The lost Dragons of Barakhai

Chapter 5

A DISGUISED Benton Collins and Zylas approached the castle of the king of Barakhai about an hour after Zylas' change to human form. The forest opened to a grassland grazed by solid, patchy, and speckled cows in a myriad of whites and off-whites, tans and dark browns, blacks and agoutis. Goats ranged between them, their colors displaying a similar spectrum, grazing and prancing, pausing to rear, sidle, and slam their horns together at intervals. Those, too, ran the gamut, from broad and squat to long, tapering corkscrews, hoary pink to ebony. Chickens and ducks ran crazily between them, chasing insects dislodged by the larger animals' hooves.

Though unchanged, Opernes Castle captured Collins' full attention with all the intensity and violence of his first glimpse a year and a half ago. Four square corner towers thrust toward the heavens, the turreted, rectangular roof supported between them. They seemed higher than the last time, and he shuddered to think that he had once jumped from one of those towers nearly to his death. The jagged shadows of the inner courtyard wall peeked over the outer wall he and Zylas would have to face first. It consisted of defensible block work, interrupted at regular intervals by semicircular towers with the round sides facing outward. A still, crystalline moat ringed the entire structure.

On opposite sides of the wall, a peak-roofed structure supported by two of the towers formed a gatehouse. Collins and Zylas walked toward one of these, trying to look casual. Despite his attempts, Collins' heart beat a frantic, whirlwind cadence, and he fought a war against nerves that tried to drive his hands to a million ordinary tasks: finger-combing his hair, rubbing his eyes, stroking his chin. He contented himself with smoothing his unfamiliar clothing, allowing that small task to occupy hands that seemed determined to reveal him.

A figure on the left tower gestured broadly at them, and Zylas returned a crisp wave. Others shifted on towers and parapets while they drew closer. Then, apparently recognizing them, the guards lowered the drawbridge on sturdy chains. The plank came down with a squeal of rusted hinges, and the lip struck the ground beyond the water with a dull but massive thud. Zylas kept his pace stolid and even, and Collins tried to match it. The urge to run across and inside burned only a bit less brightly than the one that drove him to turn and bolt in terror. Strolling casually through enemy gates barely came in a distant third.

Strangers in the familiar uniforms of King Terrin's horse guards peered down at them. One spoke in a gravely voice, "Orna." He nodded. "Narladin." Another nod.

"What were you two up to?" His tone held a hint of teasing singsong.

"None of your business," Collins growled before he could think of something better to say.

Zylas added with a crooked smile. "It is our day off. She has a point."

"A point, indeed," added a woman peering over the right tower. "She's a regular spear."

Everyone laughed heartily, except for Collins who did not think the joke merited more than a gruff chuckle. He guessed translation weakened it and supposed it probably had a sexual connotation in Barakhain. His sophomore roommate's girlfriend had been fond of saying that men saw a penis in anything with more length than width-and they turned anything wider than it was long ninety degrees. Nevertheless, it seemed appropriate for him to sidestep the mirth, being the butt of the joke and known for having little sense of humor. Grunting, he waved the others off and headed across the drawbridge without waiting for Zylas.

The other man's footfalls scurried after him. As he drew closer, Zylas whispered. "Tread a bit more lightly. For all her crustiness, Orna's still a woman."

Collins eased his step, trying to make it appear as if he had stomped off in mild offense. As they reached the halfway point on the drawbridge, the double oak doors into the gatehouse flew open, revealing the smaller side doors that opened onto the towers and the enormous oak ones that led to the outer courtyard. They marched inside, and the bigger doors slammed closed behind them with a loud finality that made Collins stiffen, though he managed to resist the urge to whirl and face them. He glanced at Zylas, who stood in easy silence and stared at the second set of doors like a passenger on an elevator. The world plunged into a darkness that seemed nearly total, at first. Then, Collins discovered the many small cracks in the wood and stone construction that admitted small squiggles of light. A ratcheting sound echoed eerily through the confines, the sound of the drawbridge rising. Then silence entombed them.

Muffled voices wafted to them as an eternity seemed to pass in the dull prison of the otherwise empty gatehouse. Collins lowered his head and fought welling panic. He tried to convince himself that discomfort was expanding time tenfold or more, but it still seemed way too long.

"Something's wrong," Zylas whispered, deliberately using English.

A surge of terror jarred bile into Collins' throat. He swallowed hard and forced himself to think around the fear.

The right-hand tower door banged open, and a blond head appeared. "You two are having altogether too much fun alone in the dark. Would you finish up, please, so we can all go back to our jobs." The speaker wore the standard elite guard uniform: tunic white above the breastbone, patterned with stretched aqua clovers, then finishing with the blue-green fabric to just past his knees. He wore a bowl-shaped helmet, and mail showed at his collar and arms. His boots were stiffened cloth.

Now it was Zylas' turn to freeze, clearly uncertain what was expected of them. Although he had surely passed through these gates before, he could only have done so in rat form, perhaps hidden on one of the rebel spies. Collins' mind raced back to the last time he had stood in this position. Then, calming Falima in edgy horse form had taken priority. He recalled that two guards had met them here, having descended from the towers. He tried to remember their names, without success; but a light dawned. He and Zylas were guards and expected to perform whatever duties those others had in the past.

Wishing he had not fought so hard to resist the movement, Collins turned. Though closed, the doors still required securing. Feigning casualness, he stepped toward them, seized the bolt, and tried not to look burdened as he wrestled the massive piece of wood into place on its iron mountings.

