War In Tethys

29

"Hmm," the monster said. "There's something strange about this one, something I can't quite put my finger on. Oh—I forgot." He held up a pincer and clacked it. "No fingers anymore. Foolish me."

Chen raised her foot and held it poised above the yel-low-glowing lava. A bubble popped. Liquid rock struck the sole and sputtered there, raising a stink of burning leather.

"Care to test the waters first, my child?" the fiend asked. The girl pointed her toe like a dancer. It de-scended toward the lava.

"Zaranda," the girl said, "I'm sorry I don't have the strength to fight him—"

"No!" Zaranda screamed.

Like a vast bat, a shadow swooped down from above. The outflung arm of Shield of Innocence struck the back of Armenides's neck.

"Die, monster!" the orog roared as his hurtling mass swept the fiend from his perch. Both plunged into the lava with a splash of white-hot fluid.

The spell of compulsion broke like a glass jar smashed against a rock. Zaranda lunged forward, grabbed the back of Chen's blouse, and yanked her from the brink. As they sprawled on the stone flagging, yellow-glowing gobbets splattered the place where the girl had stood.

Zaranda picked herself up onto her knees. "Oh, Shield," she said. A single tear rolled from her eye.

Zaranda hugged Chen fiercely. The girl lifted her head. Her eyes flew wide. "Randi!"

Zaranda's head snapped round. Shaveli jumped lithely down from several steps up and stalked forward. Chenowyn leapt to bar his path, holding her knife both-handed before her.

The Sword-Master twitched Crackletongue back and forth. The blade hummed with energy. "Get her out of my way," he said. "You know what I can do to her."

"Chen," Zaranda said, "no. This is between him and me. You can't fight him."

The girl stepped back and lowered her arms to her sides. Then she drew herself to her full height and took a deep breath. The air around her wavered, and her eyes began to glow red.

"Chen?"

Shaveli cocked an eyebrow at the redhead. "Interest-ing. Are you trying to muster some magic against me, wench?" He jerked a thumb up over his shoulder. "Not wise."

The half-score of guardsmen aimed drawn bows at Chen from the steps. "Any spell she casts at me," Shaveli told Zaranda, "will make her spring many leaks. Can't you clear the amateurs from underfoot? I'll give you a fighting chance."

"Chenowyn, please," begged Zaranda, who had never seen the girl's eyes actually glow before. "He's right. Whatever wild talent you can muster now will only get you killed without helping me. Stand back and let me dispose of this filth."

Chen's red hair stood up from her neck. Yellow sparks played through it. Then she slumped, and the fires died from her eyes and the lightning from her hair.

She drew back from between the two.

Shaveli laughed. "Bold words from one who so re-cently submitted to my caresses."

"Don't flatter yourself, Shaveli. A man who has to let a whip do his fondling for him is less than half a man, no matter how big a blade he swings."

Shaveli snarled and thrust forward in a long, liquid lunge. Zaranda danced aside, whipping out long sword and parrying dagger. Shaveli stamped his boot, cried, "Ha!" and aimed a lightning wrist cut at Zaranda's temple. She barely got her own sword in the way; sparks from Crackletongue's blade showered her, lodged in her hair, and made wisps of stinking smoke.

"A noble blade you carried, Countess," the Sword-Master said. "Too much so for the likes of you."

He flicked the blade at her face. She threw the long sword upward to parry. Crackletongue whipped round and scored a deep gash transverse down her right thigh.

He came on, magic blade weaving a tracery of light before him. With all her skill and speed, Zaranda man-aged to keep the stolen blade from her vitals, though it pinked her time and again, making her sword arm run with slippery blood, opening a cut in her right cheek. She was handicapped by the knowledge that she dared not allow Crackletongue to take her blade edge-on; fine though the weapon Duke Hembreon had lent her was, its steel could not withstand the magic saber's bite.

He maneuvered her until she stood with her back to the lava river. Then he pressed, stamping and shouting, cutting and thrusting. When she felt heat that threat-ened to burn through the backs of her trouser

legs, he feinted high and then slid forward, thrusting for her belly.

