Michael Stackpole - When Dragons Rage

As the plate sank back into his skin, Kerrigan wiped away the lees of snow with his left mitten. The spell that armored him had been worked at the behest of Vilwan to protect him. It had previously been mastered by only one other human mage: Yrulph Kirun. Could it be that they have twisted the protection they gave into a threatening sign ?

Kerrigan was determined to make a mature decision concerning the summons, but competing scenarios kept him on the north bank of the Reydo River. Crossing the river would take him to the consulate, and he’d resolved that once he crossed the river, he would not turn back. The decision to cross it, however, had not yet been made.

If Orla was right, then every step he made toward the consulate brought him into greater danger. If she was wrong, staying away denied him more education and support, and the support of Vilwan would be very useful in the fight against Chytrine. In heeding Orla’s words, he wasn’t sure if he was giving in to a child’s fears or being prudent.

Staying away from Vilwan would cut him off from more than just support. His whole life had been spent in training, but he knew not for what. He was pretty certain it had been to help defeat Chytrine, but he had been provided with no direction concerning how he might do that. That he was meant to oppose her was suggested by Vilwan’s allowing Orla and him to accompany General Adrogans’ expedition to Okrannel; but he also had to allow for the possibility that minds might have been changed on Vilwan.

Once again it came down to having too many questions and no clear source for answers. He didn’t want to give in to fears, but where a child’s fears ended and an adult’s prudent caution began was not a clear line. Moreover, his questions all revolved around Vilwan; what had been intended for him and what would be required of him. Only by visiting the consulate would he have a chance of learning the answers to those questions.

He had to go.

Kerrigan nodded once and turned to the left, marching onto a narrow footbridge over the slowly moving river. The unseasonable cold had not yet frozen a crust over the dark water, but ice was growing out from the shores and already encrusted some of the pylons that supported the bridge’s shallow arch.

As he glanced down at them, he saw something glint gold in the water. He shivered and peered closely, then came around the end of the bridge’s railing and scrambled awkwardly down the steep shoreline. He squatted in a most ungainly manner at the base of the bridge, and in its dark reflection he could see clearly into the shallows.

There, half-covered by silt, lay the ruby fragment of the DragonCrown!

He had no idea how it had gotten there, but there was no way he could possibly allow it to remain. He moved forward, snow crunching beneath his booted left foot, then dragged his right knee behind him. He inched out onto a little ledge of ice, then stripped off his mittens and prepared to cast the lev-itation spell he knew so well.

He stared hard into the water, trying to fix the shifting image in his mind so he could grasp the fragment. As he focused, he felt magick and suddenly realized the fragment didn’t exist at all, but was part of a spell. Part of a spell that is using my mind and memories to project that image .

Something moved in the bridge’s reflection, something lurking beneath the span. Kerrigan started to turn and look up, but a heavy weight slammed hard into his back. The armor rose and intercepted the attack, but what hit him carried considerably more force than a snowball. The impact shook him and pitched him forward, sliding him out on the thin ice which, with a rippling thundercrack, disintegrated.

Kerrigan plunged into the frigid water. The shock of it made him gasp. He sucked in water, then coughed out bubbles of valuable air. The mage started to panic and struck for the surface, but his heavy winter clothes dragged him down. He fought to shuck his coat, but even as he tore at the buttons, the light from above began to dim.

He heard something else splash into the water. Kerrigan turned his face upward, hoping for succor. An odd dark shape descended, flashing past his back, then something grabbed him, taking firm hold of his coat and his waist. He felt power in the limbs and for a moment his spirits soared.

Then, whatever had him just took him deeper.

Isaura arrived at the Conservatory and made her way to the Grand Thaumatorium as bidden—less because she wanted to be there than because she felt it her duty to attend. Her mother, again away fighting for the life of her nation, had impressed upon her the necessity for Isaura to act in her stead. Neskartu, the headmaster of the Conservatory and the most magickally adept of the sullanciri , had sent a message saying he required her help with a project. Because his summons had indicated she should join him in the Thaumatorium, she assumed it would be another display of magick for his students, and she did enjoy teaching them.

She found herself surprised, then, when she reached the chamber deep in the school’s heart. She entered through the tall archway at the head of a long, steep stairway that led down onto the arena floor. Stone terraces set with long wooden tables and chairs provided both seating and work spaces for students, but the room’s key feature was the round dais upon which great magicks were wrought for the edification of the audience. Most students looked forward to the time when they would be called upon to perform there, because success could result in their being sent forth to serve the empress in the war.

But this time, no eager faces greeted her, for all the seats were empty. In the arena waited three people, only one of whom she knew. He took the shape of a smallish man, clean-limbed but indistinctly formed. While he had depth, height, and breadth, discerning these dimensions was not easy since his entire body shifted in hue, akin to the reflections from coal oil spread over black water. He remained largely dark, save where lines of iridescent blue or green, red or gold flowed through him or shot like lightning along a limb.

Only Neskartu’s eyes remained constant. Witchlight purple orbs, they burned with a feral intensity that completely belied the sullancins wisdom. Once he had been known as Heslin and had been schooled on Vilwan. Since swearing allegiance to the empress, he had been shown great magicks and given great power. By himself he had created the Conservatory and helped Chytrine shape other sullanciri .

His mouth did not open, and his words did not actually sound in the room. / am pleased that you have come so swiftly, Isaura .

“As my mother wishes, Lord Neskartu.” Isaura slowly descended the stairs, heedless of the stone’s cold on her bare feet. She lifted her skirts enough that she would not trip on the hem, but not a bit higher than modesty would permit.

One of the other two studied her as if he wished she would divest herself of her skirts altogether, and not for the sake of safety. Tall and lean, with fine dark hair and a rakish smile that suggested he knew how handsome others found him, the man wore a blue blouse embroidered with a spiderweb pattern. He lifted his chin, then nodded in greeting, but Isaura gave no sign that she had noticed him at all.

The woman with him held more interest for Isaura. Wisps of brown hair peeked out from beneath a sheepskin hat, and the bulky coat she wore hid her form, but Isaura guessed that her thickness was more coat than body. Her eyes, a deep blue, flicked warily. The man with her was shivering because of the cold, but she was shivering because of her dislike for the place in which she stood.

Neskartu let a hand stretch from his form to point at them. These are the Azure Spider and Vienna, the Pirate Queen of Wruona .