Rather than assist, which might have looked cued, Zylas approached the opposite doors to wait for the bolt on the opposite side to lift. With an air of nonchalant patience, he waited for Collins to finish maneuvering, then eased open the doors on his side. The massive set of doors to the courtyard creaked open, and light once again flooded the gatehouse.

"Thanks," the blond grunted, withdrawing back into the tower with a shake of his head and a muttered, incomprehensible comment.

"That close one," Zylas whispered, again choosing English, though it turned his speech pidgin, "Very close one."

"True." Collins concentrated on using English also, less practiced at deliberately dodging the translation spells. He recognized the limitations of the rebels' intelligence work. Small details would lose out to more significant information and events, and clearly no one had posed as a castle guard before. "Let's not compound that by standing here talking about it."

Nodding, Zylas headed into the outer courtyard, Collins at his heels. A jewel-green pasture stretched ahead of them, spotted with gardens and striped with pathways. Wooden buildings jutted from the crenellated wall behind them, and others pressed against the one separating the outer courtyard from the inner. Scattered horses, a mule, and several goats grazed, the latter plucking the less delectable thorns and broad-leafed plants from amid the fuzzy expanse of tender grasses. Gardens interrupted the span at intervals, well-tended beds of vegetables, tubers, and flowers.

Collins took in the scene at a glance, trying not to stare. Last time, he had come masquerading as a city guard from one of Barakhai's territories. Studying the castle scenery in wonder had fit the part. This time, it did not.

Now aware that they should handle gates and latchings, Collins and Zylas breezed through the second gatehouse with only a few grunted greetings. The inner courtyard was as he remembered: less grass, more gardens and orchards, stables, kennels, and barracks with pathways linking all of them. Catwalks rimmed the inner walls, hidden behind the toothlike pattern of crenels and merlons. The guards pacing them gave up an occasional wave, though they seemed not to expect a response as they paced their way in proper step around the periphery.

As before, the castle caught Collins' eye, though not with the same stunning intensity. It blossomed from the center, sun rays gleaming from the construction as if to illuminate it in some glimmering heavenly glow. The four, square towers pointed, straight as spears, to the sky; and the rectangle between them seemed as staid and steady as eternity. The photographs of ancient European castles that Collins' friends had brought home from various vacations told otherwise, crumbling ruins with only a hint at their previous grandeur. That train of thought brought back images of the World Trade Center towers collapsing like giant-squashed anthills. They, too, had seemed as solid as the ages.

Collins walked with Zylas along a cobbled path to the stone-cut stairway leading into the open door of Opernes Castle. He saw the animals grazing the pasture, a random-seeming mixture of horses, sheep, and cows. He saw the goose, goat, and human gardeners weaving delicately through the crooked rows of crops. He saw dogs romping across walkways, grassways, and tended plots, playing rowdy games of tag or barking wildly at larger animals who chose not to join their play. Yet all of that registered only peripherally on his mind. Collins' gaze was riveted on the portcullis that hung open over the entrance, and memory descended upon him. He remembered his desperate dive beneath the falling cross-hatching of metal and wood, the moment of excruciating pain that had exploded through his head, followed by a nothingness that ended in a locked cell in the dungeon.

The anxiety Collins had struggled against since the mission began gripped him then, dragging him into a morass of fear and doubt. We couldn't even figure out how to get through a gatehouse without arousing suspicions. How are we going to make it in the castle? His bands trembled, and he trapped them in his cloak pockets to hide their revealing display. He took some solace from the fact that Zylas seemed not to notice; if the man right next to him did not, hopefully others would not either.

As before, the door opened on a spiral staircase that wound upward and downward. From memory, Collins climbed, passing the first landing and its two doors to stop at the second level. There, he paused in front of the right one, drawing a deep breath in preparation. He could hear voices floating freely from behind it, a steady hum punctuated by loud bursts at irregular intervals. He reached for the latch.

At that moment, the door jerked open, and a guard in elite uniform nearly ran into them. Collins back-stepped and found himself staring at familiar female features, a guard he had met on his last journey here. To his delight, he remembered her name. "Lyra," he said on the pent up breath racing from his lungs.

The guard nodded briskly. "Orna." She added, "Narladin." She headed past them, then turned suddenly.

Collins' heart skipped a beat.

"It's harling stew," she warned. "I know how much you despise that."

Uncertain which of them she addressed, Collins rolled his eyes and nodded knowingly.

"Thanks for the warning," Zylas said in his Narladin voice.

Lyra continued down the staircase, soon lost from sight.

"Harling?" Collins repeated, letting the door swing closed rather than entering.

"Don't worry," Zylas said soothingly. "It's a type of fish, not a bug."

"Good." Collins again steeled himself to enter. "But do I hate it? Or do you?"

"Don't know," Zylas admitted, reaching for the door ring. "We'll have to fake it."

It seemed like an important detail to Collins; but, as the door swung open, this time at Zylas' hand, he found himself preoccupied with more important things. As before, the king and his retinue occupied a dais at the farthest end of a dining hall that had changed little in the year and a half since Collins' last incursion. If, in fact, time passes at the same rate here as at home. King Terrin looked the same, his crown nestled among wheaten ringlets and a full heard. Shrewd brown eyes looked out from a middle-aged face that seemed wise and weathered. At his right hand sat a scar-faced, homely man dressed in a satin robe trimmed with golden embroidery. It took Collins a moment to recognize him, a man who had once appeared to he, and probably was, the king's brother. The scars that swirled and puckered his skin had almost certainly come from his brush with a fiery torch in Collins' own hand.

