horse."

"So just the same as always, eh?"

"About that," said Laela.

Scott lifted her onto his shoulder. "Well, let's go. I fancy a proper meal for once."

Pat was waiting for them in the dining hall, where an array of fine dishes had been laid out for them. She too was clean and groomed, and was wearing a new gown made from silvery-grey silks and velvet.

"You look lovely," said Scott. He sat down beside her and helped himself to a dish of roasted rabbit, but not before he'd cut some off and given it to Laela. The white dragon ate hungrily, crunching the bones between her teeth. Pat watched her, unable to hide her resentment.

"Anything the matter?" Scott enquired.

For some reason the question only increased Pat's irritation. "Scott, what are we going to do about my father?" she asked.

Scott paused in the act of tearing a chunk off a loaf of bread. "Do?" he said. "What do you mean?"

"How are you going to make him leave?" said Pat. "You heard him; he's made up his mind that he's going to stay here. How are you going to talk him out of this insane idea of his?"

"I'm not," said Scott.

Pat coughed. "I don't believe this. Are you honestly thinking of giving him the Empire?"

"Why not?" Scott asked mildly.

Pat hesitated. "Well... he can't rule here. He knows nothing about this land; he's been away from it for a thousand years. He hates Elves – how could he possibly govern them?"

"He won't," said Scott. "The riders will. Nasuada and Lloyd, and Sif... and any others who come along. They'll reform the old order. With a difference. Now, they'll have to answer to Ellery. All of them." He chuckled. "Not even Vrael would have had the gall to stand up to him. He'll keep them all on their toes."

"I don't see anything funny about this," Pat snapped. "What on earth makes you think he could do it?"

"He's strong and wise, he knows how to fight, he understands justice... what else does a ruler need in the end? And anyway... you're right. He's decided he wants to rule here, and I can't stop him. No-one can stop Ellery, you know that."

"But the throne belongs to you," said Pat. "And to our son."

"I'm ready to retire from power," said Scott. "And I wouldn't wish that particular fate on our son in a million years. Here, have some wine."

Pat took it with ill grace. "It's not as simple as that."

"It can be. If we let it. Come on, Pat, don't you want to leave all this behind? Find somewhere else to live? Ruling Elfthade is a task that no-one will ever thank you for. Now that your father is here, and the riders have come, we can be free. Think of that, Pat. Free. We can leave here. Go wherever we want. We can raise our son in peace. I wasn't always a King. Once I was a boy who dreamed of adventure. Now, after so long, we can look for it. All three of us." He looked at Pat, his expression almost childishly eager.

Pat's face softened. "I would like that," she admitted.

"And Laela would like it too," said Scott, as if that settled it.

Pat muttered something under her breath.

"Oh, how's Kullervo?" said Scott.

"Not well," said Pat. "They had to give him a sleeping potion to make him calm down. I had some of the servants bathe him and give him some clean clothes. He's asleep in one of the guest rooms. I had some food sent up for when he wakes."

Scott sighed. "I wish there was something we could do for him. But nothing short of changing him back would be enough. Changing a dragon like him into a human was monstrous."

"Maybe he'll get used to it," Pat suggested lamely. "I did."

"I doubt it, but it's his only chance," said Scott. He finished eating and sighed deeply. "Ah... it's good to eat like a human being again."

Laela was looking at him, and at Pat. Now she spat out the bone she'd been gnawing and said; "I expect you've got things to attend to."

"Hm? Oh, yes, I suppose so. Come on, then." He held out his arm.

"I think I'll stay here with Pat," said Laela.

Scott looked a little confused. "Well... all right then. I'll see you two later." He left the room, distractedly fiddling with his hair.

Laela watched him go. "A hundred and twenty-five years old and he still fusses over his hair. Do you know, when he was a boy, someone threw mud in his hair. He punched them so hard he knocked them out, and then sulked for the rest of the day."

Despite herself, Pat chuckled. "That sounds like him."

"Now..." Laela looked keenly at her. "You don't like me much, do you?"

Pat said nothing.

"Tell me," said Laela. "What do you think of him? Why do you love him?"

Pat stared at her, both shocked and affronted.

"He loves you very much," Laela went on softly. "I can feel it in him. But I must know... do you truly love him in return?"

"I do," said Pat.

"Can you tell me why?" said Laela. "What is it about him? He's a great warrior. A leader, too. Is that what attracted you to him?"

"No," said Pat.

"He's ruthless. He kills his enemies just like a wild dragon does. Is that why you attached yourself to him?"

"No," said Pat. "Not that. I-,"

Laela fixed her intently with those silver eyes. "Then what was it, Pat Shadeslayer? He's very handsome, for a human. Strong. Brave. Charismatic. Intelligent. Many people fear and respect him. Are those the qualities you love?"

Pat bit down on her anger with some effort. "What are you trying to do?" she demanded.

"You resent me," said Laela. "I can see it in you. You don't like the fact that he and I are so close. But whether you like it or not, I am his partner and I am part of his soul. He will never leave me. But he might leave you. If he chose to."

Pat snarled. "Get away from me. Never come near me again."

"No," said Laela. "I must know. What is it that kept you by him all these years? Just tell me, and we can forget this ever happened."

The white dragon sat very still, watching Pat closely, waiting for an answer.

The silence drew out for a long time. Pat nearly left, but she couldn't. There was something about Laela, something that compelled her and would not let her leave. At last, and in a low voice, she said; "When he lost you, it tore him apart. I see it sometimes, in his eyes. That is what I love about him."

Laela's tail twitched. "Is that all?"

"No," said Pat. "Not... not all. I love him for..." she hesitated.

"Yes?" said Laela.

"I love him for the life that's in him," said Pat. "I love his spirit, his passion. I love the way he never stops fighting for what he believes is right. I love his courage, how he never turns away from the things he's done and from what he fears he became after you died. He's..." she looked up, her golden eyes serious. "He's Scott. And that's why I love him."

Laela listened to her in silence, her small face solemn. Then she smiled. She stood up and bowed her head to Pat in the familiar dragonish gesture of respect. "That," she said, "Is exactly what I hoped you would say. You know him for what he truly is and love him for the same reasons I do." She looked Pat in the eye. "I care for him more than life itself, and fought death in order to return to him. And if I had found out that you loved him for the wrong reasons, that you might hurt him, I would have driven you away from him. But I should have known better. Forgive me, Pat."

She looked earnestly at her, and Pat felt a sudden and unexpected wave of relief. That look. She knew that look. It was his look. She had seen him use it many times, and now she could see him, looking out of Laela's eyes.

Pat held out a hand. Laela touched it with her snout, and there was a moment of silent understanding between the two of them.

"He's lucky to have you," said Laela. "Very lucky."

Scott had been busy. Once he'd sent messengers out to every major city to inform the population of what had happened, he let it be known in Umhlanga that he would be making a public announcement at sunset in front of the castle, so that people would have time to start gathering. Afterwards he went up to see Kullervo.

The orange-haired man was now clean-shaven and wearing a new set of clothes, but he was crouched in a corner of his temporary abode, like a wolf in a cage. When the door opened he cringed and snarled, half-rising in readiness to fight, but he relaxed when he saw who it was.

"Oh. It's you."

Scott closed the door behind him. "How are you feeling, my Lord?"

Kullervo shivered and looked away from him. "Don't call me that. I'm no Lord."

Scott sighed. "It's cold comfort, I know, but being human isn't that bad..."

Kullervo snarled. "Maybe for you, half-breed. This body is a prison to me. Nothing more."

"But it's still yours," said Scott. "And you're free now. I won't keep you here any longer than you choose."

Kullervo looked at him, a pitiful look showing through the ferocity in his golden eyes. "How can you bear it?" he asked, almost plaintively. "How can you stand to be so weak? So small? No scales, no talons, no wings... nothing but this soft flesh that bruises and tears so easily... I feel like I could die at any moment."

"Elves are tougher than they look," said Scott. "Trust me on this. You'll find a reason to go on living, Kullervo."

Kullervo sneered at him, the expression as agonized as it was vicious. "A reason to live? Open your eyes cripple. My mate is dead. My children are gone. I have no home. I cannot fly. Even the sky has been taken from me. I have nothing. Nothing." He bowed his head. "I want to change back, and if I cannot do that, then I want to die."

"I'll do whatever I can to help you, but-,"

"If you can tell me a way to undo this curse, then tell me," said Kullervo. "Otherwise, leave me alone or kill me."

Scott paused. "I don't... the dark Elves taught me many things about magic, but not about the kind that changes the shapes of things. That was something outside their ways."

"Then who would know?" Kullervo demanded, suddenly standing up and advancing on Scott, his look one of controlled violence. "Tell me."

Scott thought quickly. "There was a race that lived in Elfthade once who knew about that kind of magic."

"Which one? Tell me, or-,"

"But they died out centuries ago," said Scott, holding out his hands in a helpless gesture. "The riders destroyed them; I saw the records. Those who weren't killed were scattered. But I know of one who was still alive, at least... I did meet one, a long time ago. There's a chance he could still be alive, but the chances of finding him..."

Kullervo bared his teeth. "Tell me. Tell me, damn you, or I'll tear your throat out."

"His name was Michael," said Scott. "He was a shape-shifter, a skin-changer. His race could change their shapes at will. I met him, a hundred years ago. He was living with the dark Elves, but after they were massacred... I don't know if he escaped, and after the fall of the riders I did send people to look for him, but no-one brought any news back. But if he's alive, he might know how to change you back."

Kullervo relaxed slightly. "Michael," he muttered. "A strange name."

"They called him Faen-Tyarnadd in dark elfish," said Scott. "It means "thousand-faces"... he can change himself into anything – the chances of finding him are-,"

"I don't care," said Kullervo. "I'll find him. If it takes me a thousand years, I'll find him." He began to pace around the room, his broad shoulders hunched. His shadow flickered on the wall, like the memory of a pair of wings unfolding in the torchlight.

"Go then," said Scott. "And good luck to you."

"Spare me your platitudes," Kullervo snapped. "What does this... Michael look like?"

"In human form... like a boy, no older than seventeen. Very thin and pale, with black hair and dark eyes. He tends to wear black, or at least he did when he was with the dark Elves. I saw him as a wolf; he was black with golden eyes then. And as a dragon, black and bronze. The eyes never change. They're the only thing about him that always stays the same. He has a sword... I can't remember what it was called, but the hilt had a hundred different animals on it. If you're going to look for him, look in forests. He keeps to the wild places, like all his people did. They hate civilization."

"As do I," said Kullervo. "Now leave me alone. I need to think about this."

Scott bowed and left the room. In the corridor outside, he leant against the wall and sighed. He felt almost cruel for giving Kullervo what was surely a vain hope, but a vain hope had to be better than no hope at all. If it was enough to stop him dying of despair, it would do. And now – he rubbed his forehead and sighed again – he had to go and talk to someone who would be even less pleased to see him.

That someone was Nasuada. He limped off down the corridor toward the guest room where she had been detained, which was locked and guarded. The guards stood aside and opened the door for him. "Be careful, Sire," one warned. "The wench is a fighter."

Scott drew White Violence and entered the room.

There was a sudden motion to his left. He reacted instantly, turning around and raising his sword. There was a thump and a yell, and Nasuada, who had sprung at him from behind the door, found herself sprawling on the floor, her chest throbbing from where Scott's boot had slammed into her. The remains of the chair she had been wielding fell out of her hands, cut clean in two. Scott stood over her, sword in hand.

"Hello, Nasuada. I trust you've been comfortable? Sorry for the wait." His tone was calm and conversational. "Tell me," he said. "I'm asking out of pure curiosity... exactly how long were you standing there?"

Nasuada, quivering with fright, gave him a murderous look. "As long as it took," she spat.

"I see. Well, I admire your courage. However, considering that arrows, swords, fire, poison, plague, magic and strangulation have all failed to kill me, I doubt a chair would have proven very effective. You don't have to lie there all day, by the way."

Nasuada got up. "Are you going to kill me?" she asked. "Why not give me my sword back and fight me face to face – or are you too much of a coward for that?"

Scott rolled his eyes. "I came up here to offer you a gift, actually." He reached into the pocket of his robe and brought out a scroll of paper. "This," he said, "Is for you."

He handed it over. Nasuada unrolled it and skimmed the first few lines. "...I, King Scott Taranisäii of Elfthade, hereby offer you, Nasuada daughter of Ajihad, a complete pardon for the crimes of..." she looked up. "You're offering me a pardon?"

"For services to the realm," said Scott.

Nasuada paused. "You have no authority to do this," she said. "You aren't the rightful King here. You never were. The throne was Stephen's by rights."