Crackletongue's tip jabbed to within an inch of her skin, but she managed to hack it aside. The shining sword looped around and, with a ringing clang, lopped off her blade a handspan from the hilt.

Shaveli saluted her with a flourish of the magic sword. "So, Countess, shall we dance? Or will you take another step back? The lava is kinder, I promise you."

She threw the ruined sword at his face.

He caught it effortlessly with his left hand. She jumped at him, grabbed his sword wrist, and plunged her parrying dagger hilt-deep into his belly.

"Yes," she hissed into his pain-contorted face. "Let's dance."

His lips peeled back from bloody teeth. "The dance has just begun," he gritted. He reached across himself with his left hand, grabbed the wrist of the hand that held the dagger, and forced the blade back out of his body.

Zaranda felt her wrist being turned until the dagger pointed at her own body. She was taller than the Sword-Master, but his strength was greater than hers. Inexorably the dagger point was forced toward her flesh.

Sorceress and swordswoman as she was, Zaranda had found little time in life to study unarmed combat. Still, in her travels, she had gleaned a trick or two from the hand-fighting arts of distant Kozakura.

The dagger tip touched her stomach beneath her breastplate's lower edge. Shaveli smiled a ghastly smile and pushed harder.

In grappling the Sword-Master, Zaranda had moved several feet away from the lava. Now she shifted her left-hand grip from the man's wrist to Crackletongue's hilt and cast herself onto her back. Her not-inconsider-able weight drew the Sword-Master along. As he fell onto her, she put a boot in his stomach. Then she pulled with her arms and pushed with her long, strong leg.

Shaveli flew over her head. She twisted Crackle-tongue from his grasp as he passed. With a despairing wail, he pitched headfirst into the lava.

Zaranda rolled over and sat up. "At last," she said, "you've found yourself a willing embrace."

Something moaned past her ear and went into the lava three feet in front of her. She gasped as molten-stone droplets seared her cheek. The bowmen on the steps above were drawing bead on her.

One screamed and pitched forward off the stair. He landed with a whump on the stone beside the lava and lay still. An arrow jutted from his back.

His comrades turned to stare upward. Zaranda's gaze followed. "Stillhawk!"

The ranger stood at the top of the stair, legs braced, a short bow in hand. He plucked an arrow from his breast, nocked, drew in one smooth motion, and shot a second guardsman through the forehead.

The blue-and-bronzes cried out in consternation. Some shot back, others forsook bows for blades and ran up the stairs. None had any attention to spare for Zaranda and Chen; shooting with almost elven speed and accuracy, Stillhawk could drop them all unless they found a way to deal with him.

The women ran toward the doorway, piled through it, and came up short.

It was a great round bubble of a cave, ill lit by a smat-tering of torches in sconces hammered into the rough walls. By the far wall rose a glittering mound of treasure: gems, jewels, golden idols with gemstone eyes, a seeming infinitude of coins—silver, platinum, gold. Lying in the midst of the wealth, as in a nest, was a mass of glistening gray flesh almost thirty feet around.

From the mass protruded things— beings. Duergar, drow, orcs, humans—they seemed to grow from the sub-stance of the thing. Some showed as no more than bumps on the surface; others were all but fully formed. Three tentacles, each as thick around as Shield's torso, reared from the obscene bulk, bearing great-toothed jaws. Three eyes mounted on impossibly delicate stalks weaved above the mass.

"What is it?" Chenowyn asked.

"A deepspawn," Zaranda said. "I should have sus-pected."

Near the mound crouched Tatrina, her eyes red from weeping. Her cheeks bled where her nails had gouged them. She appeared quite bereft of reason.

"Where's Faneuil?" Zaranda asked.

Something erupted from the horror's flank. Zaranda jumped back, raising her weapons defensively—for all the good they'd do against a creature that huge.

Slime sloughed away from the writhing thing. It was the upper half of Faneuil I, king of Tethyr. The head still bore its modest crown.

The man spat filth and craned to look at the newcomers. "Zaranda!" he croaked. "Help me!"

He stiffened. Tension seemed to flow from him. A blissful smile crossed his face.