Hot pinpoints of guilt settled into Collins' chest, quickly banished by the memory of swords flying at him. If the man and his companions had not attacked, Collins would not have had to defend himself in such a reckless manner. They had tried to kill him, would have if not for a hay wagon well-placed by Zylas' friends, the renegades returning his broken body to Algary, and the miracle of modern medicine. Collins had only done what a desperate man had to do in self-defense. The king's brother was lucky to be alive at all.

To the king's left sat a slender woman whose silver-fringed blue silk dress hugged spectacular curves. Gauzy veils covered her face, stirring in the breeze of the open door. Small, white-gloved hands, clutching a spoon, disappeared beneath the fabric at intervals, carrying food to an unseen mouth. Others less familiar and unnamed sat amid the privileged, including the queen, stewards, princesses, a butler, and an adviser. Three trestle tables stretched from the doorway nearly to the perpendicular dais, packed with on and off duty guards as well as servants. A wide variety of dogs wound beneath the tables, accepting offered tidbits or foodstuffs that fell on the floor. Banners and tapestries hung from the walls, and minstrels in white-and-aqua plaid looked down on the diners from a balcony blocked by waist-high handrails and cathedral-cut windows.

Collins absorbed all of this in the moments it took Zylas to usher him from the door to a seat at one of the long tables. "That's Carriequinton," Zylas whispered as they sat between a plump maid and a uniformed low-tier guardsman whose attention seemed focused on a dog just behind his place at the bench. Collins chose the seat closest to the maid, not wishing to attempt small talk with someone who, though an inferior, could get him into huge trouble if Collins flubbed his alter ego's role.

"What is…?" Collins glanced around the room, taking inordinately long to spot the obvious. Finally, his attention settled on the veiled woman, and he responded with "Oh," and then quickly looked away.

"Oh," Zylas repeated.

"How bad is it?" Collins kept his voice below the regular murmur of the diners.

"Bad enough she keeps it covered."

That being self-evident, Collins only nodded. He turned his attention to the food, then wished he had not. Communal bowls held a brownish-gray soup filled with unidentifiable lumps. A servant whisked up behind them, dropping a stale slice of brown bread in front of each of them.

Zylas watched his neighbor glop a handful of the slightly steaming concoction from the serving bowl onto his makeshift plate. "Harling stew?" he said, as if guessing.

"Yup," the dog guard replied, glancing across Zylas to Collins and back. "Guess your partner won't be eating much."

Oh, thank God, it's Orna who hates it. Though the stew smelled surprisingly appetizing, the idea of sharing food that had had a dozen filthy hands dunked into it made Collins' stomach lurch in protest. These primitives probably did not even know to wash their hands after wiping their butts, It's a wonder they haven't all sickened and died. Collins wondered if the switch protected them, allowing their human forms to drink from the same worm-infested mud puddles as their animal forms. Or maybe early exposure to every germ in creation makes their immune systems stronger than the bacteria-phobic, antiseptic-loving people of my world. He banished the thought, seizing the moment. "Not eating much, huh? I wouldn't pollute my mouth with a bite of this swill." With that, he shot up from his seat and stormed from the room, leaving Zylas to apologize for and explain his rude behavior.

Once through the door, Collins forced himself to appear casual. He yawned and stretched on the landing, studying the area as he did so. He could hear voices below him, but the winding staircase hid the speakers from view. They can't see me either. Yet. Without waiting another moment, he quietly padded up the stairs to the third landing.

A boy of about ten, dressed in servants' aqua linen and sporting a bowl haircut, exited from one of the doors that Collins knew led to the servants' sleeping chambers. The boy stiffened at the sight of him, and Collins froze. His mind raced, seeking words to explain his presence in some innocent and logical fashion.

The boy bowed, head low and hands trembling.

Realizing it would look far more suspicious for an elite guard to stammer out excuses to a young servant, Collins steeled himself and tried to look haughty. "Carry on," he said, gesturing regally for the boy to descend.

The boy did so in a relieved scramble.

Collins continued upward, hyperalert, heart pounding. The last time he had come here, the innocent stroking of a calico cat had given him away. Now, he worried that a chance encounter on a servants' landing might do the same. Stop it, Ben. It's all right. Guards go up here all the time to get to the upper palisade and towers. Unlike the cat, the boy had not seen him enter a restricted area, yet he could not help feeling desperately afraid. You're a guard, he reminded himself. And a woman, can't forget that. An elite woman guard of Castle Opernes.

Collins hurried up the stairs and paused on the next landing, avoiding the huge arched window opening onto the courtyard below. Last time, the cat had perched on its ledge, looking irresistibly like his childhood pet. Now, he saw no humans or animals of any kind. Forcing out a breath held too long, Collins reached for the door ring.

Warded against switchers, the door would never have yielded to the touch of any of the renegades, and they would have triggered a magical alarm had they made the attempt. But it opened easily, and mercifully silently, for Collins. The magic baffled him; he had given up worrying about its operation. All that mattered was that it worked for him. Cautiously, he peeked into a room he had searched once before, though far more thoroughly than it required now. He did not need to open drawers, chests, and cupboards to find something as large as a dragon. The hunt for the crystal had seemed like impossible folly. This struck him as far more reasonable: a glance into each room, and he could leave with no one the wiser.