"Oh really. Well, unfortunately we can't refer this to him, because he's dead."

"Murdered by you!" Nasuada shouted. "You evil, you lying-,"

Scott slapped her, hard. She fell silent, staring at him in shock. Scott rubbed his knuckles. "That wasn't very chivalrous of me, was it? I'm sorry, but it's been a rough day. Now... I'm afraid the question of who has the right to do what is irrelevant. What matters is this. I'm holding all the pieces in this game. The Empire is back under my control, and there's nothing you can do to change that. I would be well within my rights to have you executed for your crimes. However, there is an alternative."

Nasuada tossed the scroll onto the floor and spat on it. "Take your lies and your false pardons somewhere else, your murdering piece of filth. You've got nothing. Lloyd will-,"

"I'm afraid you won't be able to rely on your friends to rescue you," Scott said calmly. "You see, I'm afraid Lloyd disobeyed your orders. He started following us almost as soon as we left the Drakensburgs. I sent Lifrasir and Skirnir after them a few hours ago. They sent Peter here with the news. Your friends have been taken prisoner. They'll be here by nightfall."

Nasuada blanched. "You're lying."

"Sadly, no. It's not that I don't trust them, but... well, no, that's not true – I don't trust them. I'm sure your spy would be happy to help you, of course, but I'm afraid she's in the dungeons at the moment. However-," he paused to make sure he had her full attention "– This is not a betrayal. I'm not going to have any of you killed. Not unless you force me to. You have a choice."

He flicked the scroll upward with the point of his sword, and caught it neatly, holding it out toward Nasuada. "You can have this pardon and be set free, if you take an oath of loyalty first. Swear to serve-,"

"Forget it!" Nasuada almost roared. "I'll die before I work for you, you cripple, you bastard, you-,"

"Not me," said Scott, raising his voice slightly. "Swear to serve the realm. Take an oath in the ancient language that you and your fellow riders will spend your lives in the service of the people. Swear to be loyal to your master, and to work to keep peace and order in Elfthade. After all..." he looked at her seriously. "Isn't that what you wanted? Isn't that what the riders have always done? Even evil, lying old me, did it. You are a rider, Nasuada. A rider's life is one of service. Stop serving yourself and take up the responsibilities of power."

"By working for you?" said Nasuada. "By selling my soul to you?" she made an obscene gesture at him. "That's my answer, murderer. If the choice is between death or slavery, I choose death."

"Are you sure?" said Scott. Suddenly he was much closer, his red eye gleaming in the torchlight. "Are you really sure?" he hissed. "What about Silarae? You do realize that if you die, she'll feel it happen? She'll probably die too. Imagine that. She chose to bond herself to you, but you're already willing to throw her life away like that?" Nasuada tried to back away, but he followed her until her had her trapped against a wall. "Do you know what it's like to survive the death of your partner?" he asked in a low voice. "Do you have any idea?"

Nasuada couldn't say anything. She tried to glare back at him, but she couldn't. His eyes bored into her, stripping away all her defenses.

"You feel it, right here," he said, touching his heart. "It tears into you like a red-hot sword. You feel the pain through your whole body, as if your very soul is being burnt away. You can't think. You can't breathe. All you can do is feel the pain. Feel the thing that kept your world and your life together fall apart all around you. And you scream. Scream as if your skin was being torn off. It lasts a few minutes. It feels like an eternity. And you'd inflict that on Silarae? On poor little Silarae, who's only a few weeks old?"

Nasuada's eyes stung with tears. "No," she whispered. "No..."

"If you choose death, that is what will happen to her," said Scott. "You would have no way of stopping it. And before that, you would see all your friends die. Lloyd, and Jarsha, and Carnoc. All of them. One by one. And your daughter, Sif-,"

"NO!" Nasuada cried, half-sobbing, half-screaming. "No, not that! Please!"

"Sif would be left an orphan," said Scott. "I would raise her myself and tell her how her mother was too much of a fool to realize when she was beaten. I'd be a good father to her. How does that sound?"

It was too much. Nasuada slid down the wall, landing in a heap at its base, sobbing desperately. "No, no, no, please gods no..."

Scott stood over her. "Overreacting a little, aren't you? I thought you would have noticed how good I am with children."

"Keep – away from her!" Nasuada wailed. "Never touch her, you – you-,"

Scott pointed his sword at her, the tip touching her under the chin and forcing her to look up. "So here is your choice," he said. "Now that I've clarified it a little... either swear an oath to me, right here and now, and become part of a new order of riders, or let yourself die along with your friends and your partner, and lose your daughter forever."

Nasuada tried to look away from him, but failed. He was there, unavoidable as fate, calm and cold, the very embodiment of evil. But she had no choice.

"All right," she said, her voice breaking. "All right. I'll – I'll do it."

"Say the oath," said Scott. "Repeat it in the ancient language."

And she did. He recited the words in the common tongue, and she repeated them in the ancient one, trying with all her might to keep her voice steady.

"I, Nasuada, daughter of Ajihad, swear to serve the peoples of Elfthade, to maintain peace and order, to do justice without fear or favor, to honor all races and favor none above the others, to preserve its ancient ways but have no fear of change, and to – to be obedient to my King in all things. I will not raise a hand to him, nor to any he counts as friends or family."

When she had done she sagged gently as all the strength went out of her, too smothered by despair even to cry. It was all over. She had lost.

Scott withdrew his sword. "There, that wasn't so difficult, now, was it? Oh, and while you're at it, you can say these words, too." He spoke briefly in the ancient language.

Nasuada was still inexperienced with it. "What does – what does that mean?"

"Just say it."

There wasn't much point in resisting. Not now. She repeated them obediently.

"Thank you," said Scott. "You can get up now," he added more kindly.

Nasuada got up and stood in front of him, her head bowed.

"Now then," said Scott. "You're free. Once your friends have done the same, which I'm sure you'll be able to persuade them to do, you'll be allowed to go wherever you like. Within reason. It would be best if you stayed in the city for a while. There are things to sort out. You know how it is. But before all that, there's something more important to do."

Nasuada looked at him nervously. "What?"

"I'm giving the – Stephen the honor of being laid to rest in the catacombs under the city. His body has been prepared for burial and I've had a group of the best stonemasons down there working on a tomb for him. You and Lloyd and Sif will come to the ceremony, along with anyone else who wants to come."

Pain and bewilderment wrestled each other for control of Nasuada's face. "But – but why?"

"He was a rider, no matter what else he was," said Scott. "The catacombs are where all riders were laid to rest, long before Umhlanga was even built, and Stephen can rest there. All the riders who died during the Fall are there. Even Vrael. Well... his head, anyway. Isis ate the rest of him."

Nasuada stared at him. "How can you be like this?" she demanded. "You're a murderer who builds tombs for his victims and talks about justice while he forces people to serve him at sword point... how can you live with yourself?"

"I have honor, of a sort," said Scott. "In death, we can forget a person's misdeeds."

"Misdeeds?" Nasuada almost screeched. "Misdeeds? Stephen-,"

"Stephen would not have done for me what I'm doing for him," said Scott. "Stephen shot me full of arrows and left me for dead in the middle of the wilderness with two broken limbs. You have a very strange view of morality, Nasuada. Morality, for you, is when your Pat Shadeslayer starves and tortures his prisoners and kills people in a fit of rage when he doesn't get his way, while pretending that he can do no wrong. Your morality seems to be a set of rules which only applies to people you don't like and justifies whatever you want to do. I act according to the laws of the land, not according to what I want. Although I have circumvented them somewhat in giving you a free pardon, but I felt the realm would benefit more from you if you were alive."

"And Stephen?" said Nasuada. "What about what you did to him? Was that justice?"

"No, that was personal revenge. Unfortunate, but my patience only lasts so long. I'd had a rather trying few months."

Nasuada gave him a look that was simply murderous. "You're a-," she broke off suddenly, her expression bewildered. She mouthed some words, trying to speak, but failed. "What's happening to me?" she demanded.

Scott snickered. "Whoops. I'm sorry, but the temptation was too much for me."

"What did you do to me?" Nasuada shouted, horror-struck but moving to attack him.

"Just that little addition to your oath which said; "I will not call Scott Taranisäii by anything other than his proper name". Now, if you'll excuse me, I have work to do."

Chapter Twenty-Six ~ To Sleep in Stone

When Scott returned to the banqueting hall, he found Pat and Laela still there. The white dragon was sitting on the table in front of Pat, and the pair of them were talking animatedly.

Scott paused in the doorway, just watching them. He smiled.

Laela looked up. "Hello. What are you looking so dreamy about?"

Scott limped toward them. "I was just thinking how strange and wonderful it is to see the two people I loved best out of everyone I've ever known, together."

Laela grinned at him. "That's a little sentimental considering what you've just been up to."

Scott sat down beside Pat. "You know about that, do you?"

"Of course," said Laela. To Pat she said; "He's been talking to your brother. And that female, whatever her name was – you were nasty to her."

"What have you been doing?" asked Pat.

"I checked on Kullervo," said Scott. "Doesn't seem we'll be able to get through to him. He wouldn't do anything but rage over what's been done to him... I can understand that, of course. All he wants is to find a way to change back. I told him about someone I knew once who might be able to help him, but the odds of finding him are a thousand to one."

"That doesn't matter," said Pat. "Not to Kullervo."

Scott nodded. "I have a feeling he won't be here long. Next time we go to see him, he'll be gone. I can almost promise that. We can't help him if he won't let us."

"It's better this way," said Pat. "Better for him if he goes. It's his way to do things alone. Sometimes all you can do for someone is let them go their own way."

"True," said Laela. "And the woman? What about her?"

"Nasuada has taken an oath to serve Elfthade, and its King," said Scott. "Of course, I didn't specify which King. The poor thing seems to think she's become my slave for life." He shrugged. "Let her believe what she wants. She never listens to me, and why would she? I haven't exactly been honest to her in the past. Now... I'll make the announcement about Ellery's ascension in a few moments. Tonight, when Lloyd and the others get here, we'll have the burial ceremony for the Brat. And after that... after that there won't be much left to do. We can help Ellery set up the new government and whatever, but too much interference would only slow things down. Let them sort it out for themselves."

Laela cocked her head. "Whatever you say, Bratslayer."

"That was tasteless, Laela."

Laela snickered. "I couldn't resist."

"It's not funny, Laela," said Scott. "He was a person. And a rider."

"Who killed Isis and crippled you," said Laela, losing her grin.

""While your enemy lives, never forgive him. When he is dead, let his crimes against you rest with him"," said Scott. "It's the dark elfish way. My way. Now, let's go."

"Go where?" said Pat.

Scott pointed to the window. Outside, the horizon was turning pink and gold. "It's sunset. Time to give the new King his power."

Outside in the city, people had gathered in the thousands to hear Scott speak. Snow was still falling, and had formed drifts in the streets and on windowsills, and now that calm had returned and the people had realized that they were free once more, a new mood of carefree jubilation had taken over. Grown men were laughing and throwing snowballs at each other, and children ran in and out of the crowd, giggling. Merchants were giving away oranges and other treats for free, and the atmosphere was an almost festive one.

Scott and Pat emerged onto a large balcony that jutted out from the castle wall, Laela with them. The balcony was one Scott had often used to address the people, and in fact had been built for that specific person. He'd always believed in giving things a personal touch, and during his time as King had often been seen in public – until about twenty years prior to the battle on the burning plains, when he had become suddenly reclusive and stopped leaving Umhlanga altogether. No-one was certain of why it had happened, but it had marked the beginning of a period of slightly erratic leadership, and rumours had spread that the now unseen King was actually dead and had yet to be replaced.

But now Scott was back, and he took his place on the balcony with his Queen beside him, resplendent in his new robe with a thin silver circlet on his brow. From this height, the crowd could not see his red eye, nor notice how much he had aged. They cheered when they saw him, and shouted his name when he raised a hand in greeting.

Hearing the shouts, Scott couldn't help but smile. "It's nice to have some people pleased to see us, isn't it?" he remarked to Pat.

"It certainly is," said Pat, placing her hands on the railing, which had been adorned with flowers, and looking down on her subjects with a benevolent expression.

"I can't see," Laela complained, from beside Scott's boot.

Scott glanced down at her. "Oh, I'm sorry, Laela. Here, climb up." He offered her his hand.

"Give me a moment," said Laela. She moved back, away from him, then stood firm with her paws well apart, and breathed in deeply. Then she started to grow. Up and up, her chest and flanks expanding, her legs thickening and her wings becoming wide and sleek. She grew until she was the size of a horse, and then stopped. "That's better," she said, and came to stand at her rider's side, arching her neck over the railing so that the people below could see her. They cheered again at the sight of her.