"Welcome," he said—and his voice was the Voice from Zaranda's dreams, dry as desert wind stirring sand. "I've waited a long time for you, Zaranda Star."

"What in hell are you?" Zaranda asked.

"Not in hell, but in your world. I am lord-to-be of Faerun. I am L'yafv-Afvonn."

Chen wrung her hands convulsively before her breast. "What is that thing? What's going on?"

"It's a monster called a deepspawn," Zaranda said. "It loves to feed on intelligent prey. And anything it eats, it can duplicate from its own flesh. A perfect copy of the original in every way—except that it exists only to serve its creator's will."

She shook her head. "I should have seen it before. Here's where the darklings came from. And the All-Friends—those poor children were all replaced by spawn. Except Tatrina."

"She won't remain the exception long," the false Hardisty said. "She'll be very helpful in persuading her self-righteous old fool of a father to accept your author-ity when you return to the surface. Except, of course, it won't be you at all, but another of my children." The head laughed uproariously.

"What about the king?" Zaranda asked.

"Useless fool. I shan't even bother to duplicate him."

Head and body went rigid again. Then Hardisty said in his own voice, "Kill. . . me."

Zaranda stepped forward. Crackletongue flared and sparked and it lashed out. The king's head sprang from his shoulders and bounced to a stop at her feet.

The mouths hissed. Fool! the Voice exploded in her mind.

Two sucker-studded tentacles—as big around as the ones that bore the mouths, but vastly longer—shot from the pile in a spray of treasure to seize Chen and Zaranda. Zaranda felt another magical compulsion try to claim her, but bent all her will to fighting it and felt it pass.

Resist as you will, the Voice said in her mind. It only adds spice.

A third tentacle erupted forth. As Zaranda tried to hack at the tentacle that held her, the tip of the other grabbed her wrist and bent it cruelly back. Her fingers went numb; the sword slipped free.

Now I will exact the price of your meddling, the Voice said. Rejoice that I must assimilate your flesh to replicate you, else your suffering would be protracted indeed.

From outside the door came a drumming as of giant wings. Then screams, none in Stillhawk's voice.

A guardsman appeared in the doorway. He took three steps forward on wavering legs. In the torchlight, Zaranda saw that his eyes stared between bloody paral-lel slashes that ran down the front of him from crown to crotch. He fell upon his face.

A woman walked in. Black hair cascaded past slen-der shoulders and down the back of a midnight-blue gown. Her austerely beautiful face bore no expression.

Nyadnar, the Voice hissed. You have picked a curious mode of suicide. The free tentacle quested for her.

She raised a hand. "Don't even try. Look into my eyes, L'yafv-Afvonn, gaze upon my true soul. You can never hope to best me."

Never is a long time, mage.

"We'll see."

"Who is this?" asked Chenowyn, squirming fruit-lessly to free herself of the tentacle wrapped about her slim waist. "Are we saved?"

"No," Zaranda said in a leaden voice. "This is Nyad-nar. She'll do exactly nothing."

"It is not my way to act directly on the world," the sorceress said. She gestured at the dead guardsman at her feet. "Unless, of course, I'm compelled to defend my-self." She walked to the wall opposite where Tatrina crouched, and stood as if carved.

Now, said the Voice, where were we? A mouth-arm darted forward and seized Zaranda's feet in its jaws.

"No!" Chenowyn screamed as the horror began to feed her friend into its maw. Zaranda thrashed violently, but was swallowed up, inch by inch.

The girl turned a tear-drenched face to Nyadnar. "You've got to help her!" she pleaded. "Please!"

"That is not my way."

"Let me go!" Chen drummed impotent fists on the tentacle that held her. Then to the sorceress: "I've heard her talk about you. You were her friend."

"I have no friends. I can afford none. My responsibil-ities are too great."

"You used her! How can you just let her die?"

"I employed her services from time to time. She was rewarded suitably, even generously. Where she is now, she came to by her own choice."

Slobbering, the toothed jaws had worked their way to Zaranda's hips. "She'll die! You have to do some-thing!"

"I cannot." A pause. "But you can."

"Me? I'm just a girl! What can I do?"