Despite these reassurances, Collins glanced nervously around the room before daring to enter and shut the door behind him. It looked much the same as it had on his last inspection. A curtained bed took up most of the middle of the room, its frame more like a squat dresser with multiple drawers and shelves. A chest pressed up against the foot of the bed; and, overhead, a wrought iron chandelier held a dozen unlit candles. A massive tapestry, faded and irreparably dusty, depicted a hunt scene from a past when animals and humans had existed independently, a past only Prinivere was old enough to remember. Blurry mounted men harried a huge animal with spears. Last time, Collins could not discern the object of the hunt. This time, armed with a greater knowledge of Barakhai's history, he made out the frayed outline of a dragon.

The woven picture bombarded Collins with the terrible images of Prinivere's story. Once, Collins knew, dragons and humans had made peace sealed by a crossbreeding that was agreed to reluctantly on the dragons' part. A dragon ensorcelled to man shape and the king's daughter created a set of male twins. Though nature intended the miscarriage of those boys, the fetuses kept themselves alive, with magic, at the expense of their mother's life. The dragons saw evil in a phenomenon the humans viewed only as unfortunate tragedy. Shunned by their father's side, feared and despised by most of their mother's, the boys grew up bitter, robbed of the magical training they saw as their legacy. Ultimately, the intensity and focus of their resentment had resulted in the Curse, twisted by the inherent wrongness of their very conception. One wanted to forget and the other to spend half his life in the dragon form he believed his birthright. Each got his wish for everyone but himself. One caused the populace to become ignorant of its own past, and the other made all but the royal family half-time animals. Too late, the dragons destroyed the twins, provoking the war that had, ultimately, resulted in their extinction.

Reminded of his purpose, Collins headed for the other two doors he knew led from this room. The one he had exited through before led into a garderobe or primitive bathroom. The memory of diving into that room to escape four swordsmen and bashing his head on the overhanging lip of the seat remained painfully vivid, and he shivered. No one could have squeezed even one dragon into such a small space, so he ignored that door and discarded the remembrance. He had never passed through the other door, but he guessed it opened onto another bedroom, solely on his own instincts. Zylas' descriptions of the upper two floors necessarily ended at the landings.

Collins put an ear against the door, hearing nothing. The gesture seemed futile. Danger would more likely come at him through the door he had entered from the landing, since the only outside access to this room would have to be a window. Steeling his muscles nearly to the point of pain, Collins tripped the latch and shoved.

A rush of flowery perfume struck Collins' nose. His gaze played over the furniture, registering nothing but the absence of any movement. Reassured, he stepped inside, not quite ready to shut the door behind him. Pushed against the far wall, the bed in this room sported gauzy, flowered curtains. They fluttered in a slight breeze that managed to ooze through the slits the cathedral windows gradually tapered into as they approached the interior. Collins suspected he had found the queen's chamber. Like the previous one, it had drawers and shelves built into the frame of the bed, obviating the need for dressers. Pretty knickknacks in the shape of tiny bottles, birds, and horses decorated the open surfaces. A large chest held a gold-handled brush, comb, and hand mirror.

Seeing no dragons, Collins withdrew back into the first room. Leaving that one, too, he found himself back on the landing, facing the opposite door. One down. Three to go. Sucking in a deep breath, he opened the door onto another familiar room. Here, he had met with Carrie Quinton to discuss the renegades and the kingdom. She had revealed Zylas' deceit: bringing both of them to Barakhai with lies and trickery, and Collins had come dangerously close to defecting.

Apparently a private sitting room or library, this room held a shelf of books, three padded chairs, and a table. An eight-armed candelabrum rested in the middle of the table on a lacy oval of cloth, a pitcher beside it. Two windows like the ones in the queen's bedchamber lit the room, revealing no dragons but two other doors. Choosing the left one at random, Collins opened it onto a garderobe. Shutting that door, he selected the other and found a third bedroom, less orderly than the first two. Two beds lay flush against opposite far corners. The first had neatly tied curtains and matching linens of blue and gold, as vivid as Aisa's plumage. The second was trimmed in rainbow hues, rumpled, and covered with a pile of stuffed animals. Balls, blocks, and dolls lay scattered across a dog-shaped rug in the room's center. Spanning the entire far wall except for Where the beds stood, an ornately carved dresser held two sets of grooming supplies. Silver-handled and matched, the first sat in an orderly line on an embroidered square. The set near the unmade bed lay in wild disarray, the brush dangling between the dresser top and wall, the mirror facedown on the floor, and the comb tossed sideways on the bare wood. Between these, a large bowl held two toppled pitchers and a layer of brackish water.

Knowing he had found the princesses' room, Collins took some solace in the realization that even royal children had to share. An only child, he had not had to endure that discomfort, a fact that had endeared him to his friends and eased the pain of having no siblings. Retreating from the room, he closed the door, then escaped back to the landing.

Half done. The realization brought a smile to Collins' lips. For the first time, he allowed himself to believe he might actually succeed. It's going to work. It's really going to work. Collins headed up the stairs, this time not surprised to find no one 011 the landing. Thus far, his luck appeared to be holding.

Collins had gone through both of the fifth-floor doors in the past. The left one, he knew, led to the guestroom where he had spent a peaceful night as the king's visitor while they very nearly swayed him to their side. One door from that room opened onto another garderobe. Two others led to the shared bedchambers of the king's male relatives. The right door from the landing led to Carrie Quinton's bedroom.