"How did you do that?" said Scott.

"I had some energy left over," said Laela. "Now stop wasting time and talk to them! It'll be dark in a few minutes."

Scott pulled himself together. He looked down at the expectant faces of the crowd, and took a deep breath as he recalled what he was going to say to them. Sometimes he thought that it was times like this that really defined him as a person, or at the very least as a ruler.

"People of Umhlanga!" he cried, letting the magic he had stolen from Durza amplify his voice so that it resounded out over the heads of the crowd. "My people! The Shades are dead and Elfthade is free. I killed them for you. I came back to set you free."

There was a roar of approval from the crowd.

"I am not a despot!" Scott yelled, suddenly impassioned. "I am not your enemy and I never was. I died to set you free! I laid down my life, for you! Now I have been reborn, and I stand before you now, complete, body and soul, with my Queen and my dragon by my side, to give you a gift." He paused, and a spasm of pain passed across his face before he went on. "When I first built this Empire of ours, I vowed it would mean the end of the old ways, an end to prejudice, lies, the supremacy of the light Elves over all other races. I vowed that it would no longer be shameful to be Human; I vowed that I would bring equality. The old ways died when I killed Vrael and made myself King because I could not let anarchy destroy the land where I was born. Some people – the Zulus – wanted to return to the old ways. They wanted to rule here. Their arrogance, their lust for power, was their failure. The Zulus is gone now, just like the Shades. And just like my Empire. Ages end, and new ages begin. It is inevitable. This land lives as we live. What lives, changes. What does not change, dies. My time as King is over, and this is my last declaration to you all. People of Umhlanga... people of Elfthade, I have given back what I took from you all those years ago – I have brought the riders back."

Laela roared.

"The riders have returned!" Scott yelled. "The ancient magic has been reforged between man and dragon! Soon Elfthade will be united and guarded by dragon riders once again, and they shall not be trained by Elves, but by ordinary men and women of Elfthade. There will be no more separation; the new riders will not cut themselves off from the people they serve. If you would join them, then go to the dragons and prove yourself worthy to them. But to be a rider is not to be privileged. A rider's life is one of service – service to you. When the first of the new riders comes to the city, look to them for your needs, let them fight for you, let them build your cities and sow your crops. A new age is beginning. People of Elfthade... let it be an age of glory!"

The crowd went wild. Whoops and cheers rose high into the grey sky, sounds of mingled joy and relief. Laela took off, and flew over the crowd, circling low amid the falling snow, and as the people watched her with awe, she began to sing.

There were no words to her song. This was a dragon's song, high and crooning, strange but beautiful, and wild. It lifted the hearts of everyone who heard it.

Scott watched her for a moment, then turned away and retreated back into the castle, accompanied by Pat.

Once he was through the door and out of sight of the crowd, he winced and slumped against the wall, his hand pressed into his chest.

Pat was there in an instant. "What's wrong?"

Scott gritted his teeth, his fists clenched. For a few seconds he stood there, his face twitching as if he were fighting some internal battle, and then he relaxed and opened his eyes.

For a fraction of a second, both of them were blood-red. But the right one changed back to black so quickly that Pat only just caught it. "Scott?" she said. "What's happening?"

Scott grasped her hand. "Pat. There you are. I'm... fine."

"No you're not," Pat said sharply. "What is it? Are you in pain?"

Scott grimaced again, and then sagged slightly. His breathing was fast and shallow, as if he had just been running. "I think," he said. "I think Durza is still alive. I can feel him... inside me... argh!" he wrenched at his hair, doubling over as if someone had hit him in the stomach. Pat, panicking, held him close until his convulsions ceased and he straightened up. "Well," he panted. "That... wasn't fun."

"Are you all right?" said Pat, anxiously checking his eyes. They were back to the way they'd been before – one red, one black.

"Fine," said Scott, but he was unable to keep the nervousness out of his voice. "By the gods, everything bad keeps happening to me, doesn't it? But don't worry. I can control it. It's nothing. Just a few death throes. It'll stop soon enough. I'm fine, Pat. Honestly."

Pat glared at him. "Don't even think about it, Scott. Come on. You're going upstairs to get some sleep."

"Not now, Pat," said Scott, trying to extricate himself from her as gently as possible. "I've got work to do. Lloyd and the others will be here any minute, and..."

"And I don't care," said Pat. "You need rest and you're going to go and get some. Now."

"But I-,"

"Now!" Pat barked, and, ignoring his protests, the silver elf hustled him upstairs and to his bedroom, where some helpful soul had strung up a hammock. Pat pointed at it. "Sleep," she said. "Go on. I'll look after things for you."

Scott threw his hands up in defeat. "All right, all right, if you insist."

"I do," said Pat.

"You know, I'm still technically the King here..."

"And Kings need sleep," said Pat, unmoved. "I'm not leaving until I'm convinced you're actually going to sleep and not sit in here sorting through paperwork or writing speeches or something."

"What paperwork? What speeches? That's over with, Pat. Forever. No more paperwork, no more proclamations, no more anything."

"Good. Then you can sleep."

Scott sat down and began unlacing his boots. "All right, you win. But for the love of gods, come and wake me up if anything needs my attention. Okay?"

"I'll take care of everything," said Pat. "Now for the sky's sake stop worrying."

Scott stood up and shrugged off his robe, then climbed into the hammock and settled down. He sighed. "I never could get used to sleeping in a bed, you know. I could only ever really sleep in a hammock. Ever since I was a boy." He yawned.

Pat smiled. "Sleep well," she said, and left. She closed the door as quietly as she could, and then locked it and put the key into her pocket with a sly expression before she walked off.

Left alone in his room, Scott felt the gentle swinging motion of the hammock soothe him as it always did. He sighed. "I'm the King who sleeps in a hammock," he mumbled to himself.

Then he slept.

Scott dreamed dark dreams. Shade dreams.

He knelt before the human, his head bowed. When he glanced up, he found himself looking into a pair of eyes like black diamonds – dark and deep, and cold, and powerful. So powerful that before them even he faltered, he who feared nothing.

"I swear to serve you," he intoned in the ancient language. "I shall do your bidding at any cost, for as long as I live." As he spoke, he could feel the magic binding him to his word.

"Good," the human said. "And see you keep your word, Shade. You know what will happen if you don't."

He looked back, emotionless. "I know." He could sense the human's satisfaction, but felt no rage or resentment. Emotions were for Elves. Not for him.

The oath was a sacrifice that would cost him dear, but he was willing to make it. As the human turned away from him, he watched him with hunger in his eyes. One day, he vowed to himself. One day. The human will not always be strong. One day he will make a mistake. One day his defenses will falter. And on that day I shall take his body and his powers for my own.

And for a hundred years, he waited for that day to come. He had no concept of impatience. If need be he would wait forever.

But he waited in vain, in the end. The other human, the new rider...

The world shook, and an almighty crack split the air. Shards of red stone tore the room apart, and as a great blue dragon descended upon him, the boy struck. His sword, its blade aflame, split his heart in two and destroyed him utterly, his mind and soul unraveling into the void.

And then he was dead.

Scott woke up slowly. At first he couldn't remember where he was; he sat up sharply in his hammock, his hand reaching automatically for White Violence's hilt. It was out of reach, but as he looked around quickly for any sign of danger, he gradually realized that he knew this place. It was his bedchamber, the one he had shared with Pat until... until...

He let the events of the last few months slowly sink in once more, and then relaxed. It was all right. He was safe back in Umhlanga, and so was Pat, and Laela... Laela was back. Laela had been returned to him, and from now on he would always be safe.

His left eye was sore. He rubbed it, and realized that it was wet with tears. Odd.

He yawned and rolled out of the hammock. Landing on his feet, he stretched, rolling his shoulders and then arching his back like a cat. A little stiff, but otherwise good as new.

It was good to be alive.

But he wasn't left to think of that for long. As he reached for a comb, his memory was kind enough to remind him of the long list of things he was supposed to be doing. He swore. How long had he been asleep? It could have been hours, and all sorts of things were probably happening while he wasn't there to keep them under control...

He pulled his boots on and donned his robe with lightning speed, dragged the comb through his hair and then rushed for the door and nearly fell over when it wouldn't open. He tried the handle. Someone had locked him in.

Scott sighed. "Honestly, Pat," he muttered, not without affection.

It was the work of a moment to unlock the door with magic, and he strode out into the castle to find out what was going on.

He found Pat in the treasury, with R`dull-Vidr in its sheath on her back. She was examining the rack of old riders" swords, and smiled at him when he entered. "Did you sleep well?"

"Yes, and for far too long. Is it still today or did I miss it?"

"You slept all night," said Pat. "Stop stressing; I took care of things for you. Don't you trust me?"

Scott fiddled with his hair. "Yes, but... well, you know how I like to be there... what's been going on? Did Lloyd and the others get here?"

"Yes," said Pat. "Angry and confused, but I calmed them down. I told them you were resting but you'd come and speak to them later... they don't know the Brat's dead. I thought it would be better if you were there when that happened. I told them you killed Durza and that Nasuada is safe... I sent them to the guest rooms and had someone keep an eye on them."

"That was wise," said Scott. "So what are you doing now?"

"I'm choosing a sword," said Pat. "Scott, there's something you should know."

"Yes?"

"Carnoc and Jarsha. They're riders now. The green hatchling bonded himself to Jarsha, and the red one to Carnoc."

Scott paused. "That's... that's good. Carnoc is an honorable man, and a brave one. He'll make a worthy rider. As for the other one, Jarsha... well, it's not for us to say who should become a rider, is it? If it was, I would never have chosen Nasuada. She reminds me too much of the old riders."

Pat nodded. "But Carnoc and Jarsha will be worthy. And Sif, too, perhaps."

"So you're finding swords for them," said Scott.

There were several green or red-bladed swords there, but each one had a different hilt and a different name engraved on it.

"I'm trying to remember if the green hatchling's eyes are gold or silver," said Pat.

Scott thought about it. "Silver. And the red one has gold."

He selected a green sword with a silver hilt, and turned it over in his hands. It was longer than most of the others, and thinner in the blade. The hilt had a number of green and blue stones set into it, and was engraved with the name "Laufsblad".

Scott took up a fighting stance and expertly flourished the weapon so that its blade flashed. "Laufsblad. _Leafblade,_ belonged to a rider called Tranah. One of the Forsworn, as a matter of fact, but I think we'll avoid mentioning that. I think this will do."

Pat lifted a red-bladed sword out of the rack. This one was thick and heavy, with a double-handed gold hilt set with jet-black stones.

Scott's eyes darkened when he looked at it. "I know that sword," he said. " _Blod-Söngr_ – Blood Song. The owner was... well, she died the same day Laela did. See that little notch on the blade? White Violence did that."

"Should we choose a different one, then?" said Pat.

Scott paused. "No. Let Carnoc have it. It deserves a better owner."

"And Sif can have her father's sword," said Pat.

"Yes," said Scott. "And that reminds me... we'd better get on with the burial. Come on."

They had the members of the new Zulus brought into the throne room. Lloyd, Carnoc, Jarsha and Sif entered nervously, clad in fine new clothes and accompanied by the four newly-bonded hatchlings – including Silarae. Thorn was up on the castle walls with Laela, Lifrasir and her siblings.

Lloyd still had Zar'roc with him, and kept touching the hilt. He and his three fellow riders were definitely looking nervous. The instant Lloyd saw Scott, he said; "There you are. What's going on? Where's Nasuada? Where's Stephen?"

Scott sighed and sat down on the throne, and suddenly it was as if he'd never left it. "Lloyd, Sif, Carnoc, Jarsha... welcome to Umhlanga." He bowed his head slightly to them. "I'm sorry I couldn't speak to you sooner, but I needed to rest."

"What's going on?" Lloyd said again. "You brought us here and locked us up like prisoners – is that what we are? Are you going to kill us now we've got your throne back for you?"

"Actually, I was the one who got the throne back," said Scott. "Seeing as how I killed Durza. As for the imprisonment... well, you refused to trust me when I came to you to offer my help. Consider this returning the favor. But let me assure you, you're in no danger of being killed. Jarsha, Carnoc, I have a gift for you."

Pat went forward, and presented the two of them with their swords. They took them, staring at them in wonder.

"Your riders" swords," said Scott. "Laufsblad and Blod-Söngr, Leafblade and Blood Song. Care for them. You are riders now."

"Where is Nasuada?" Lloyd said again. "What have you done with her?"

"She's safe," said Scott. "You'll see her again in a moment. In fact she can probably see us right now, since Silarae is here."

