Dave Smeds: The Schemes of Dragons

And Rhi and his descendants would bear the totem of a coward.

He sighed, trudging on, arms trembling from the anticipation. The Dragon's radiations grew in intensity, all without resolving to a proper locus.

The tunnel ended almost before he expected it. "Stop," he told the others, and triggered the second crossbow trap. Three paces farther he found a hatch like that at the other end. The gauntlets dealt with the lock.

He stepped out into a small, empty room lit with the same bluish phosphorescence as the tunnel. The werelight bothered him. It was powered by a subtle, pervasive spell. Who was this Dragonslayer, to cast spells that lingered centuries after his death? Struth illuminated her subterranean chamber the same way. He would have to ask her how he might reproduce the light.

The aura of dragonmagic was overriding, no longer muffled by layers of sea bottom. Toren rubbed the palms of his gauntlets together. They crackled with static. Near, so near. He wished his knees would quit shaking.

Alemar smelled the Dragon's presence as well, even without a gauntlet to augment his senses. The inner lining of his cheeks turned to cotton. He hesitated at the mouth of the tunnel until, realizing that he was blocking the progress of the others, he shuffled forward. Match, Ebben, and Geim all sighed gratefully as they emerged, able at last to straighten their spines.

Toren waited in the center of the room, eyes closed, gauntlets still pressed together. Beyond him stood an apparently open archway. Alemar approached it, alert for signs of sorcery. Beyond the threshold lay a gallery filled with statues and sculptures, paintings and tapestries. By stark contrast, the room they were in was empty. Dust puffed with each footstep. The light in the gallery was bright, artfully balanced to best display the collection of masterpieces, but none of it came within the dusty alcove. Alemar could see his companions strictly because of the werelight.

He reached into the archway. His hand flattened against a solid wall. Tregay, equally intrigued, tapped his knuckles lightly against an adjacent spot. "Hard as rock," he muttered.

"An astounding bit of thaumaturgy."

Toren's voice made Alemar jump. "Don't worry about making noise," the modhiv added, noticing the prince's reaction. He joined them at the threshold. "No one in the palace can see or hear us. To them this archway is just another section of the wall. Even Gloroc would never suspect our presence, even if he coiled up ten paces away." Toren leaned nearer the invisible wall, admiration sparkling in his eyes. "It must have taken weeks to cast the spell that made this illusion."

Alemar, equally amazed, lifted his amulet out of his collar and placed the gem against the surface. Not so much as a flicker came from the talisman. The mirage was so well-wrought that it swallowed its own telltale emanations.

"How do we get through it?"

"It's keyed to the gauntlets. As long as I hold my hand in the opening, a person can pass through."

Alemar recognized the gallery from Omril's memories. "The Dragon's chambers are scarcely two hundred yards away." He licked his excruciatingly dry lips. His hand settled uneasily on the hilt of his poisoned dagger.

"Once we step through, Gloroc will sense the talismans," Toren stated. "I'll have to weave a cloaking spell first. That will take me at least two hours. It should hold long enough for us to run to the hall. Let's rest now. It's only early evening."

Alemar wondered how Toren could tell the precise time of day when they had been in the tunnel so long, but it matched his own gut feeling. He sighed. The delay would wreak havoc on their nerves, but the strategy was wise. They would attack in the dead of night when the palace activity was at its nadir.

The prince settled stiffly against one of the walls. Tregay offered him a strip of dried fish, but he declined. Who could eat now?

An hour dragged by. Ebben chewed short seven of his fingernails and started on the eighth. A drudge entered the gallery, swept up a few motes of dust and wiped down several sculptures, including the one immediately in front of the alcove, a remarkably lifelike rendering of a kelp shark. Alemar instinctively shrank up against the wall, but the woman departed again without once glancing in their direction.

Geim continued to scowl at one of the statues across the room long after the servant had cleaned it. He nudged Toren. "Take a look at that," he said.

Alemar also glanced where Geim indicated. He saw a full-size figurine of a slim, petite woman in a flowing gown, a delicate scepter in her grip. The prince recognized it immediately; small versions existed throughout Elandris and Cilendrodel. His father had given one to his mother.

As Toren stared at it, his jaw slowly fell open. He uttered something in Vanihr that could only have been an expletive.

"Is something wrong?" Alemar asked.

"Do you know whom that statue is modelled after?"

"Of course. That's Miranda, sister of Alemar Dragonslayer."

Toren exhaled suddenly. He and Geim exchanged a meaningful glance. The modhiv rubbed his head so firmly he creased his scalp.

"Does that mean something to you?" Alemar asked.

"Yes. But I'm afraid this isn't the time or place to discuss the matter."

Alemar frowned. Toren's tone closed the subject. The prince let it rest. Too many other thoughts and memories crowded his mind. Once Toren began weaving the spell of concealment, it was all Alemar could do to sit in one place.

The strands of the spell fell into place one by one and became a seamless fabric. Toren would have grinned if he had not been so frightened. With the gauntlets, his magic flowed like the waterfall of Headwater, straight and unstoppable. He stoked his internal fires. Once he and his companions passed out of the room, no time would remain for slow, careful spellweaving.

I am coming, Gloroc.

Just short of two hours after he had begun, he tied the final ethereal knot, and the cloaking spell shrouded them. "I'm ready," he announced.

The others stood and, fingers shaking with nervousness, untied the bindings around their knife hilts. One good yank and each blade would rush free of its sheath.

Toren thrust his hand into the gap of the archway. "Your lead, my prince."

Alemar stepped through. The others quickly followed. Toren thrust aside all distractions and moved forward. A silky feeling enveloped him, like cobwebs being drawn across his entire body, then melted away. Behind him stood a bare marble wall. His companions stared at him oddly. It must have seemed to them as if he had sprouted directly out of the stone.

"Let's go," he whispered, and walked briskly toward the exit, as fast as he could go without disturbing his concentration. The gauntlets moaned. Alemar and the others cleaved to him, so that he would not have to extend his sorcery too far. They left the gallery and entered a short, vaulted corridor leading to the foyer of the great hall.

A wave of force tore at his cloaking screen. He bolstered it, stifling a wave of panic. He was certain he had woven it correctly. Nevertheless, it began breaking up. "Run!" he shouted as they crossed into the foyer. "The Dragon knows we are here!"

He abandoned the deteriorating spell, casting all his energies into the real challenge. He gathered the feeble emanations coming from the thrijish coral beneath the city and condensed them, intensified them, and focussed them on the great hallway. The snare closed. Only moments had passed since Gloroc had sensed them. If the gauntlets worked, the Dragon was immobilized.

The talismans throbbed. He shuddered and trebled his effort. An inarticulate cry of pain escaped his lips.

"Hold on!" Alemar cried.

Toren clenched his teeth. The gauntlets blazed, their golden beams overwhelming the great candles in their wall sconces.