Collins' blood ran cold at the thought of entering that room again, so he turned his attention to the other one. In no time at all, he had established that the guest and male royal quarters had no dragons in them. Forced to confront Quinton's room, he sucked in a deep, calming breath, releasing it slowly from his pursed lips. Memories descended upon him again, of the exquisite hour they had spent alone together here. He could picture her beautiful, high-cheeked face looking up at him, the baby blue eyes filled with desire, the dark blonde curls falling around the sweet curve of her neck. It had been an hour of perfection floating free from the day of terror surrounding it. The most stunningly attractive woman in the world had given herself to scrawny, average-looking Benton Collins. In moments, though, that joy had shattered into pain. She had fashioned a vast future for them in Barakhai. He had tried to convince her to hand over the crystal she wore as a necklace and escape back to their own world. When she refused, he had tried to steal it, and she had called in a mass of hidden protectors. Images rolled through Collins' mind in an instant, bittersweet, rife with an excitement that spanned both ecstasy and terror.

Steeling himself, Collins tripped the latch, and the door swung open to reveal the bedchamber of the Other-world adviser to the king. Unlike the rest of the castle, this room had changed a lot. The tapestries full of cavorting animals, cheerful forests, and happy people had been replaced with more somber images. Only one remained the same, an enormous portrait of a ginger tabby cat luxuriating on a bed similar to the one that took up most of the rest of the room. One depicted sad-eyed children plucking flowers in a desolate field, another a dull still life of stunted vegetables and flowers. The last was the most animated, but also the creepiest. Carnivores dominated the otherwise muted colors. In the foreground, a sable wolf crouched menacingly in front of a roaring tiger, and a lion flew toward a rearing leopard or jaguar. In the background, a mass of surging claws, teeth, fur, and feathers blended into a bloody, riotous war of color. Once painted to resemble a night sky in their own world, Quinton's ceiling now held only fiat, blue paint. Curtains lay draped around the bed, missing the golden tassels that had tied them hack. A new chandelier hung in the center of the ceiling, and the wall brackets that had once held the torches he had used as weapons were gone. Only the carved wardrobe and matching chest remained unchanged.

A shiver racked Collins as he crossed the room to peek into the garderobe and the royal women's quarters, where he found no dragons. He closed those doors and prepared to leave; but, once again, the wardrobe grabbed his attention. It seemed unlikely that he might find the dragons there, yet foolish not to check every possible place while he was here. One unturned stone meant eternal doubt that could only be quenched by another foray here. Catching the clasps, he wrenched open both doors.

A figure inside sent Collins leaping backward with a gasp, heart galloping dangerously fast. He glanced wildly around him, awaiting the inevitable scream. When it did not come, he dared to peek into the wardrobe again. His own eyes looked back at him from behind the dangling clothing. A mirror. Warped and scratched, it reflected Collins in imperfect detail, yet he could still make out the familiar features and the distinctly unfamiliar garb. He looked silly in a dress. Then, he remembered the purpose for it, and terror froze him. He focused in on his face as ice streamed through his veins. That's my face, not Orna's. The spell has worn off! Stock-still, he tried to think of a solution to his dilemma, without success. A myriad of options ran through his mind, all immediately discarded. He could not remake the features himself, and he had no time to return to Prinivere, even should he make it from the castle alive. He certainly could not stay here.

Zylas! Thoughts of his companion spurred Collins to action. If his wears off, he's dead. Desperate to capture the leader of the renegades, the king would spare no man to do so, would show no mercy once he did. I've got to get Zylas out of here. Snatching up one of many veils hanging in the closet, Collins sprinted from room to landing, pausing only to shut the door.

To Collins' relief, he met no one in the stairwell. He charged downward, feet thundering on the steps, pulling the veil over his face as he ran. Momentarily blinded, he misgauged the uneven stairs. His foot slammed on wood higher than he expected, and he stumbled. The sole of his cloth shoe skidded down the edge of several stairs, and he scrabbled wildly for balance. For an instant, he hovered between recovery and collapse, arms pitching, body weight hopelessly committed. A flash of heat surged through him, then he regained his equilibrium and continued his headlong rush. He still had not encountered anyone else as he adjusted the veil in front of the dining room door.

Only then, logic finally caught up with Collins, worming through the panic. Most likely, the magic of the warded doors had stripped his face of Prinivere's magic, which meant Zylas still looked like Narladin. Hidden behind the veil, he would have to quietly inform his companion of the problem, and they could both slip safely beyond the castle walls.

At that moment, a dog-guard burst through the dining hall door, dancing sideways with a surprised gasp to keep from colliding with Collins. Several heads jerked toward the pair in the entryway, as the guard eased around Collins with a gruff epithet. Revealed, Collins caught the door, scanning the interior for Zylas. On first inspection, he did not find the albino. He adjusted his search for the man of Prinivere's illusion and, this time, found him sitting among the guards and servants. Zylas stared at Collins with the same incredulity as some of the others, but his strange features contained a trace of fear.

Forcing himself to keep his composure, Collins glided across the room to Zylas, trying to give his movements a bit of femininity.

Zylas met Collins halfway, then hissed into his ear, "What the hell are you doing?"

"The spell's worn off. It's worn off!" Collins struggled to keep his voice at a whisper. "We've got to get out of here."

Zylas peeked beneath the veil. "What are you talking about, you moron?" He spoke directly into Collins' face. "You look fine."

Quinton's voice wafted over the gentle music. "Hey! That's mine. How did you get my-?"

Zylas whipped off Collins' veil. The breeze of its movement chilled his exposed cheeks, and a shiver spiraled through him. He shielded his face with his hands. "What are you doing?"