"You are not just a girl, Chenowyn," the sorceress said. "As to what you can do ... whatever you choose."

The jaws were about her friend's waist. Zaranda ut-tered a hawk scream of rage and frustration.

"Damn you!" the girl flared. "Damn you, damn you, damn you! And damn you, too, you great big wad of

filth!"

Her body went rigid with rage. Her hair rose, and her eyes began to glow. Her lips peeled back from her teeth in a grimace of fury....

And her jaws extended forward, telescoping.

Chenowyn's scream penetrated Zaranda's despair and brought her head around.

Her apprentice was transforming before her eyes. Her skin was darkening toward a brilliant, shiny, red; at the same time it grew visibly thicker, scaly, with an oddly crystalline quality. Face and limbs grew longer, became toothy jaws, forelimbs and legs wickedly clawed. Her skull flattened and broadened, and two long back-curving horns sprouted from its rear. Nubs formed on her back and grew into great ribbed wings.

The deepspawn found itself holding a small but very angry gem dragon. A mouth-arm darted for it, jaws spread wide. The dragon uttered a furious, piercing scream. A spray of brilliant red dust, like rubies ground to sand, gushed from its mouth.

Tough hide and muscle were scoured from the deepspawn's mouth-arm. Skeletonized jaws fell to the floor. The monster drew back a stump gouting green blood.

The dragon-Chen clawed at the tentacle about her waist. What an adolescent girl's fists could not achieve, an adolescent dragon's talons made light of. Ruby talons shredded the tentacle. It let Chen go and jerked away.

Chen's wings exploded from her sides, beat tenta-tively. She fell on her rump. Rising up on her hind legs, she thrust her head forward and breathed her spray of ruby dust against the neck of the mouth that had worked its way to Zaranda's armpits.

The abrasive spray cut through the arm. The head fell to the floor, jaws working spasmodically. Zaranda began to struggle free.

A tentacle lashed at Chen. Her jaws snapped it through. Then she flung herself at the monster, buffet-ing it with her wings, lashing it with her tail.

The remaining tentacle snaked out, looped back, wrapped itself around the young dragon's neck. She ut-tered strangling sounds and beat at it with her wings. It held her up in the air while the surviving mouth-arm trumpeted a cry of triumph.

Zaranda had extricated herself from the still-spasming jaws. Crackletongue lay on the floor nearby. Her right hand would not respond; she snatched the sword up with her left, screamed, "A star!" and slashed at the tentacle that was throttling Chenowyn.

With a flash and a crack, a stink of ozone and burned fetid meat, the magic blade cut through the tentacle. The severed end dropped from Chen's neck to writhe on the floor like a snake with a broken back. The stump, spewing foulness, flailed wildly, knocking Zaranda against the wall.

Chenowyn braced her legs, gathered herself, and breathed.

Corundum spray enveloped the monster. The spawn-heads growing from it opened wide their eyes.

They began to scream in a horrid cacophony of voices.

The bulk heaved and flopped, trying to escape the awful torrent of ruby dust. Its skin abraded away, and then its flesh, and that which served it as bones, and its pulsating inner organs. The sprouting bodies withered to skeletons and went quiet.

A psychic scream burst like a sun exploding inside Zaranda's skull. Consciousness left her.

When she opened her eyes, Nyadnar was standing over her, gazing down with neither curiosity nor com-passion.

"Oh," Zaranda groaned. She sat up. She felt like Death on a bender. But she was alive, and nothing seemed broken. "Chenowyn?"

"She is well, " the sorceress said, nodding toward the middle of the floor. A very normal-looking human girl lay curled about herself. "Just resting."

"And L'yafv-Afvonn?"

"Destroyed. Or at least, fled to another dimension to avoid dissolution. One from which he cannot return, should he even desire to, for a time longer than the span of your lives, and a dozen generations of your de-scendants."

The girl moaned, jackknifed. Zaranda was up at once, running to her side, gathering her into her arms.

"What happened?" the girl moaned. "What did I do?"

"I don't know, honey," Zaranda said, "but it sure worked."

"You have saved the balance of the world, which was in danger of being thrown hopelessly awry," Nyadnar said, "You have done well, my daughter."