The black hatchling was standing by Sif. She hissed venomously at Scott. He fixed her with a stare, and she fell silent and hid behind Sif's leg.

"What about Stephen?" said Lloyd. "Did you set him free as you promised?"

"Your half-brother is dead," said Scott. "I'm sorry, Lloyd."

"Dead?" said Lloyd. "How?"

"I killed him."

All four riders gaped at him.

"What?" asked Lloyd.

Scott stood up. "I kept my promise. Death is freedom."

"You murderer!" Carnoc exclaimed.

"Stephen was my enemy," said Scott. "And my enemies... die."

Sif started to cry. Lloyd put his arm around her and hugged her to his side, but his eyes remained fixed accusingly on Scott. "You lied."

Scott's red eye turned toward him, horrible in the torchlight. "Yes. I do that."

Lloyd cringed. "What happened to your eye?"

"A parting gift from an old friend. Mourn for Stephen, but don't say he didn't deserve what happened to him."

"He was my brother!"

"Of course. And I'm sure he treated you like one, yes?"

Lloyd hesitated.

"I know how cruel he was to you," said Scott. "I can't understand why you put up with it, to be honest. He treated you like scum." He put his hands on his hips and did a whiny and surprisingly accurate impersonation of Stephen. "Ooh, well, I'm so much better than you because I don't have a nasty old scar on my back any more."

"That's not funny," said Lloyd.

"It wasn't supposed to be funny. Now, come with me. We're going to lay him to rest under the city. Nasuada is waiting for us."

She was. The catacombs under the city were larger than most people realized. They'd been carved out of some natural caves long ago, but much of the walls and ceiling had been left untouched, so that the original shape and form of the stone remained. Only the floor had been flattened and evened out, and in some places parts of the ceiling had been carved out to create more headspace. A narrow staircase, cut into the rock, led down into the catacombs, and Scott and Pat led the four riders down them and into the cold, echoing space beyond. Burning torches had been placed at intervals along the walls, and their trail led them past the tombs. Dozens and dozens of them, carved into the walls. Each body had been laid to rest in a recess in the wall and then sealed in with a stone slab, into which was carved a life-sized image of the deceased. And beside each man or elf was an image of a dragon.

As they walked along, Scott recited the names of the entombed riders. "Tranah of Dras-Leona, bonded to a dragon called Aedua. Lanethial the elf, rider of Hrennain. Vardis, rider of Lain. Flell, rider of Thrain. M"nartha, she was before my time. This one here is one of the oldest tombs down here, see how the carving's worn away? And there... that one there. That's your father, Lloyd. That's Morzan's tomb. And this here is Brom's tomb. There's nothing in it, of course, but it was built for him a long time ago. And here..." he stopped by a tomb that was still open. "This is my tomb," he said.

The open space inside it was full of dust, and more dust covered the likeness of himself that was carved over it. This version was beardless and looked much younger, but the angular face and mane of curly hair were unmistakably his. The image's carved eyes stared blankly into the distance, but its expression was eerily lifelike.

Scott ran his hands over the stone, and sighed. "Many, many people tried to put me into this tomb. Even I tried once..." he turned away abruptly. "Come on. No time for dreaming."

As Lloyd passed the tomb, he noticed that the name carved on it was Arren Cardockson. And beside that, Laela.

They took a left turn into a small chamber, and that was where they found Stephen's body. It had been laid in front of an open tomb, this one newly carved and bearing his likeness and that of Bernice. Stephen's body had been washed and clad in a suit of ceremonial armor – silver inlaid with bright blue enamel. His head was bare, and they could all see his face, deathly pale but serene. Íssbrandr was lying beside him, and Nasuada was crouched by his head, wearing a black silk gown.

Silarae ran to her at once, and she took the black hatchling into her arms and held her close, standing up as the others approached. When she saw Lloyd she ran to him.

"Nasuada!" he cried, embracing her. "Thank gods you're all right."

Nasuada buried her face in his broad chest. "Oh Lloyd," she sobbed. "Stephen's dead."

"I know," said Lloyd. "I know, Nasuada. Sif..." he looked at her over her mother's shoulder. "That's your father, Sif. Go to him."

Sif pushed her way past Carnoc, the blue hatchling following at her heels. She stood over Stephen's body, looking down at him with a look of heartbreaking bewilderment on her face. "Father?"

Only silence answered her.

Sif knelt by Stephen's body. "Father?" she said again, touching his cold face.

There was a movement behind her, and Scott was there. She looked up at him, too confused to be frightened. "Father won't wake up," she said. "What's wrong with him?"

"He's dead, Sif," Scott said softly. "Here..." he crouched beside her, and lifted Íssbrandr, gently guiding the hilt into her hands. "This was his sword. It's yours now. He would have wanted you to have it."

Sif grasped the weapon, trying to lift it. "It's heavy."

"You'll be strong enough to use it one day."

Sif stood up, holding the sword, and fixed Scott with a child's direct stare. "Why did Father die?"

"He made mistakes and did bad things, and hurt people. That was why he died."

Nasuada was quick to intervene. She pushed Scott out of the way and put her arm protectively around Sif's shoulders. "Don't lie," she said. "Sif, this man killed your father."

Sif's grip tightened on Íssbrandr's hilt. "Did you?" she asked, her voice surprisingly strong.

Scott nodded. "Yes. I killed him."

Sif didn't look angry or upset. "Why?" she said, and there was nothing but bewilderment in her voice and face.

"Because... because... because I'm a murderer. I kill people. It's what I've always done. Now..." he turned away. "We're going to lay him to rest. Lloyd, Nasuada... you should be the ones to place him in the tomb."

He stood by and let them do it. The dark recess in the stone was the perfect size to receive the body, and Lloyd and Nasuada lifted it in on its stretcher and carefully arranged it there, decorating it with flowers.

Once they were done, they and their fellow riders stood by in a little group, their heads bowed, and Scott spoke the ceremonial words, the ones which he alone remembered and which had always been spoken at the burial of a rider. "In death, as in life, let this man be remembered. Stephen Shadeslayer, son of Brom and Selena, born in Carvahall, let him be remembered for all he was and all he did in life, and let his death be but a final chapter in a glorious book. May he find peace and rest, and may his memory be honored by friend and foe alike. May none speak ill of him from hereon, for in death all but a man's virtues are forgotten. Courage. Honesty. Integrity. Duty. Justice. Honor. These are the virtues of a rider, and the virtues which Stephen Shadeslayer, son of Brom, upheld until his dying day. May peace embrace him now that his journey is ended, may his soul be bound for eternity to that of his dragon, Bernice, as it was in life, that the two of them be united in love until the very ending of the world itself. Of earth born and in fire forged, by magic blessed and by cool water soothed, and by a breeze in the night blown away to a land of silver and bright flowers. All this I beseech of the great power of life and death which binds us all, in the names of the great men and dragons of the past. Receive our departed Stephen Shadeslayer, and be the balm to our grief."

He finished speaking, and motioned to Lloyd and Nasuada. "Let the tomb be sealed."

The two riders lifted the stone slab between them with some effort, and fitted it into place on the tomb. Once the slab was in place, Scott held out a hand and spoke a string of words in the ancient language, and the slab melded itself with the wall, sealing the tomb forever.

The little group stood in silence for a time, watched over by the carved likeness of Stephen, who stood out of the wall with Bernice by his side, his handsome face alight with something that might have been happiness.

Scott sighed, breaking the silence. "I blame myself for what happened to him, you know. And not just because I killed him. I killed him because he was my enemy, but we didn't need to be enemies at all..." Then, standing by Stephen's tomb with Pat by his side, watched by Carnoc, Jarsha, Lloyd, Nasuada and Sif, he began to speak, his voice distant. "I remember the day when I found out there was a new rider in Elfthade. The news was brought to me... I hadn't been so excited in fifty years. A new rider had come... I wasn't the last one left after all, and for a long time I had been afraid that when I died the riders would be gone forever. Stephen was the first of the new riders. When Bernice's egg was stolen and Morzan was killed... that was a disaster for me. I knew that if the egg hatched for an enemy of mine, the result would be chaos. Two riders in Elfthade, on opposite sides... well, you know what happened then. But when I found out that the new rider was just a simple village boy with no known connection to the Zulus, I was overjoyed. Truly. I'd been alone for so long, but now... now there was another of my kind. I knew that, as the last rider left, it was my duty to train this boy, teach him how to fight, how to use magic, how to lead. I could teach him the things it took me so much suffering to find out. He could be the rider I should have been, he and I could have created a new order of riders, a new way. We could have united Elfthade, the two of us working together... it was a dream. But I failed. None of the people I sent to bring him to me succeeded. Instead he went to the Zulus, he turned against me... Brom was his mentor, and he taught him to hate me. And the Elves did to him what they did to all the old riders – they turned him into one of themselves. Reshaped him in their own image. Made him look on Elves as rats and Elves as gods. Made him narrow-minded and prejudiced. He was thinking and acting as they wanted him to, and it made him a monster in the end. Power corrupts. Always. He and I weren't that dissimilar to each other, when all was said and done. Both of us grew up as commoners, both orphans, neither of us knowing who our true parents were. Both of us became riders against all the odds, both of us made mistakes and let our power go to our heads, and both of us rebelled. If only I had got to him first, if only I had had the chance to speak with him as a friend and not an enemy, I could have helped him to avoid making my mistakes and becoming what I became. I wanted to look for him myself. I should have."

There was silence for a time.

"Why didn't you?" said Lloyd. "You stopped leaving Umhlanga for such a long time, and no-one was sure why. Was it fear? Was that it?"

Scott paused. "It was... well, I suppose I can tell you now. I stopped leaving Umhlanga... I didn't go after Stephen myself because I couldn't. I couldn't leave the castle. I couldn't even climb a flight of stairs without help. The truth is, for most of your life I was too weak to even lift my sword."

Lloyd gaped at him. "But – I don't... I never saw anything."

"Of course you didn't. I worked very hard to stop anyone else noticing. If anyone knew about it, how easily they could have overthrown me then... so I stopped leaving the castle. I stopped appearing in public and locked myself away, and gave all my commands second-hand."

"But why?" said Lloyd.

"I had the plague," said Scott.

"What?"

"I caught it in Gil'ead. There was an epidemic there... it wiped out half the city. I went there because I hoped my magic could heal some of the sick, but after three days I realized there was nothing I could do. Then, when I got back to Umhlanga, I realized there were sores appearing on my chest. I tried to tell myself it was nothing, but... the sores spread everywhere. Every time I healed them, they reopened a few hours later. Then I developed a fever. I should have been dead within two days, but my magic was just enough to keep me alive. So I had to live with the plague until someone found a way to treat it."

"But the plague in Gil'ead was forty years ago!" Lloyd exclaimed.

Scott nodded. "I had it for about twenty years, in the end. Some days I was stronger than others, but sometimes my throat was so swollen I could hardly speak. It was... well, during that time I was still ruling the Empire. I made bad decisions and missed important things because I slept so much and the sickness affected my brain, but I had to keep it a secret at all costs. Remember the day I spoke to you, just before you ran away? That day I was so feverish I could barely see straight."

Lloyd remembered the wild-eyed, deathly pale madman he had encountered that night. They had dined together, and Scott had spoken of his vision for the future of Elfthade, his words almost hypnotically compelling. When Lloyd had mentioned the Zulus, he had flown into a rage and shouted threats, his eyes burning with hatred. That Scott had been very different from the cold, rational one he had encountered after his return to Umhlanga.

"You scared me," Lloyd said now.

"I was afraid," Scott said frankly. "I could feel the Empire slipping out of my grasp, but there was nothing I could do to stop it. But I finally had some luck, a few weeks after you disappeared. A herbalist in Teirm found a cure for the plague. It took a long time, but little by little I got better, and by the time you were brought back to Umhlanga and Thorn hatched for you, I was nearly back to my full strength. But by then it was too late. The Zulus had grown strong, Stephen had joined them, and civil war was breaking out. I finally did capture Stephen, as you know, and I tried to reason with him then, but he was too far gone for me to get through to him. He simply wouldn't listen to anything I said. I doubt he would have believed me if I'd said the sky was blue. I could have killed him then, but I didn't. And when the Zulus captured me and Stephen had me tortured... that was when I knew it was a lost cause. That was when I swore to myself that I would kill him. But after so much killing, I couldn't bring myself to do it for a long time. I could have hunted him down. I could have traveled endlessly all over the country until I found him and killed him, but I didn't. I kept holding myself back, hoping he would just leave me alone or see reason and try and negotiate peacefully, but... after what he did to me... in the end, I kept my promise. I don't expect any of you to forgive me – I have no right to expect that. But perhaps now you can understand what happened a little better."