A serving dish crashed to the floor, splashing stew and bunks of bread over the nearest diners. Instead of attending to the mess, the servant who had carried it rounded on Zylas and Collins, arms flailing. "It cost me a week's wages to get you that food. I don't care if you did come all the way to pick it up yourselves. You're still paying."

Confused and growing frantic again, Collins backed away. "Wh-what?"

Zylas tried to salvage the situation. He took Collins' arm, dropping the veil. "Sorry. Day off. Too much to drink." He addressed the servant. "You'll get your money, don't worry."

But the servant stopped gesticulating, arms falling to his sides. He studied the pair in front of him with eyes dropping to wary slits. "There's no way you could have got here so fast. You were in the middle of a dice game when I-"

King Terrin sprang to his feet. "Seize them!"

The scrape of shifting chair legs filled the room.

Zylas took slow backward steps, voice strained. "Easy now, friends. I can explain everything."

The room surged toward them like a tide. Past reasoning, Collins whirled and ran. He slammed into a burly man. His head snapped backward, and pain shot through his tongue. He staggered into a sea of arms. Callused hands grasped his wrists, scratching and pinching flesh. His first instinct, to surrender to them, passed swiftly. The whole situation overwhelmed him. He had seen his own face, yet Zylas assured him the disguise remained intact. And, somehow, the king had seen through it all.

Zylas' acting voice sputtered over the shouts. "Stop, you fools. It's me! Narladin. What are you doing?" His sword rasped from its sheath, and Collins suddenly remembered his own.

If they catch us, they'll kill us. Energized by the realization, Collins clamped his teeth onto one of the restraining hands. The man jerked back with a curse, releasing Collins' right wrist. He swung wildly into the crowd, connecting with a meaty thud that sent pain searing through his fist and down his arm. "Let go of me!" he howled, lashing a kick toward one's face. The guard retreated, sparing his mouth, but several others moved in to take his place. Collins twisted, making a bold leap for the door.

Hands gripped his left wrist and ankle jarring him up short, kindling a fire through his knee. He crashed to the ground. Fists pounded into the back of his head, smashing his chin against the floor, and someone relieved him of his sword. My fault, he realized. All my fault He caught a dizzy, sideways view of a now-silent, disarmed Zylas being carried through the door by three guards. "No. Nooo!" He lunged again but, this time, gained no ground at all. A half-dozen guards held his limbs or pinned him to the floor. "I didn't do anything-"

The hands slammed into the back of his head again, this time driving his face to the tiled floor. Pain exploded through his head. His entire body went limp, beyond his control. Urine warmed his thighs, then merciful oblivion descended upon him.

Benton Collins groaned awake, the agony in his head momentarily overwhelming all other pain. Nausea roiled through his gut, but he managed to keep from vomiting with an effort that hardly seemed worth the result. Acid burned his throat, and as he became more aware of his body, pain screamed through his left knee, his nose, and his arm. He tasted blood. He scraped his tongue against his teeth, discovering a sharp bite on the right underside toward the front. I don't believe it. I don't frickin' believe it. He clearly had passed out for longer than a minute or two, which meant he had suffered a concussion, at the very least, perhaps even a brain hemorrhage. He knew he might die in this accursed place, but it seemed unfair. Somehow, he had expected his brave words to carry him, for poetic justice to see his mission safely done. He opened his eyes.

Light flooded in, accentuating Collins' splitting headache. He groaned again, narrowing his gaze to a slit that admitted only a pair of curious dark eyes looking back at him. Startled by the sight, he wrenched his eyes fully open again. A man crouched in front of him, on the opposite side of heavy, iron bars. He held his head tipped sideways to meet Collins' gaze, his expression quizzical. A huge nose disrupted an otherwise softly contoured face, and wispy brown hair scarcely covered his jutting ears. He wore a sword at his left hip, a key ring at his right. "Who are you?" the other man asked.

For a moment, Collins did not understand the question. Panic crowded his thoughts. Do I have amnesia? He dismissed the thought at once. He knew his identity. It was not a question of who, but of where. Afraid to move his head, he rolled his eyes, trying to see around his prison, which consisted of three windowless stone walls, a granite floor, and the barred gate. Dangling collars and shackles, and a dented dingy chamber pot, completed the image. "I'm in hell," he whispered.

"Opernes Castle," the stranger corrected, looking perfectly comfortable low to the ground. "Now, who are you?"

Collins shook his head. The charade was clearly over.

"And don't say Orna," the guard cautioned. "We know you're a man."

Collins' hand went instinctively to his privates; if they had looked, they might have meddled. A quick touch revealed no pain. Everything seemed intact, even his underwear; though they had confiscated his sword, its belt, the cloak, and the objects he had carried in his pockets. "I'm not telling you anything." He tried to keep his tone defiant, though fear shuddered through him. Zylas might have trained to withstand torture, but Collins would probably fold like a warm candle.

The guard only shrugged, rising. His position had made him seem small; but, now, Collins could see the man stood probably no more than an inch to either side of his own five feet eleven inches. "Your choice. We'll just wait for your switch, if you wish."

That'll be a long wait.

The guard lowered his head. "But you should know, the king prefers cooperation."

Doesn't everyone? Collins kept the snide observation to himself. The less he said, the better. Or is it? Terror fluttered through his chest as he realized delay and time were not on his side. When he did not change within twelve hours, they would know he did not belong in Barakhai. If anyone had recognized him at the portal, before Prinivere had rescued him, they would know his identity as surely as if he had switched. More importantly, Zylas would switch, and they would know the white rat instantly. Collins could only hope the king's guards had not already discovered the Loner Aisa had applied to hide the pallor of Zylas' albino skin. "Where's… my companion?"

