Douglas Niles - Circle at center

The enchantress didn’t have any such hesitation. “Remember, whether or not the knight lives or dies, you must get the Stone of Command from him. That is the only way to break the thrall in which he holds his Crusaders.”

“I know,” Belynda replied.

“Now is the time,” Quilene said. “If you are ready.”

“I am,” Belynda declared. She touched her waist, where she had a long, slender dagger concealed beneath her golden robe. The weapon was in a protective sheath, but she had already practiced, knew that she could draw it in an eye blink.

“Me, too,” Darann, who was similarly armed, added.

“Then come to the other table, and place your fingers in the bowl of water. I will begin the spell.”

Belynda thought that the water was pleasantly warm. She remembered the last time she had traveled by teleportation, and tried to prepare herself for the sudden disorientation as Quilene took up position and began to weave the words and gestures of her spell. Darann put her own fingers in the water, and met the eyes of her elven companion.

And then the magic crackled into life.

“W ait!” Ulfgang barked, rearing to scratch at the door to Belynda’s chambers. He yipped in agitation, and dropped to all fours again, shaking his head. His fur stood on end, and he could sense the aura of powerful magic-the same sensation that had lifted him from his slumber in the garden.

The white dog paced through a tight circle, then reared to paw at the door again. To his utter astonishment, it opened.

He recognized the sage-enchantress Quilene as he rushed past her to look anxiously around the main chamber. His claws skidded on the marble floor as he raced from room to room, finally coming back to Quilene, who still stood placidly by the door.

“It’s too late… they’ve gone,” she said gently.

Ulf sat with a heavy sigh, shaking his head. “She’s crazy… she’ll be killed,” he moaned, his words twanging into a sorrowful whine.

“Perhaps,” Quirene admitted. “But she’s brave enough to try.”

Suddenly Ulf hopped to his feet. He saw that the door was slightly ajar, and he pushed it wide with his nose. In a second he was outside, racing through the darkness. He could find Natac, or Tamarwind… perhaps they could help.

Or perhaps Belynda and Darann were already doomed.

T he magic took Belynda’s breath away. She staggered, gasping, as she felt a floor solidify under her feet. Her hands were in water, cooler than before, and vaguely she recognized the birdbath she had observed in her crystal. Darann, looking wide-eyed and a little queasy, clung to the opposite rim of the basin. Both of them held on for several moments, and at last Belynda’s sensations returned to normal.

“Are you all right?” asked the dwarf, in a barely audible whisper.

Belynda nodded, then raised her eyebrows in similar query. Darann, too, nodded, though she scooped up some water from the basin and touched it to her forehead. They saw that, just as it had appeared in the globe, a canvas tarp was draped across the entrance to the alcove. They heard the sound of footsteps from beyond the screen, listened as those sounds slowly faded away.

Touching the dagger, reassuring herself that it was still resting at her waist, Belynda reached for the tarp to pull it out of the way. Before she could grip it, however, the canvas was torn down, and sturdy hands grasped her waist and legs. She kicked, and tried to twist away, but more arms went around her, pinching painfully.

Only then did she notice that there were many Delvers in the room-small figures cloaked in dark steel, reaching for her with groping hands. Darann was somewhere behind her, and Belynda had a sense of things gone terribly wrong as she saw the warriors close in from all sides.

Three seconds later Darann had disappeared, but Belynda squirmed futilely in the grip of the Unmirrored Dwarves.

“W hy aren’t they attacking?” Natac wondered aloud. Karkald and Tamarwind, flanking him on the hilltop overlooking the Mercury Terrace, had no answer.

“If they don’t attack, can I?” Gallupper asked.

Natac shook his head. He had seen the batteries, the short, wheeled carriages that Gallupper and his small company had readied for battle, but he was determined to wait until the proper time to release what might prove to be a devastatingly effective weapon.

“No… for now, we’ll wait, and see what happens.”

And as the night moved into its final hours, the Nayvian warriors, the place that was the Center of Everything, and all of the Seven Circles waited, countless fates and futures in the balance.

S ir Christopher stalked into the chamber. His eyes narrowed as he recognized Belynda. “You-witch!” he hissed.

The elfwoman stared back at him, the full memory of his villainy flooding through her mind. She bit back her first instinct, which was to spit her hatred. Instead, she drew a breath, and forced her thoughts into order. A Delver held each of her arms, and their grip tightened as if the eyeless dwarves sensed her agitation. Zystyl was a few steps away-he had just taken her dagger, and was starting to question her as to her purpose and intentions.

Darryn Forgemaster came behind the knight, and his eyes widened in surprise as he spotted the elfwoman. He halted, flustered, looking at her, at the Delvers, at the knight who had become his master. For her part Belynda ignored the smith, forced herself against her revulsion to lean close to Sir Christopher.

“Be careful, my lover,” she said in a barely audible whisper. “We do not want this blind oaf to learn too much about us.”

Zystyl’s head whipped around, the gaping red nostrils flaring in suspicion. “What does she say, warrior?” he demanded. “Do you seek to betray me?”

“Of course not,” snapped the knight, irked.

“Caution!” whispered Belynda.

“I suspected you all along, traitor!” hissed the Delver arcane. “And now here is the proof!”

“Don’t be a fool!” The knight shook his head in irritation, and Belynda saw that he did not yet perceive the extent of his danger.

The sage-ambassador looked at Darryn Forgemaster, saw the anguish, the guilt and suffering written across the man’s face. He was looking into her eyes, searching for something-forgiveness, perhaps. Again she looked at the knight, but then her thoughts returned to the smith. Why did he feel such anguish? Was he not the rank traitor that everyone assumed-was there a different reason for his years of treachery, his steady labors in the name of Circle at Center’s enemies? He had been a loyal druid, a favorite friend of Miradel’s for centuries, and his work was known throughout Nayve.

With a flash she understood, and knew how to turn that knowledge to her own use.

“You had her killed, didn’t you?” she said conspiratorially to Christopher.

“Had who killed, witch? Who?” demanded the knight.

“Miradel. You knew she was murdered in her villa a few nights ago, didn’t you?” She saw instantly that one part of her guess was correct. Darryn staggered, face blanching, hate-filled eyes turned upon the knight. She was surprised, however, to see that the Knight Templar was equally shocked.

“No!” gasped Christopher. “She… she lives! She must!”

It was the Delver arcane who laughed. “The druid is dead… I would have made her my prisoner, but she fought too well. And so she died.”

The knight was obviously stunned, trying to understand the implications of new developments. He stood before the sage-ambassador, glaring at her, then shifted his accusing stare to the arcane. Belynda gently twisted an arm, and the dwarf holding her on that side released his grip, apparently content to let his comrade restrain the prisoner. Still pinioned by the other limb, she reached out a hand and stroked her fingertips along Christopher’s arm with just the tiniest rasp of sound.