There was silence for a time. Finally Nasuada spoke up. "I want... when he was dying... you whispered something in his ear. What did you say to him?"

Scott looked at her, then at Sif. "I said, _you have a daughter. I will keep her safe._ "

Chapter Twenty-Seven ~ Lessons of the Past

Later on, the five riders – Carnoc, Jarsha, Sif, Nasuada and Lloyd – sat together in the banqueting hall and ate. All of them were frightened and resentful. Carnoc in particular jumped at every sound, and kept glancing nervously at the door, as if expecting a group of guards to come through it and attack him at any moment. His red dragon, Rose, stayed close to him, her head resting on his shoulder.

Sif picked listlessly at her food, sitting hunched in her chair. The blue hatchling nosed at her cheek. "Don't be sad, Sif. I'm here."

"Father's dead," said Sif. "I'm scared, Bernice."

"I'm scared too," said Bernice.

"The mean man killed Father," said Sif. "What if he kills me too?"

"I wouldn't let him," said Bernice. "But he was nice to you, and me, too."

"But Mother said he tells lies," said Sif. "What if he's only pretending? What if he's going to cut my head off?"

Bernice whimpered softly. "Thorn said he killed lots of people."

Sif had a strange feeling then. She saw her father, lying so still like that in the stone room, and when she thought of the scary man with the red eye and how he had stood there, big and dark like an evil shadow, a burning feeling appeared in her chest, as if there were a fire inside her. She imagined his face, and imagined him burning away in her fire, and she liked it. "I hate him," she said. "I hate him forever."

Nasuada hadn't told the others about the oath she had taken. She sat beside Lloyd, hunched and miserable, but taking strength from his presence and that of Silarae. At least she still had them. But any minute Scott was going to come back. She hated him so much, but he confused her as well. In spite of everything that had happened, in her mind she was not quite sure if he was friend or foe. His motivations were always so uncertain; he would help you if there was something in it for him, but turn on you at a moment's notice. He would lie or tell the truth depending on what suited him, and though he always seemed so cold and shut-in he sometimes acted as if he were genuinely sorrowful for what he had done and for the hatred she showed toward him. He was a mystery to her, just as Lloyd sometimes was, and though she hated him she could not help but be fascinated by him as well, and sometimes she felt somehow drawn toward those dark, unreadable eyes and that stern, handsome face.

The thought made her feel disgusted with herself, and she downed a goblet of wine, her free hand clutching Lloyd's.

There was a thump from the doorway, and Scott limped into the room. Pat was with him, and behind them was a graceful, slender white dragon with silver wings. She was the size of a horse, and only just fitted through the doorway – the thump had been from her horn hitting the doorframe. Nasuada stared in amazement. Lloyd dropped his goblet and swore loudly.

Scott took his place at the head of the table, his hand resting on the white dragon's shoulder, and everyone there could see it. See how graceful the two of them looked together. Two bodies. One soul.

The white dragon watched them all keenly, then dipped her head to touch Scott with her snout. He smiled a gentle, peaceful smile that none of them had ever seen him use before, and said; "My fellow riders... this is Laela."

"But-," said Lloyd. "But – but – I – no. Just. Not..."

Laela laughed.

Scott smiled at some comment she'd made in the privacy of their heads. "I gave the riders their lives back, and in return I have been given a second chance at life. I'm a rider again."

"But-," Lloyd said again. "Is that... the Laela? The one who died?"

"I am," Laela said out loud. "Your dragon is Thorn, isn't he? He's more handsome than you are." She grinned.

"But this isn't..."

"In a world of magic, anything is possible," said Scott. "What fate took, fate gave back. Now. Listen to me. All of you."

They did.

"You all here, are the future of Elfthade. I am the past. I belong to an old way of life, a way that is now ending. You are the new riders, and the future belongs to you. There is very little left that I can do for you, but I have brought you and your dragons together, and I have brought you to Umhlanga. Soon your new lives will begin, and it will be your job to keep the peace in Elfthade, just as riders have always done. As for me, I'm leaving."

"Leaving?" Nasuada repeated. "Leaving to go where?"

"I'm leaving Elfthade," said Scott. "Pat and Laela and I are going together. I have renounced the throne. Now there will be a new King, and you must answer to him from now on."

They gaped at him. "But... which King?" said Lloyd.

"Who will rule here, if not you?" said Carnoc.

"The new King is waiting for you outside the gates," said Scott. "Once we have finished here, you will go out and meet him, and pledge yourselves to him. He will be your master, and master to all other riders who come after you. But first... first there is something I must show you."

They watched him expectantly. He scratched Laela's neck, his expression a little sad.

"I am going to show you the truth," he said. "I am going to show you my memories."

He glanced at Laela, and the two of them shifted slightly, bracing themselves as if in readiness to meet an oncoming foe. Then Scott held his hand out toward them and said; "Opnask minn hjarta eda syna minn frœdi!" – "Open my heart and show my history".

And light bloomed in the air. It formed a sphere of pure white energy over the table, formed from the joined minds of both Scott and Laela, and as they watched it expanded and then formed into a window. And through that window they saw images.

They were faint and hazy, distorted as if by a veil, and with them came a confused babble of sounds. At first nothing could be gleaned from it but then, as they listened, they could make out the sound of a voice – muffled and distant, like a voice in a dream.

Call him Scott, call him-

The images changed abruptly, and they saw a vague picture of a face – though it was impossible to tell whether it was male or female, human or elf. The sounds became a distant rumble and roar, as of waves, and above that they heard a wailing.

"My earliest memories," Scott explained. "That was my mother's voice. And what you can hear now is the crowd that came to see her executed the next morning." He smiled a little enigmatically. "Ingë Taranisäii. That was her name. She was nineteen years old. And my father, Skandar Traeganni – he died with her. After he gave me my name." He saw the looks on their faces, and nodded slightly. "Yes. What you've heard is true. I am a half-breed. Look."

The images changed again, and now they were bright and clear – no longer seen through the eyes of an infant. They saw two small children, staring out of the window with suspicious expressions. One demanded, _What do you want?_

A child's voice replied. _Can I play with you?_

The children glanced at each other. Then one came forward and shoved the unseen speaker away. _No! Go away, freak!_

Rejected, the child whose eyes they were looking through turned away. They saw simple wooden houses lining a cobbled street in a city somewhere, all from the low perspective of a child. The child halted in a gutter and his vision moved toward the ground, where there was a puddle of water. As he leaned over it, they saw his reflection staring up out of the window. The soft face of a child no more than four years old looked up at them. He wore simple clothes, and had a mop of black curls, but his eyes were not the eyes of a child. They were black and glittering, and... somehow utterly wrong. They did not fit with his face at all.

The child sat down and looked at his hands. They were long-fingered and pale, and he flexed them and fiddled absent-mindedly with a tear in the knee of his trousers. They heard him sigh.

An adult voice called from somewhere, _Arren?_

The child turned to look, and saw a woman coming. He stood up and went to her, and the vision faded.

"I was often alone," Scott muttered. "The other children didn't like me. I can see why. I scared them. I didn't mean to, but... I suppose children often see what adults don't. They knew I was different. But it only ever got worse."

Now they saw a new vision. This one was higher from the ground – evidently from the perspective of a much older Scott. He was walking along a street on a busy day, carefully avoiding the puddles on the road. As he passed a glass window, he stopped and looked at it. They saw the reflection of a tall, thin teenage boy, clad in black, his eyes as dark and piercing as ever. He moved a little closer to his reflection, and meticulously rearranged a few stray curls before he moved on. But as he went on his way, they noticed he was avoiding going too close to any of the people he passed. Some of them stared at him, and he quickly turned away as they did, but they could hear mutters following him. They were low, but hostile. The boy stared at the ground.

And then, in the blink of eye, the vision changed. What they saw next was a gang of young men, surrounding the teenage Scott. Their faces were distorted with hatred as they advanced on him, and he backed away, until he was forced to stop, his back to a wall. He made an attempt to break through the gang, punching one of them in the chin, but was quickly knocked back. They closed in, raining blows down on him from all sides, and their voices echoed in the hall, loud and accusing and hateful. _Half-breed! Half-breed freak!_

They could see the vision flashing red as he was struck in the head and face, until there was a loud thump and he fell down. They could hear him yelping in pain.

"I came home plenty of times with bruises on my face," said Scott. "My mother worried about me, but there was nothing she could do. In the end, I knew I had to do something. Sooner or later I'd be killed. So I tried to ask for help when one of the riders came to Teirm, where I lived."

They saw a new vision now – one of a large wooden door. Two guards were standing on either side of it, and they raised their spears as the young Scott approached.

_I want to see the rider_ , Scott's voice said. Several of the listeners started when they heard it. It was younger and lighter than the voice of the Scott they knew, and had a broad Teirmish accent that he had long since lost. But it was his, all the same.

_Get lost, kid_ , a guard replied.

_I have something important to ask him_.

The guard struck him with the butt of his spear, sending him sprawling. He pulled away hastily, and the pair of them sniggered at him as he left.

Scott smiled slightly. "Not much success there. But I didn't give up that easily. If the riders wouldn't listen to a commoner, then they'd listen to one of their own. I decided that if I wanted to change things, I should become one myself. So I went to the riders' trials that year – and did rather well, actually. And I was accepted and sent to Ellesméra. But I didn't tell anyone I was a half-breed."

They saw a vision of a dragon's egg – pure white, cradled in a pair of long-fingered hands that were unmistakably Scott's. A faint squeaking came from inside it, and then it began to move. They watched as it hatched, and saw the pure white hatchling emerge – one whose silver eyes and wings made it instantly clear that the dragon now standing in the hall was the very same one.

The teenage Scott's hand reached out to touch the hatchling, and the vision flashed white. When it reappeared, they found themselves looking at a group of Dark Elves and Light Elves, each one with a dragon standing behind them. At their head was an elf, whose hair was as white as his dragon.

"Vrael."

The elf held out something wrapped in cloth. _Take it_ , he intoned. _It is yours_.

Scott's hands reached out for it, and he pulled away the wrappings to reveal a magnificent sword with a white blade and a silver hilt. White Violence, as it had been mere days after being forged.

_Your sword_ , said Vrael, his voice echoing toward them from over a century ago. _You must give it a name. Wield it with courage and honor all your days, Arren Cardockson. You are one of us now_.

The other riders held out their hands, palm-forward, and Vrael did likewise, touching Scott on the forehead. The voices of the riders spoke as one, and the vision turned white once more as the magic was woven. They could hear the faint echoes all around them, whispering and ghostly. _One of us, one of us, one of us_ ...

Before they could see more, the vision changed again and they saw a young woman – no more than seventeen years old. She was very pretty, with light brown hair and blue eyes, but she was looking out at them with an expression of deep fear and worry, her eyes reddened from crying.

"Flell. My first love."

_Scott, I'm pregnant_ , the girl said. _It's yours. What am I going to do?_

_You mean you want me to marry you?_ Scott's voice replied.

I can't do this alone. I need your help.

Silence for a time, and then they saw Scott reach out and take her hands in his. _Flell, if that's what you want me to do, then I will. But... there's something you have to know. I can't keep it a secret any longer._

"And then I told her everything," said Scott. "How could I not? I already felt like a fraud because I'd kept it secret for so long. I couldn't keep hiding it. Not from her."

Flell's face was full of bewilderment. _But – a half-breed? And you never told me, and-_

Please, Flell. It has to be kept a secret. The riders destroyed the dark Elves. If they find out I'm one of them... please. You have to keep it secret. If they knew, I don't know what they'd do to me.

The vision faded to black again.

"Unfortunately," Scott said in a heavy voice, "I had made a mistake. Flell betrayed me. I don't really blame her. I was sent to govern Teirm, and she had to go back to Ilirea to finish her training. Of course it came out that she was pregnant in the end, and when that happened she... well, she must have panicked. She told them I was the father, and I suppose they frightened her into thinking she would be in trouble for it... I really don't know. But she told them I was a half-breed. Perhaps she was hoping to save herself, but... well, she told them I raped her." He smiled bitterly. "After all, what woman would ever bed a half-breed willingly? No... it was my undoing. I had become arrogant. I was Vrael's prized student and the envy of all the other young riders. Stories about my prowess were everywhere. I'd only just been given my sword but I was already governing an entire city. I was already trying to reform things a little – I outlawed slavery and changed some laws which I felt favored Elves over Elves unnecessarily... that sort of thing. It never really occurred to me that I could get into any serious trouble, even if they did find out my secret. I was wrong, and it cost me everything I had."