The others gaped at her. "Yes," the sorceress said, in a tone of voice like none Zaranda had ever heard from her. "You are my child, Chenowyn."

"She's a dragon?" Zaranda demanded. "How could that be? She didn't so much as shimmer in Armenides's dead-magic room; she couldn't have held a polymorph spell. And she's no half-dragon. She's as human as I."

"She is. She is also a dragon—as much as I."

Chenowyn jumped to her feet. "No! It's not true! I'm not a dragon! And stop talking about me like some . . . some thing that's not even here!"

Zaranda seized her hand. "Chen, I love you, no mat-ter who you are—and you will never be a thing to me. But you were a dragon. I saw."

She straightened and faced the sorceress, one arm around the sobbing girl's shoulders. "How can some-body be both fully human and fully dragon? And what kind of dragon? She's not like any I've ever heard of."

"She is a new thing in the world," Nyadnar said, "A thousand years ago I noted an alarming fact: while you humans are small, short-lived, and weak, and we drag-ons are great, long-lived, and powerful, your numbers were increasing rapidly, year by year, whereas ours di-minished slowly, but steadily.

"One solution—bandied about by the council of wyrms more frequently than it would reassure you to know—has been to eradicate your mayfly kind. I op-posed this course of action. For one thing, by the time it came up for debate, I was morally certain it was too late—that were we to attempt any such thing, we should succeed only in hastening our own extinction. For another, I perceived your kind as having a function in the great system of the world, even as dragonkind has.

"Yet I could see the two coming inevitably into con-flict. I wished to preserve both races if possible. So I sought to see if I could somehow reconcile them. Many years have I spent in study, in contemplation, and in experimentation. The end result you see before you: a person who is both human and dragon. A super-being, if you will: a ruby dragon."

Zaranda frowned. "I've heard that certain evil wizards of the Dalelands created an artificial woman by magic a few years ago. She didn't turn out as expected, if the story's to be believed."

"You speak of the woman who calls herself Alias of Westgate. I have interviewed her. She was indeed a less-than-pleasant surprise to her creators." The sor-ceress shook her head. "But the cases are nothing simi-lar. There is nothing artificial about Chenowyn. By means beyond your comprehension I quickened her in my womb, carried her for nine months as a human woman, bore her in pain as a human mother."

"And then you just . . . turned her out," Zaranda said.

"When it was clear she was strong and would sur-vive, I left her at the Sunite orphanage in Zazesspur." Nyadnar turned to the girl. "I hope you will under-stand, my daughter. I had to let you make your own way, to prove that this new order of being was viable. I had to let you show you could survive, though it tore at my heart to do so."

"You mean I'm just an experiment?" Chenowyn wailed.

"No, not at all. You are, as I said, an entirely new order of being. Possibly superior to anything that has existed on this plane before. And you are my daughter."

"Don’t call me 'daughter'! " The girl turned and bolted from the chamber.

Zaranda ran after her. She got out the door in time to see Chen transform herself into a scarlet-hued dragon and fly upward.

Zaranda looked sidelong at Nyadnar, who stood star-ing up into the cavern darkness. Her inhumanly beau-tiful—literally inhuman, Zaranda realized—features remained expressionless, but her alabaster hands were knotted into fists.

"Nyadnar," she said gently, "you may've spent a thousand years studying how to give birth to her, but you have a lot to learn about being a mother."

Epilogue A Star

Night had returned to Zazesspur when Zaranda re-turned to the surface.

A vast crowd thronged the civic plaza. Through the doors of the Palace of Governance, Zaranda emerged, supporting a gravely wounded Stillhawk. Tatrina fol-lowed, looking right and left, tentative as a wild ani-mal.

From far back in the crowd, a voice yelled, "All hail Zaranda Star!" The crowd took up the cry in a mighty cheer: "HailZaranda!"

"I hope that wasn't one of our people," Zaranda said to herself.

Duke Hembreon set a halting foot on the bottom-most step of the broad concrete stairs. Tatrina's corn-flower-blue eyes went wide.

"Daddy?" she said. Then: "Daddy!" and she went flying down the steps into her father's plate-armored arms.