"Who's your companion?" the guard asked, his attempt to speak casually an obvious sham.

What am I, a moron? Realizing Zylas had called him just that before the charade fell apart, Collins tried to play the game safely. "My companion. The man who came with me."

"In another room." The guard straightened his silks, aqua and white, without the stretched clover pattern of the elite force. This man, at other times, was a dog. "You didn't think we'd keep you together to conspire, did you?"

Clearly rhetorical, the question did not warrant an answer, so Collins did not give one.

"King promised to go easy on the one who talks first, gives up the other."

Having seen his share of cop shows, Collins wasn't about to fall for that ploy, especially since he knew Zylas would never let the burden of punishment fall on an innocent companion. On the other hand, he could not see silence working to their advantage. Time would reveal Zylas and, ultimately, himself. His thoughts raced in myriad directions, every one a dead end. With his heart pounding an aching drumbeat in his head, he found it nearly impossible to think clearly. Maybe Falima and the others will rescue us. Collins knew he could not pin all of his hopes on such a thing. The renegades would first have to get word that the mission had failed, then find a way to break into the king's dungeon, all before Zylas' midnight change. He could not count on that happening any more than he could that Zylas would escape and rescue him, too. He had to find his own way out. "All right," he started carefully, "I'll talk. But only to Carrie Quinton."

The dog guard crooked an eyebrow, clearly trying to figure out Collins' angle. The request had to seem stunningly bizarre. "Why?"

Collins stared back. "Carrie Quinton," he insisted, keeping any hint of insolence from his voice. Antagonism would not get him what he wanted. "I'll talk to her and no one else."

The guard bobbed his head, rubbing his chin with his fingers. "Very well. I'll see if she's willing." He headed toward the door Collins knew led to the upper staircase, jabbed one of the keys into the lock, and twisted. It gave with an echoing click. The guard eased open the door and slipped through, then the bolt rang home behind him.

Collins sagged, letting the coldness of the floor numb his wounds. He worried about the blow to his head; nothing else seemed worse than a bruise or strain, a nagging background cacophony with the sole purpose of slurring his thoughts. Still incapable of finding a good solution to his dilemma, he focused his hopes on the desperate gambit he had taken. Carrie Quinton hated him. Of all the people in this strange world, she would most like to watch him slowly tortured to death. Yet she alone could fully understand the position in which fate had placed him. The best and the worst of his hopes lay with her.

An eternity seemed to pass while Collins waited, alternately concerned about and glad of the delay. It gave him time to think and to brood, to nurse his wounds and to suffer them, to hope and to worry. He dozed a bit, his anxieties peppering his dreams. Then, when all seemed lost, two new guards appeared, with Quinton in tow. She wore a simple dress that hid her deliciously proportioned curves, and a veil covered features Collins had once found singularly beautiful.

"Alone," Collins said, his voice a hoarse whisper.

They all knew what he meant. The guards looked askance at Carrie Quinton, who hesitated before returning a decisive nod. "Stay just outside. I'll call you if I need you."

The guards gave her a look of fierce concern, then pinned Collins with a pair of savage glares. Without a word, they left the room, closing the door behind them.

Quinton did not waste a second. "Who arc you?"

Collins swallowed hard, and all of his rehearsed words left his mind in an instant. He would have to play this carefully and by ear. "Someone… " he started, his voice maddeningly unsteady. "… from your world."

"Yes," she said, her stance revealing the sternness her hidden features could not. "The flashlight was a dead giveaway."

My mag light. Collins closed his eyes. Gone already, along with my multitool and matches. It was the second multitool he had had confiscated by Barakhains, and he darkly wondered if he could supply the entire royal family.

Quinton's tone gained spite. "It's you, isn't it?"

Many humorous replies came to Collins' mind, but he forced himself to discard them. No matter how self-deprecating, jokes would only antagonize Quinton. He knew exactly what she meant. "I'm sorry." He lowered his head, his tone sincere. "I am so very sorry, Carrie. Please believe me; it was an accident. I never would… I never could… I… I never… meant to hurt you."

Quinton's entire body stiffened. For an instant, Collins thought she would leap on him in a mindless frenzy of hatred. Instead, she wound her hands in the fabric of the veil and yanked it from her face.

Scar tissue marred the once classically beautiful features, leaving lines, ridges, and swirls of odd-looking, hairless flesh. Her sculpted nose listed to the right between keen blue eyes with their irregular lashes and gleam of deep anger. Her ridged brow reminded him of a Star Trek Klingon, and her silken blonde tresses started farther back on her head, leaving a jagged and receded hairline. Though sickened by the sight, Collins would not allow himself to look away. He sank to the floor in a gesture of abject apology. "I'm so sorry." I caused all that. Moisture blurred his vision, wholly unfeigned. "I am so, so very sorry."

"Why?" Quinton asked, emotion choking her words. Whether she suffered from a rage too intense to speak clearly or anger mixed with deep sorrow, Collins could not tell. But he did understand that she wanted to know the reason he had caused her such agony, not why he now chose to beg her forgiveness.

"You were talking marriage. Kids." Tears glided onto Collins' cheeks. They had slept together one time, and she had used it as the basis of an entire future. "I was twenty-three. A boy. I… got scared."

"Of me?"

Collins shook his head. "Of commitment, not you. You're smart, beautiful. Perfect."

Quinton turned away. "Not anymore."

"You are," Collins forced out, "to me."