Now they saw a huge white chamber – almost a cavern, its walls smooth and featureless. In it were the five rider elders, including Vrael. Oromis and Glaedr were there, as they had been at the height of their strength – Oromis standing straight and proud, his head held high, with none of the feebleness he had had when Nasuada had known him, and Glaedr a crouched, muscular brute of a dragon, his foreleg still intact, growling softly.

All the elders' dragons were growling, the onlookers realized. And their riders were staring straight at Scott – and hence at them all – with expressions of controlled hatred, as if they were looking at some subhuman creature that deserved to be crushed underfoot.

_Arren Cardockson, explain yourself_ , said Vrael. His voice was dispassionate, but his pale eyes blazed.

_I'm not sure what I have to explain_ , the young Scott said boldly. _My actions in Teirm were according to what you told me. You told me to use my judgement, and-_

_You filth!_ Vrael roared suddenly. _You repulsive, presumptive, arrogant creature!_

_I am a rider!_ Scott shouted back. _I'm one of you, and I rule this land just as you do! And how dare you treat me like this? I'm not an elder, but I'm not a puppet of the Queen, either!_

_You are no rider!_ said Vrael. _You are a traitor and an oathbreaker, and you are no equal of mine._

I care more about the people of Elfthade than you ever did! I wasn't afraid to be my own person, you coward.

_You have betrayed us all_ , Vrael said in a low voice. _We know your secret – hálfr-Sanesha. Half-breed! You sub-human creature, you monster!_

How did you find out?

Do you deny it?

No. I know. I've always known. But I can't help the way I was born. I'm innocent.

Vrael hit him. _LIAR! You planned this! You planned all of it! You brought your vile dark elvish magic into the heart of Ellesméra itself, you corrupted the sacred order of the riders, and as if that weren't bad enough you violated a fellow rider and left her carrying your vile dark elvish spawn. Flell told us the truth of what you did to her. How you raped her._

"I argued," said Scott. "But they wouldn't listen to me. They sent me away to wait while they decided what to do with me, and later on Brom came to find me. We were friends back then, you see. He came and warned me because he had overheard them talking. They had decided to destroy the bond between Laela and I, and when that was done they were going to execute me. Hanging, drawing and quartering. I didn't get a trial. It was a cover-up. They couldn't risk having the rest of the country find out that they had discovered a half-breed amongst their own, so they swore everyone to secrecy and sentenced me to death at once. But thanks to Brom's warning, I escaped from the city and went into hiding in the North. And there I found the one thing I had been searching for all my life – a family."

They saw a snowy forest somewhere, and, standing among the trees were... Elves. Dark Elves. Everyone there blinked in confusion. Even though none of them had seen a dark elf before, the little group among the trees was strikingly – almost shockingly – familiar. They were like Scott. They had his glittering black eyes, his pale skin, his black hair. They wore black robes just like the one he habitually dressed in, and many of the men had small pointed beards like his own. Their ears, however, were pointed, though they were longer and more curved than those of the Southern Elves. Blue spirals were tattooed on their faces, and their hair was decorated with bone ornaments.

One of them came forward – an ancient woman, clad in a silver gown and leaning on a staff. _The half-breed is come_ , she whispered.

_Don't call me that_ , the young Scott replied defensively.

_But I call you that as a blessing, not a curse, Sire_.

'Sire'? Why d'you call me that? I'm not a King.

But you will be one day, Sire.

"Arthryn Traeganni," said Scott. "My grandmother, and a seer. She told me I would be a King some day. I didn't believe her. But I stayed with the dark Elves for months. I learned their language and their ways, and for a while I was happy." He sighed. "Unfortunately, it couldn't last. The riders found me in the end, and from then on... from then on, it seemed all I could do was run. But some things can't be escaped."

Night, and they saw fire rising over the treetops in the valley. Two dragons, both armored for battle, flew overhead, belching fire on the fleeing dark Elves. Huge craters had appeared in the ground – left by some magical weapon. They could see bodies and parts of bodies scattered everywhere.

Next they saw Arthryn, standing by a pool. Laela was there, constantly glancing up at the sky and trembling.

_Let me go!_ Scott's voice shouted. _For the gods' sakes, let me fight!_

_No_ , said Arthryn. _There is nothing you can do, Sire. We are doomed._

DON'T CALL ME SIRE!

I am sorry. But you must stay here. You must stay safe.

Arthryn, I can't do nothing. I have to protect my people.

No. You will die if you do. And for what? A race whose time is ended? No.

_But you'll die_ , Scott said more quietly.

We have accepted our fate, Sire. One day you will accept yours.

Even as they spoke, there was a roaring from over the trees and two dragons came charging into the clearing.

_Go!_ Arthryn shouted. _Go now, Sire!_

The vision changed once more. Now it was dawn, and the young Scott was on Laela's back. They could see his arms hanging onto her neck for dear life. But the roaring had followed them. The vision flashed red, and they heard him cry out as an arrow suddenly appeared in Laela's shoulder. More arrows shot past him, embedding themselves in her, and he turned, raising his hand to sent magic at his attackers. Too late. They saw a confused vision of a great red dragon, its talons outstretched, and then they were falling, falling...

There was a loud thump, and the vision went black. It faded back, dim and wavering and confused, showing a few brief glimpses of a snowy landscape before it was looking down on Laela, lying where she had landed, one wing shredded and broken, blood running from her jaws. Scott's hands touched her head, and they heard his voice calling her name. Her eyes opened, and he sobbed with relief, trying to make her get up. _I am sorry_ , she whispered. _I have to go. Don't be afraid._

And then –

The vision went red, and then black, and they heard screaming. Scott's screaming. It went on for a long time – loud, agonised, distorted – a horrible, animal sound.

"That was the day Laela died," Scott whispered. "And I went on feeling the pain of it for the rest of my life. It destroyed me more completely than I ever really realized."

From here on the visions became confused. They saw brief snatches of things – snow, blood, sword and sky, all mixed together and seen through a haze of greyness. Vague visions – hallucinations – flicked past; they saw ghostly images of Laela calling to them, and Flell, and Vrael, and they heard strange mutterings and whisperings, and the occasional scream or sob, or even a laugh.

"Insanity," Scott breathed.

The mixed images went on. They saw the face of a man, yelling and raising a fist to strike out at the vision that had scared him. Other faces – some frightened, some curious, some hostile, wandered past and vanished. Darkness followed light, and they heard the sound of Scott's voice – now low and hoarse, mumbling dementedly to itself in the dark, calling Laela's name again and again.

When the veil of madness was lifted, it came suddenly, ripped away from the vision like a curtain. On the other side of it was Vrael – not an hallucination this time, but real and alive, looking out at them with utter contempt.

Kneel, you piece of filth.

Then they heard Scott's voice – darker now, its old lightness gone forever, but steady and sane. _Murderer_ , it whispered.

Have you anything to say?

Murderer...

_Very well_ , said Vrael, ignoring him. _If you have nothing to say, then I will pass sentence on you now. Arren Cardockson of Teirm-_

_MURDERER!_ Scott's voice roared. _Murderers! All of you! You killed Laela! You killed-_

Arren Cardockson of Teirm-

Arren Cardockson is dead! I am Scott Taranisäii, last son of the House of Taranis, last of the dark Elves, and I will have my revenge on you if it takes me a hundred years.

_The boy is insane_ , Oromis' voice sneered.

Vrael gestured at some unseen guards, who restrained Scott as he fought wildly to get at him, screaming his accusation with all his might. Take him away, the old elf said. Take him to the dungeons and whip him. Tomorrow he will die the traitor's death, according to the law.

_NO!_ Scott screamed as he was dragged away. _No! Murderer! You killed her! You killed Laela! Murderer!_

But only darkness followed.

"And they beat me," Scott intoned. "They tied me up and whipped me until there was hardly any skin left on my back, and then they threw me into a cell to wait for death to come. And I didn't care."

They saw the shadows of a small cell, and heard Scott's faint, shaky breathing. His hands reached out weakly for the jug of water they had provided, and he stared into it.

The face that stared back was barely recognizable. It was thin and wasted, scarred with the marks of fingernails. Half of it was obscured by a matted beard, and above that were the eyes – big, staring and utterly insane.

A scream split the air, and the jug was hurled away. The maddened creature that Scott had become rose and started to fling itself at the door, screaming incoherently, yelling Laela's name. He punched the door, hard, and there was an audible crack as his fingers broke. But he only giggled and then slid onto the floor, sobbing brokenly.

"That was what they made me become," Scott said now. "That was what they reduced me to. And I knew it. I knew it. All I wanted to do then was die. But I didn't. I had then what I would one day lose forever – friends."

There was a faint creak as the cell door opened, and then the sound of voices. _Arren? Arren, can you hear me?_

Shadows moved against the light from the door, and a second voice spoke. _Arren. My gods, what have they done to you?_

Laela...

Arren, it's me. It's Brom. I've come to help you... come on Morzan, we've got to get him out of here.

"And so they did," said Scott. "They got me out of the city, and gave me back my sword and my magic, and I ran away again. Though I didn't know where to go or what I would do. What did I have left to live for? Well... I found something, in the end. Out there, in the wilderness, with nobody to care for me and no-one who cared. I had become worthless, and I knew it. But..." he closed his eyes for a moment. "But I didn't give up. I found a reason to go on living. A reason that changed everything."

The vision became one of another forest, this one dripping with rain. The young Scott had found a place to sit, by the base of a tree, and he crouched there, staring at the white-bladed sword in his hands and muttering to himself. _I swear_ , he whispered. _I swear... swear by my sword, my heart, my blood and my soul... I will have revenge. I will have revenge for you, Laela. I will kill them all._ He said it again and again, first in the common tongue, then in the ancient one, and then in the language of the dark Elves, his sword turning over and over, gripping it by the blade until blood trickled over the faded gedwëy ignaesia on his hand. _Laela, I swear..._

And, even as he spoke these words, his voice stopped being the voice of a boy forever.

The vision faded away to nothing, and the sphere of magic disappeared, leaving them looking at the man that boy had become. He looked drained, and his hand reached out for Laela. She laid her head on his shoulder, and he embraced her tightly. Pat hugged him as well, and he held onto her and Laela, his head bowed.

At long last, he looked at his audience once again, and though his eyes were shining with unshed tears his expression was steady.

Sif was crying. Nasuada, Lloyd, Carnoc and Jarsha had gone deathly pale.

"What happened to the child?" said Carnoc. "Your child?"

Scott gave him a strange, dead-eyed look. "I asked Vrael that question before I killed him. The child was... destroyed immediately after birth." He smiled a cold, twisted smile. "It was a daughter. I never saw her. And that... all of that, those images, those memories... that is what brought about the fall of the riders. That is how I became the Great Betrayer. But, of course," he went on, his voice taking on its old forceful, sarcastic tone, "-Let us not forget that I am insane and a liar, so none of it is true. Am I correct?"

"My... Scott," said Nasuada. "I am... I'm so sorry."

"Spare me your apologies," Scott said coldly. "Your opinion of me is the last thing I could be persuaded to care about. I didn't show you that because I wanted your sympathy. I showed it to you because you need to understand." He leaned forward over the table, his expression intense. "You need to understand," he said again, urgently. "You are the new riders, the new rulers of this land. I am asking you, here and now... do not let what happened to me happen again. Don't become like the old riders were. Listen. Learn. Keep an open mind. Be compassionate. Arrogance, lust for power, narrow-mindedness... that was what destroyed the riders. It was inevitable that sooner or later their cruelty, their unwillingness to change, would bring their time to an end. Do not be like them, or you will suffer their fate. That is my warning to you. Do you understand?"

"I do," said Nasuada.

"So do I... my Lord," said Lloyd.

"And I," said Carnoc.

"And I," said Jarsha.

Nasuada stood up. "We will remember it, Lord Taranisäii," she said. "All of us."

Scott looked at her with a new respect. "That's all I want," he said.

Chapter Twenty-Eight ~ Journeys End

Kullervo had disappeared from his room. Pat knew it before she opened the door. The window was broken, and when she looked out through it she couldn't see any sign of him. But it was easy to see how he must have jumped onto the low roof of the next building beside the castle and from there made his getaway.

The silver elf sighed. "Good luck, brother."

Perhaps he would find what he was after. She could only hope.

And Scott finally got his way. He led the new riders out of the city to where Ellery waited, and there they knelt to him and swore to serve him all their days. The new order had been born, and King Ellery had come into his power.

And then there was nothing else left to do. Scott packed a bag with clothes – a selection of new robes which the one-eyed tailor had made for him, and a number of gowns for Pat – and another with equipment – pots and pans, dried rations, ropes, hairbrushes and other things. As he worked, he felt a wonderful lightness in his heart. For the first time in a hundred years, he had nothing to do except for himself, Pat and Laela. There was no Empire to rule, no war to fight, no people to save... he was free.