"All part of the service, folks," Zaranda said. Sud-denly she had to sit down on the top step. She managed to ease Stillhawk down to lie beside her. "Can some-body fetch a stretcher? My friend here needs care."

An astonishingly beautiful woman in a low-cut crim-son robe came bustling up the steps. She had long white-blonde hair done up in an elaborate gleaming coiffure, and a huge gaudy gold Sune pendant a-dangle between her not-particularly well-concealed breasts. A pair of strapping young men in red tunics followed her.

"We shall personally tend this hero's hurts at the Temple of Sune Firehair," she said, clasping her hands before her bosom. "Ooh, he's so handsome!"

Stillhawk, now altogether unconscious, was gath-ered up and borne away by the ingenue acolytes, trailed by the hand-wringing priestess. Well, Zaranda thought, I guess it's no more than he deserves. He's had a rough day. On the long hike up from the Underdark, the ranger had told her of dying and being resurrected by Shield of Innocence.

Having turned his daughter over to a covey of nurses and seen her carried off in a palanquin, Duke Hem-breon approached up the steps again. Zaranda reached to her belt.

"Here," she said, flipping the late King Faneuil I's crown to him. "You might be needing that."

Hembreon fielded it without turning a hair. "It could be so."

"What happened while we were gone?"

"A sudden confusion overtook the darklings. They ceased attacking and fell into a listless state in which they were easily overwhelmed." He looked abruptly ap-prehensive. "You did dispel whatever evil loosed them upon us, didn't you?"

"Oh, yes. It got dispelled good and hard. So did the late king, unfortunately."

Hembreon's bushy white brows lowered. "You mean that? You mean to call his death unfortunate?"

"I do. He was a good man. He just got in over his head." So to speak, she thought, and shuttered.

"Some short while after the darklings lost direction," Hembreon went on, "many reliable witnesses claimed to have seen a small dragon, scarlet in color, take wing from the roof of the palace. Some said it was a red dragon; others, including the Lord Inselm Hhune, who himself once slew a red dragon, said it was no such thing. It has occasioned considerable debate over whether the apparition was a good omen or ill."

"Oh, that was just my apprentice," Zaranda said. "She's definitely a good omen."

The old duke blinked. Behind him Zaranda saw two more elderly noblemen mounting the steps.

"Good even, Countess Morninggold," said the taller, a very distinguished gentleman with a neat gray mus-tache. "I wonder if we might discuss an important mat-ter with you."

Zaranda gestured toward the crowded plaza. "As long as you don't mind discussing it in front of fifteen thousand people or so."

"Not at all," the nobleman said. "In fact, the more who hear, the better. I am the Lord Inselm Hhune, and this is my friend and associate, the Lord Faunce."

"Honored, my lords," said Zaranda. She made no ef-fort to rise. She wasn't being rude, merely exhausted. "Lord Hhune, is it? Killed a dragon once, didn't you?"

"Indeed. Now, Countess, we have a proposition to make to you."

Lord Faunce, shorter and rounder than Hhune, dropped to one knee before her. "We crave that you do us the honor of agreeing to be crowned queen of Tethyr."

Zaranda swayed. "I beg your pardon?" she said.

"For some time Lord Faunce and I have belonged to a movement dedicated to restoring monarchy to the land of Tethyr," Hhune said. "Obviously, we had to keep our activities discreet until very recently. We had our reservations—"

"Now more than vindicated," said Faunce.

"—about the former Baron Hardisty, but we felt that restoration of the monarchy was of paramount impor-tance, and so opted not to oppose him. Now, however, we are prepared to offer the crown to you without reservation. Your heroism has saved our land."

"With all due respect, my lords," Zaranda said, "this is crazy. This morning I was a convict under sentence of death; I'm not even supposed to be alive."

"I have already attempted to apologize for that un-fortunate turn of events," Hembreon said stiffly.

"That was a gross miscarriage," Faunce said, "and as members emeritus of the city council we add our sin-cere regrets that it occurred. On the other hand—" his eye twinkled "—the throne might not be considered poor recompense by some."