To his surprise, he found himself humming a tune as he worked. That was something he hadn't done in over a century. He felt like a boy again.

The feeling had got into Pat, too. She helped him pack, her movements quick and graceful, and there was a brightness in her eyes and a lightness to her laugh, and the two of them giggled and teased each other like a young couple newly in love as they prepared to leave their old life behind forever, while Laela flew over the castle, looping and diving, singing her lilting song. The war was over.

There was only one person in the city who was unhappy, and that was Angela. She paced back and forth in her cell, trying not to shiver in fear, tormented by uncertainty.

That evening, Scott himself came to see her. He appeared on the other side of her cell door, eerily silent as always, like a giant cat in the gloom.

Angela stopped her pacing and faced him. "There you are," she said. "What's going on? What's going to happen to me?"

"I know what you did," he said quietly.

"I healed you," said Angela. "I saved your life in Furnost."

"Do you know the story of the black dragon?" Scott asked, ignoring her.

Angela said nothing.

"I think you do. The dragon who flew in the storm. The one they called the Night Dragon. I know his story – you told it to me. That day in Teirm, so long ago. When you told me I would become the most hated man in Elfthade. That was you, wasn't it?"

She nodded. "I saw it. Saw Berniceble things in your future."

"You know what?" said Scott. "You were right. But I'm curious. Just who are you? You're an immortal, that's obvious, but you're not a rider. Where did you come from?"

Angela hesitated. "I was... I was raised by the Werecats," she said. "I was an orphan. They made me an immortal like themselves, and when I grew up I wanted to look for other Elves... Solembum was my adopted brother, and he went with me."

"Where is he now?"

"He's dead," Angela whispered. "The Shades killed him."

"I'm sorry for that."

"Don't be," said Angela, looking away. "It wasn't your fault."

"But you're a lot older than you look," said Scott. "Older than me."

Angela was silent again.

"You were there, weren't you?" Scott said softly. "When the Night Dragon and his mate destroyed Teirm. You were one of those who stole their eggs. You, and Stephen, and Solembum. You were the ones."

"Yes," said Angela. "I was there. He destroyed my home."

"So you stole his children from him."

"I did."

"He's here," Scott said quietly. "The Night Dragon. He's returned to Elfthade."

Angela's eyes widened. "No!"

"Yes. Ellery, the black dragon, lord of the land over the sea... he's King of Elfthade now. The new riders have come, and he is their master. And when I tell him who you are, what you did to him... he'll tear this castle down to get at you."

"No!" Angela cried. "Please, gods, no!"

"He missed his children all his life," said Scott, unmoved. "But it was punishment, wasn't it? He destroyed your home, so you punished him. And then his mate died, and he lost everything... he and I have a lot in common, really. Both of us are heartless bastards. And I must do justice before I leave here. You worked for the Zulus. You betrayed me."

"I saved your life," said Angela.

"Even so. Tell me... have you ever loved someone? Truly and deeply, with all your heart?"

Angela stared at him. "Why-?"

"Just tell me."

"I did once, yes. Long ago. But..."

"What was his name?"

"He didn't love me," said Angela. "He betrayed me."

"But do you still love him? And would you still go after him if you had the chance?"

"Yes. I would do that."

"Then you still have something to live for," said Scott.

"No I don't!" Angela cried. "Solembum is dead, Stephen is dead, and soon I'll be dead too. What do you want from me?"

"Tell me your Pat's name," said Scott.

"Michael," Angela whispered. "His name was Michael."

Scott smiled slyly. "I knew it."

"How? Why?"

"He told me."

Angela didn't understand. "But... how? When?"

"I met him once. Angela, do you know where to find him?"

She hesitated. "I... there are... I have an idea."

Scott opened the cell door. "Come with me."

He led her through a series of dark tunnels under the city, that twisted and turned until she lost all sense of direction, and finally to a small door. They passed through it and into the light of a glorious sunset, in the middle of a forest. Angela stepped out onto soft grass, blinking in the light. "Where are we?"

"Well away from the city. Here." Scott gave her a bag. "Some supplies for you. Now, listen carefully. Somewhere in this forest there's a man. His name is Kullervo, and he has orange hair and golden eyes. Find him. He won't want you with him. Force him to accept you. Follow him until he gives in, if you have to. He needs to be looked after. Help him to find Michael."

Angela took the bag and slung it on her back. "But why? And why are you letting me go?"

He smiled at her. "You were the one who found the cure for the plague. You saved my life. Now, go. And good luck."

Angela touched his cheek. "Thank you," she said. Then she turned and was gone, walking away through the trees and losing herself in the gathering night.

On the following morning, Scott and Pat said farewell to Ellery on the open ground outside the city gates. The giant dragon sat there, noble and dignified with his black scales gleaming in the sunlight, and brought his nose down to touch his daughter. Pat caressed his huge, scarred face, feeling the roughness of his scales under her fingers. "Goodbye, Father," she murmured. "I'll miss you."

"And I you," said Ellery. "I am proud of you, Pat. You were the strongest of my children, and you have faced all the challenges of your life with strength and courage. Elf or dragon... you are my daughter and always shall be, and let my strength and my love go with you."

He brought his head around to look at Scott, who bowed low to him, the giant dragon's hot breath ruffling his hair. "Care for my daughter, human, and for my grandson. I have entrusted her to you, as she entrusted you with her heart. You are brave, and your spirit is that of a dragon, human though you be."

"Thank you, Sire," Scott murmured.

"And you..." said Ellery, looking at Laela. "Little snow-dragon. Honor your kind. Fight for those you love, kill your enemies without mercy, have no fear of death. That is our code and always shall be."

Laela bowed her head. "I shall, my Lord," she said, without a trace of her usual mockery.

The rest of Ellery's clan was there too. Skirnir, Lifrasir, Balisong, Katana, Peter, Sanesha and Steve, standing in a great circle in the snow around Ellery like an honor guard. They came forward, one by one, to say farewell.

"I'll miss you, Father," said Skirnir. "And you, Mother."

"Brave Skirnir," Pat murmured, touching his snout. "You'll look after your children, won't you?"

He winked at her, a gesture he'd picked up from spending time around Elves. "I doubt they'll need it, but I will." He glanced at Ellery and added mentally, "He's the one who really needs looking after."

"Every King needs someone to support him," said Pat. "But you know that, don't you, Skirnir?"

"I do."

Lifrasir was sorrowful. "I don't want you to go," she said.

"We'll be fine," Scott assured her. "We'll have Laela to look after us."

Laela rolled her eyes. "When he gets into trouble, I'll drag him out again. I promise."

"Well... be careful," said Lifrasir. "Please."

"We will be," said Pat. "And we'll come back and visit you. What are you going to do with yourself while we're gone?"

Lifrasir scratched her snout. "Well... I was thinking of going to the Spine and finding a mate. A hundred years old is a little late to start a family, but... well, I would like some hatchlings of my own."

Pat smiled. "Do it, Lifrasir. You'd be a wonderful mother."

Scott nodded. "After all... you looked after me, didn't you?"

"Of course I did," said Lifrasir. "You're my father."

He grinned. "I'd advise against telling anyone else that."

Steve was more cheerful. "I'm going to help Thorn teach the hatchlings how to fight. And Peter's going to help too, aren't you, Peter?"

Peter was looking rather anxious. "Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry, Mother... I can't find her."

"Find who?" said Scott.

"The silver hatchling, the one who didn't choose a rider," said Peter. "She's disappeared."

"No doubt she'll come back," said Pat. "Don't worry, Peter."

Sanesha nudged her brother. "You sound like an old dam," she grinned. "Fussing over hatchlings."

Peter scowled. "I'm worried about her. What if something happens to her?"

"She's a dragon," Katana reminded him. "A storm dragon. We know how to take care of ourselves."

"Definitely," said Balisong. "As for me... I'm going to ask Thorn to be my mate."

"He is a fine-looking dragon," said Katana. "A little too haughty for me, though."

"Not for me," said Balisong. "I'm going to speak with him tonight."

"Good luck," said Pat.

"I'm a princess now," said Balisong. "I don't need luck."

They laughed together for a while, but all too soon it was time for Scott and Pat to go. Laela had used the last of the energy that had brought her back to life to grow to the same size as Lifrasir and her siblings, and she easily held up under the weight of her two riders and their luggage. Scott sat gracefully in the saddle, clad in his white robe, and they saw that the grey streaks in his hair were slowly changing back to black. "Goodbye," he said. "And thank you for everything."

"Look after each other, and be happy," said Pat.

"We will," said Skirnir.

Then Laela took off, flying up and away from the assembled dragons and into the grey sky. Umhlanga slowly receded into the distance, and they flew away over the snowy landscape together and set out on their journey, free at last.

Pat sat in front of Scott, her arms wrapped around Skandar's egg, and watched the land roll away below them with joy in her heart.

And then, quite suddenly, the egg moved under her fingers. She started, looking at it uncertainly, and felt it move again. "Scott!" she cried, her eyes widening. "It moved! It's hatching!"

Laela heard her. She came down to land as fast as she could, alighting on a rocky outcrop among a stand of pine trees. Scott and Pat climbed out of the saddle as fast as they could, and crouched beneath her head so that she could see, placing the egg on the ground to watch it move.

Which it did, again and again. Faint squeaks came from inside it, and it rocked from side to side, its hard silver shell making loud clinking sounds on the stone. Then it began to crack. They watched, not saying a word, neither one making a move to intervene. The cracks spread further, and at long last the egg broke apart, and out came...

A dragon. It was much larger than an ordinary hatchling – so large, in fact, that it was hard to believe that it had ever fitted inside the egg at all. Its scales were iron grey, the color of a stormy sky, and its eyes were jet-black. The dragon uncurled its wings and legs and stretched, lifting its head up, its mouth opening to reveal rows of sharp teeth.

But there was something very slightly odd about it. It did not look like any dragon they had ever seen. There was something subtly different about its shape – it was heavier, its chest more broad, its horns smaller. But this dragon was their son.

"Skandar?" Pat faltered.

The dragon looked at her keenly, and then at Scott. Its eyes – no, his eyes – were bright and glittering, and disconcertingly intelligent.

Skandar watched them in silence for a time, and then did something very strange. He stood up, rising onto two legs and supporting himself with his tail, his wings spread. And then something happened that shocked them.

His wings began to shrink. They got smaller and smaller, until they had disappeared entirely into his back. And then the rest of him began to change as well. His outline rippled and stretched, bones cracking and skin stretching. His scales flaked away and his horns vanished, and little by little, his shape shifted. It was all over in less than a minute, and when it was over, they found themselves looking at a human boy. Ten years old, with long, curly silver hair and black eyes. He had his father's angular features, but his mother's pointed ears and elongated canines, and his fingernails were claws. He stood there, completely naked, and then collapsed.

Pat and Scott were there at once, lifting him into their arms. His skin and hair were damp, but he was warm and alive, and he stirred and looked up at them. Then he spoke. "Are you... my parents?"

"Skandar," said Scott. "Oh my gods..."

Skandar looked at him, and the hint of a smile showed in his eyes. "Are you my father?"

"Yes, Skandar," said Scott. "I'm your father, and this is your mother."

Skandar coughed. "What is this place?"

"This is Elfthade," said Pat. "Skandar... how did this happen? How did you do that? Do you know who you are?"

Skandar reached up to touch her face. "I am... Prince Skandar Ellery Taranisäii... Mother."

"How did you grow up so fast?" Pat asked. She stroked his hair. "You're so... you have my hair."

"I don't know," said Skandar. "I don't remember a time when I wasn't in the egg. But I could hear you. All the time. I could hear you speaking. I wanted to come out and see you."

Pat let out a sob. "Oh, Skandar!" She hugged him close, and Scott did as well. His mind was reeling. My son. Skandar, my son.

Skandar giggled. "You're warm. I like you."

Laela watched them all with a bemused expression. "Has life always been this strange?" she wondered out loud.

Scott and Pat stood up, lifting Skandar to his feet. Scott took off his robe and wrapped it around his son. "Oh yes. Always."

Skandar, practically engulfed by the robe, reached out to touch Laela's snout. She sniffed at him. "Are you a dragon?"

"Yes," said Skandar. "No. I don't know. Both."

"Both?" said Laela.

Skandar gently moved away from his parents, letting the robe fall away from him. For a moment he paused, his expression thoughtful, and then –

There was a brief moment where his shape warped and shifted, and then there was a dragon standing where he had been. The dragon flapped his wings a few times, and chirped triumphantly, and then changed back into a human.