"Oh, it's more than generous—can you please help me up here?" Hembreon aided her to her feet. "It's just that I'm having a hard time taking it seriously."

"I assure you—" the duke began.

Zaranda waved a hand at him. "I believe you." She took a few paces away, feeling a need for room.

A small form pushed out of the crowd and knelt on the bottom step. It was Simonne of Gond. "I hope you won't hate me for saying this, Zaranda," she said, "but you'd make a very good queen."

"I know you mean that as a compliment, Simonne, but—"

The spectators nearby took up Simonne's words and made them a chant: "Queen Za-RAN-da! Queen Za-RAN-da!" In a moment it had spread across the square.

Zaranda held her hands up. "Wait!" she cried. "QUIET!"

The crowd subsided. "Didn't anybody listen to what I told the city council when I was being tried by them? You don't need kings or queens. You need to learn to look out for yourselves and one another. If you don't do that, nothing else means anything."

The Zazesspurians looked at each other. The chant began again, slowly at first, rapidly swelling: "Za-RAN-da! Za-RAN-da! Za-RAN-da!"

She shook her head in disgust. Hembreon tapped her on the elbow. She inclined her head toward him.

"If you are not ready to be crowned," he said, "there is no need to rush into anything. But like it or not, you have just been acclaimed ruler of Tethyr." He smiled gravely. "Would it not be wisest to accept your fate with grace?"

"Well, several times today I've met kicking and screaming what I thought was going to be my fate. I guess it can't hurt to try something new." She turned to the crowd and held both hands clasped above her head—an idiot gesture, she thought, as if she had just won a footrace.

"All right!" she cried as the chant subsided. "I'll do it! I'll be your chief executive, or whatever."

The mob cheered rapturously. And then hundreds of hands were pointing skyward, and voices were crying, "Look!" in tones of mingled fear and wonder.

Zaranda looked up. Selune hung overhead, in a state even the most confirmed pessimist would have to ac-knowledge was past half-full, with her Tears a glowing trail behind her. Against the moon's face a great shape wheeled, winged and dark.

"Don't worry," she called to the crowd. "She's with me."

She turned to Hembreon. "If you'll excuse me, I have some personal business to attend to." He frowned. "If you could find it in you to say a few words—"

Brightening visibly, the old man stepped forward, raising his arms. "Friends, fellow Zazesspurians, coun-trymen and -women—" he began. The mob booed lustily.

As she reached the top floor, a young man in black police armor called out to her. In a burlap sack, he was carrying something large and round.

"Countess? I'm Constable Watrous. We were sent in a few hours ago to secure the building from looters. We searched the quarters of the false priest Armenides—" His handsome young face went a shade paler. "You wouldn't believe what we found there."

"Oh, yes I would," Zaranda said. "Now, what's on your mind?"

"Well, we found this there." He reached into the sack and lifted up the brazen head. "It, ah, it's been demand-ing to be brought to you."

"And so I have, and I must say you took your own sweet time about it, boy."

Zaranda sighed. "Hello, Head. It's been a while."

"Well, now that you've dispatched L'yafv-Afvonn back to the depths of hell—my personal thanks, by the way; you can't imagine how trying it was being com-pelled to speak for that horror—but now that you've es-tablished yourself as one of the foremost heroes of the age—of this or any age, and should I say heroine? be that as it may—unquestionably you'll want to learn the secrets I have to offer—"

Zaranda took the head from the youth, putting a hand over its mouth in the process. "Thank you, Con-stable Watrous. You did a good job." The youngster saluted, looked as if he wanted to say something, then turned and marched briskly away.

"Rmmph!" the head said, so emphatically Zaranda shifted her hand. "That young man clearly admired you. However, if you have a taste for more mature com-panionship, I can certainly provide—"

"Shut up," Zaranda said, "or I'll march you back down to the catacombs and chuck you in the lava."

The palace roof was flat. It was dotted with low ce-ment blocks of varying sizes, to what purpose Zaranda couldn't imagine. Maybe they were meant to serve as pedestals for statues. They might just as well have been meant to serve some otherworldly evil aims of Ar-menides' or L'yafv-Afvonn's.