Scott and Pat gaped at him. "How did you do that?" said Scott.

"I don't know..." Skandar faltered. "I don't know much. But I think I know what I am."

"What are you?" said Laela.

"What Ellery made me," said Skandar. "I am Skandar Taranisäii... the Weredragon."

Night lay over Umhlanga. Up on the castle walls, Thorn and Balisong slept side-by-side, their tails entwined. Nasuada lay peacefully in her temporary quarters, with Silarae curled up on her chest, sharing her dreams. Beside her was Lloyd, his hand in hers.

Sif was awake in her own room next door, brooding and talking to Bernice.

King Ellery did not sleep. The huge black dragon flew slowly over Elfthade, watching over his new lands.

And, in her workroom in the lower end of the castle, the one-eyed tailor hummed to herself as she stitched the collar onto a new tunic. She enjoyed these times, when the rest of the castle slept and she was free to do her work without interruption.

A scuffling from the doorway startled her, and the needle slipped and embedded itself in her thumb. She swore and pulled it out. Hastily wrapping the injured digit in a scrap of cloth to avoid spotting the new tunic with blood, she looked around to see what had made the noise. The door was half-open, but there was nothing there. She muttered and kicked it shut, then returned to her work.

But she couldn't concentrate. She had the uncomfortable feeling that she was being watched, and kept glancing up uneasily, turning her head to compensate for her missing eye. There was nothing there. She sighed and reached for a spool of thread.

"What are you doing?"

The tailor looked up sharply.

There was a small silver dragon perched on a shelf, watching her with interest. She realized she had looked straight at it several times without realizing it.

She put down her scissors and stepped forward, looking up at the dragon, which looked back placidly.

"I'll be damned. A bloody dragon. What are you doing in here?"

The dragon yawned. "I was bored, so I climbed up here to watch you. What were you doing?"

"Making clothes," said the tailor. "It's my job. How did you get into the castle?"

"I climbed in through a window," said the dragon. "My name's Skuld. What's yours?"

The tailor smiled a little. "Well, it's nice to have some company. Did you come with the other dragons?"

"Yes, but all the others are busy. Silarae went with that human female, and Bernice went with her hatchling, and Rose and Skarlath bonded themselves to those other Elves, and none of them want to talk to me any more. And now Mother's left too."

"Oh? Where did she go?"

"Away over the sea," said Skuld. "She went with the other human, the one with the red eye."

"You mean King Scott," said the tailor. "And Queen Pat? She's your mother?"

"She cared for me," said Skuld, as if that settled the matter.

The tailor had watched them depart through her window. She sighed and went back to her work. "It's been a strange day, with the King and Queen gone, an' all. And now we've got that damn great dragon, what's-his-name, on the throne, and these new riders. I'm going to miss him, you know."

"Miss who?" said Skuld.

"The King, that's who," said the tailor. She sighed wistfully. "I did like him, you know. I made all his robes for him. He said I was the only one who made 'em the way he liked. I even fancied that I was in love with him for a while."

Skuld made a dry, hacking sound that was a dragon laugh. "You're funny. I like you."

The tailor glanced up at her. "Thanks."

They didn't speak for a while, and then Skuld shifted on her perch and said; "What's that over your eye?"

The tailor touched her eyepatch. "Oh, this old thing. Some bastard poked my eye out with a dagger. I got him good, though. Gave him something to think about."

Skuld blinked. "What does that mean?"

"Means I beat him over the head with a bottle and put a ding in his skull," said the tailor.

Skuld grinned. "You're a fighter?"

"Oh yes," said the tailor. "I've fought in wars, you know. Here, look at this..." she carefully anchored the needle in place behind a row of stitches, and strode to the other side of the room. There was a simple bed there, and she rummaged underneath it and pulled out a huge double-headed battleaxe with a rusty, notched blade. She lifted it easily in both hands. "Damn. I forgot how heavy it is."

Skuld stared at it in wonder. "What's that for?"

"It's an axe," said the tailor. "I carried this thing into battle, so I did. Taught those sons of bitches a lesson. Women weren't supposed to join the army, though, so I did it in secret. I grew up here in the city, see, and I learnt how to fight easy enough. Other kids was always thinkin' I was a boy, see, so they used to pick fights with me. I got too big for 'em to handle in the end. Got so I was picking the fights in the end. I won, too, and serve 'em right. I got a job workin' for a tailor, but I wanted to be a soldier an' fight for the King. I'd seen him, see, when he came out to talk to the people one day. I was in the crowd and I saw his face, and I thought... well, I thought 'I'd fight and die for a man like that'. So the bloody Zulus come along and start causin' a fuss, and I thought 'to hell with this, I don't care if women aint allowed in the army', so I cut me hair short and dressed in a man's clothes and signed up. Idiots never noticed a thing. I marched into battle with them, right in the front line, me and my axe." She grinned. "Orlando the Axe, they called me. I fought in three battles and never got a scratch, but then some bastard saw me without a shirt and I got dragged back here in chains like some kind of criminal. An' then..." she lowered the axe, her single eye distant. "They brought be before the King to be judged. And my gods, it was worth it just to meet him face to face. Them eyes of his, you feel like you could drown in 'em and you wouldn't mind a bit. So, he says to me, you know you broke the law by joinin' the army, an' I said, yeah, I know, but I did it anyway, just for you, an' I can promise you I broke a few skulls in your name. He liked that, I think, but he said, 'you still broke the law, and the penalty is sixty lashes'. I said, fine, as long as you're the one handling the whip." She chuckled at the memory.

Skuld's tail twitched. "What did he do then?"

"He laughed," said the tailor. "He said, since you fought bravely you won't be punished, but you can't go back to the army. Everyone will know I let you off, an' I'd never hear the end of it, every woman in the city would want to join up next. So he let me keep my axe, and he gave me a job workin' for him in the castle. I tell you, I fell head over heels in love with him right there and then. I would've given anything to tell him, but I couldn't. I mean, I was just a commoner, and with a big ugly face to boot. So I mooned over him like a stupid little girl for years on end, and when he didn't go with anyone else I pretended like he was secretly pining for me." She laughed self-deprecatingly. "Course, he was just waitin' for the Queen to come back, warn't he? But I stayed loyal to him, all the same."

"That's so sad," said Skuld.

The tailor shrugged. "Wouldn't surprise me if half the women in Umhlanga weren't secretly longing for a piece of that action, if you know what I mean. Some men are just like that. You know, after he went missing, everyone mourned for him. I didn't, though."

"Why, didn't you care?" said Skuld.

"Course I cared. I just warn't about to waste time moping around. I packed up my bags and went looking for him. Traveled around half the damn country, hoping to find him, just me an' my axe. I never found him, but I fought at Dras-Leona under the Three Knights. Survived the massacre an' got back here, an' found out the Shades had taken over. But I just slipped back into me old rooms, an' hardly anyone noticed I'd been gone. Ten years. Ten bloody years, making clothes for a pair of Shades, waiting for the King to come back. And then he comes back, kills the Shades, sets up a new government and runs off again. Can't ever seem to pin the man down, eh?"

"You've done all sorts of things," said Skuld. "It sounds amazing. I wish I'd seen all that."

"Ah, well, you're young," said the tailor. "You've got years ahead of you to see all that. Now, me, I'm forty-seven years old, I got one eye an' me joints are goin' stiff. I seen a lot with this one eye o' mine, but I don't reckon I'm done yet."

Skuld sighed. "You know why I came into the castle?"

"No, why?" said the tailor. She stowed the axe away back under the bed, and straightened up, dusting down her tunic.

"I couldn't sleep," said Skuld. "I felt like I'd lost something, but I didn't know what it was, so I went into the castle to look for it."

"Ah, well, best place to look for something you've lost is the place you last saw it," the tailor observed, adjusting her eyepatch.

"But I don't know what it is!" Skuld exclaimed. "I don't know what it looks like!"

The tailor frowned. "Well, you got me there. I'm Senna, by the way. Senna Baenborn."

Skuld lay on her belly, her head hanging over the edge of the shelf, and sighed. "I want to see things like what you've seen. I don't want to stay here; it's strange and boring."

"There's some amazing things out there," said Senna. "I aint seen 'em all, but I'd like to, some day. I mean, out that way-," she pointed East – "Out there are lands no-one's explored. I used to think of how I'd like to go out there and take a look, but I never did."

Skuld stood up. "I'm hungry. Do you have any food?"

"I might have some dried meat somewhere," said Senna. "Here, let me have a look..." she rummaged in a small cupboard over the bed. "Ahah! Here we go." She turned around, holding a little strip of salted beef, which she offered to the dragon. Skuld took it delicately, and chewed it. "It tastes strange."

"It's the only sort I've got," said Senna. "Sorry."

"I like it," said Skuld. She swallowed the last of her food, and then peered over the edge of the shelf. It was higher than she'd thought, and she paused uncertainly. She wasn't used to flying in such close quarters.

"What's up?" Senna enquired.

"I don't know how to get down."

"Here," said Senna. "Jump down and I'll catch you."

"Do you promise?"

"Of course. C'mon, jump!" she held out her arms.

Skuld hesitated, but she made eye-contact with the tailor, and the look gave her confidence. She jumped. Senna caught her neatly. "There!" she cried. "I told you I'd catch you!"

Skuld snuggled against her chest. "I like you, Senna."

"I like you too," said Senna, and touched the dragon's small head.

The instant their skins touched, it happened. A great surge of energy rushed through them, moving through their bodies like hot blood. The tailor yelled and fell backward onto the bed, thumping her head on the wall in the process. Skuld landed beside her, and got up after a moment or two, shaking her head dazedly. Then she nosed cautiously at Senna's hand. "Are you all right?"

Senna sat up. She groaned and rubbed her head. "What in the hell happened? Damn, my head hurts..."

"So does mine," said Skuld.

Senna picked her up carefully. "Are you all right? I feel strange."

"Your hand," Skuld said quietly.

"What?"

"Look at your hand," said Skuld.

Senna obeyed, and felt her heart skip a beat. "No," she said. "I'm dreaming."

Skuld touched the silver circle with her snout. "That's a rider's mark," she said.

Senna kept shaking her head. "No. I've drunk too much again. Me? A rider? Don't be ridiculous, it's just not... what happens."

"No," said Skuld, and this time she spoke inside her new partner's head. "I chose you, Senna. I came looking for my rider. I have found her."

"But a rider!" Senna exclaimed. "You don't just... this sort of thing isn't for me. Dragons bond themselves with youngsters. It's kids who become riders, not rough old things like me. And I'm just a tailor, for gods' sakes, what do I know about magic an' fancy swordplay?"

"I don't know," said Skuld. "But... but I chose you, and I like you. Don't you want to be a rider?"

Senna laughed. "Want to be a rider? Every street urchin I grew up with wanted to be a rider, or a king or a princess. I let go of silly ideas like that when I grew up and got a brain."

"But now you're a rider," said Skuld. "I'll stay with you forever. And when I'm big enough, I can carry you."

Senna rubbed her face with her hands. "What am I going to do?" she moaned. "I'm not right for any of this. I don't want to rule."

"We could leave," said Skuld.

Senna looked up. "What?"

"I said, we could leave," said Skuld. "Both of us. We could go away and explore together, and have adventures. I'd like that. Would you?"

Senna paced back and forth, muttering feverishly. "No. Just no. This is impossible; I can't do this, I..."

Skuld watched her patiently, saying nothing, and finally Senna came to a halt. She sighed deeply. Not saying anything, she reached under the bed and brought out her axe again, hefting it in her big callused hands. Then she put it aside, and brought out a large canvas bag. It was empty, but she put it on the bed and began to stuff it with clothes.

"What are you doing?" Skuld asked.

"Packing, of course. Can't go without taking some spare underwear along, can I?"

Skuld grinned. "So we're going?"

"Of course we are," said Senna. "I'm not sticking around and letting them make me take oaths to serve the realm and whatnot. We're going. You and I, tonight. And I'll show you what adventure's like."

And peace reigned over Elfthade. Somewhere under the roaming stars were a man and a woman, walking together, the man striding ahead with his head hunched and the woman struggling to keep up. And a burly woman with an axe slung on her back, who walked slowly and steadily Eastwards, a dragon seated on her shoulder, silver scales gleaming. Journeys ended, and journeys begun.

Scott slept against Laela's flank, with Pat beside him and Skandar curled up between them in his dragon shape. The face of the former king was untroubled and peaceful in the starlight, as he frowned in his sleep and turned over. But his left eye did not sleep. It remained open and alert, turning ceaselessly this way and that. Watching. Scott Taranisäii knew nothing of it.

He slept on, dreaming Shade dreams.

~The End~