From the noises drifting up off the plaza, a general celebration had broken out below. A familiar slight fig-ure sat on one of the blocks, her back to the stairs. She didn't stir as Zaranda approached.

Chenowyn whipped around when Zaranda laid a hand on her shoulder. She made as if to knock it away, then covered her face.

"Thank you for saving us today," Zaranda said.

"That wasn't me," the girl sobbed. "That was some monster. Some freak."

"That was you. You chose to help us. You found a way. I'm glad, anyway."

"I hate myself."

Zaranda shook her head. "Don't talk that way about my friend."

"I'm nobody's friend. I'm not even real. I'm just a con-struct."

"No," Zaranda said, hunkering beside her. "You're Chenowyn. You're a young girl; you're my apprentice; you're somebody I love and don't want to see hurt. And that's all that matters."

Vast wings boomed. Zaranda looked up to see a great draconian shape settling toward them, scales glinting purple in the light of moon above and city below.

The dragon touched down, and then a woman was walking toward them. Zaranda straightened.

"An amethyst dragon? How come you're so obsessed with sapphires?"

"I like sapphires," Nyadnar said. Her perfect fea-tures showed the first expression Zaranda had ever seen on them: puzzlement. "Why would I not like sap-phires?"

"Well, I'd figure an amethyst dragon would like amethysts, whereas a taste for sapphires would indi-cate—never mind."

She walked back to where she had discreetly left the brazen head before approaching Chen.

"Here," she said, tossing the artifact to the sorceress. Nyadnar caught the heavy object as if it were a child's rag ball. "Item delivered. You can arrange payment at your convenience; I'll be around. For a while, anyway."

"So you're Nyadnar," the head said. "I've heard a lot about you. And, I must say, now that I get a look at you—"

The sorceress gestured. The head went inert in mid-indelicacy. "That's a good trick," Zaranda said. "Wish I'd known how to do that."

"You will of course be paid," the sorceress said. "But you understand, my commissioning you to bring me the head was merely a pretext, all along, for—"

Zaranda shot a meaningful side-glance at Chen. "Maybe we should save that?"

"Oh," said the sorceress, who was also a dragon.

She held out her hands to the girl. "Come with me, Daughter," she said. "Fly with me. You have proven yourself worthy, and more than worthy, to assume your legacy. Now I will teach you who you are, and what you are; I will awaken in you power unimaginable to lesser beings."

Chenowyn stood. "I know who I am, and what I am: Chenowyn, apprentice to Zaranda Star. I chose to awaken my own power, thank you very much. If I have more, I expect to work it out on my own. Now, good-bye."

Nyadnar stared, aghast. "But I'm your mother."

Chenowyn frowned; for an instant her eyes gleamed red. "A mother doesn't demand proof of her child!" she cried. She grabbed Zaranda's hand. "There's only one person in the world entitled to call herself

my mother: Zaranda. I'm staying with her. You do what you choose."

She started walking toward the stairwell, tugging on Zaranda's hand. "Can we go? I'm hungry."

"Sure, honey. We can do that."

Zaranda looked back at Nyadnar. The sorceress slowly raised her head. To Zaranda's amazement, a per-fectly formed amethyst was sliding down one cheek.

"Yes," Nyadnar said, "even dragons cry. And our tears are gemstones."

About the Author

A former cowboy, former rock D.J., and current Yale dropout, Victor Milan says, "What I mostly do is write." Referring to that occupation, The Washington Post calls Victor a "contender for major stardom" in science fiction.

Victor has published over sixty novels, including Rune-spear, co-authored with Melinda Snodgrass, and the award-winning The Cybernetic Samurai and its sequel, The Cybernetic Shogun. He has recently published the technothriller Red Sands, the WILD CARDS novel Turn of the Cards, and the STAR TREK novel From the Depths. A charter member of the New Mexico-based Wild Cards Mafia, Victor helped create the acclaimed SF shared-world anthologies of the same name.

His house is infested with dogs and ferrets. He enjoys birding, playing games of various sorts, walking by the Rio Grande, and exploring on his mountain bike the ancient network of irrigation ditches in Albuquerque's North Valley. He also studies tae kwon do.