Quinton whirled, scarred features bunched, a raw primal rage flashing in her eyes. "I'm ugly, Benton Collins. Ugly." She stepped menacingly toward him. "And it's because of you."

"Yes," Collins admitted. "It is because of me. And I want to make it right."

Quinton crouched in front of the bars, lowering herself nearly to Collins' level. All trace of humanity disappeared from her eyes, leaving a depthless madness that scared him more than anything in his life. "I've thought about this for a long time, and I know exactly what to do."

Collins froze, allowing her to speak her piece.

"We'll start with a leisurely castration. No anesthesia, dull dirty knife, and you get to watch."

Collins shivered.

"We'll slather you with dung and let you suffer the slow festering of your wounds."

Not allowing himself to focus on the image, Collins fell into the nervous humor he had managed to previously avoid. "Sounds like you've got this whole thing planned out pretty well."

Quinton rose, towering over him. "I had plenty of time to work on it while they cleansed my wounds and changed oozing bandages."

An apology now seemed totally inadequate. "You've got me, and you can do what you want with me. But it doesn't cost you anything to hear me out."

Quinton said nothing, which Collins took as an invitation for him to continue. "Korfius and I came back to check on you."

"Korfius?" she repeated thoughtfully, and Collins hoped that meant she believed the dog was his captured companion. The Barakhains had far less reason to harm him than Zylas.

"You have to believe me. If I'd known how badly I hurt you, we would have come back sooner."

Quinton stared.

"I had a long recovery myself. I fell off a castle tower, broke a bunch of stuff, had some internal injuries. So, it couldn't have been a lot sooner, but-"

Collins waited for Quinton to say something, anything. When she did not, he continued, "I couldn't get you off my mind. I realized… I… love you." It was a lie, and Collins felt as if the words were sticking to his tongue. lie had always had difficulty saying things he did not mean.

"You did?" Quinton finally managed.

"I do," Collins said, for some reason finding those words much easier to speak. "I still do."

Quinton turned away. "No one could ever love this face."

"Someone who loves you only for your appearance is not worth having. Looks fade over time." Though true, Collins could not help feeling hypocritically shallow. He had pursued Quinton as much for her flawless features and figure as the many things he had believed they had in common: a science background, their time in Barakhai.

And Quinton was not buying it. "What a trite and easy thing to say."

Collins walked a fine line and knew it. He needed her to trust him, but if he insisted too much, his insincerity would become transparent. She had seemed a bit crazy to him before their confrontation, and the destruction of her most powerful attribute could only have further unbalanced her. "Look, I came here because I missed you. Then, the king's men attacked me, and I found out how bad off I had left you. I didn't know how to handle that. I thought if Korfius and I could sneak in here, I could find out the truth. My mistake was trying to let you know who I am without alerting anyone else."

"The veil thing?" she guessed with clear puzzlement. "That was supposed to-"

Collins tried to look embarrassed. "Okay. Not my best work. But I knew the kingdom wouldn't forgive me, and I thought you might."

Quinton frowned, shaking her head.

"I mean I hoped you would, stupid as that sounds. I still love you."

"Do you?" She sounded more cynical than hopeful.

"And I know how to fix the damage I did."

That got Quinton's attention. "You're not talking about skin grafts, are you? Because they can't-"

"No. I'm talking about magic." Collins made a gesture that outlined his own face. "Like this. A real fix. Complete and total."

Quinton gritted her teeth, her face puckering into fierce lines. "Don't toy with me, Ben. I'd sooner see you suffer an excruciating, drawn-out death than look at you."

Collins believed it. "Look at me, Carrie. Look at my face. This isn't clown makeup." He rubbed his cheeks until they blanched, then turned scarlet from friction. "If they can do this for me, imagine how much easier to just restore what was already there. Or even better." Catching his mistake a moment too late, he added quickly, "As if that was possible-how do you improve on perfection?"

Quinton dropped to her haunches, her movements still hauntingly graceful. She had maintained the figure of a Hollywood dancer, pure beauty if one could overlook the twisted, furrowed scars of a once-handsome face. And her clingy, intense, and desperate personality. Collins could scarcely believe he had once found Carrie Quinton so stunningly attractive, and that thought made him feel even more small-minded. He had seen her as the permanent answer to an otherwise lonely existence: pretty, smart, with the shared experience of Barakhai from a vantage point no one else could understand. Was I really seeing all of that, or just a pretty face, a pair of large breasts, and gorgeous curves? He had discovered the volcanic flaws seething just below her superficial beauty, yet that had not stopped him from wanting to sleep with her again. Sleep with, not marry. Collins realized that, until she got some serious mental counseling, Quinton's looks were all she had, now melted into a puddle of fleshy scars. Poor Carrie.

Several moments passed in silence while Quinton considered the situation and Collins waited for an answer. Finally, she said, "I assume there's a price for this fix?"

Collins had no problem bartering away Prinivere's abilities. The renegades owed him this much. "Only freedom for me and my companion."

"Oh, is that all?" Quinton spoke with clear and evident sarcasm. "I'm sure the king won't mind letting his prisoners go just to help me."

Quinton could not bluff Collins, who already knew how seriously King Terrin took the counsel of his adviser from a high-tech world. "He'll listen to you."

"Maybe."

"He'll listen to you," Collins insisted. "Especially if you tell him you're going to personally meet the one with the power to change people's faces." He worried about revealing Prinivere, especially since he had once promised he never would; yet he saw no real harm in it. The renegades would see to it that no one followed him and Quinton. The dragon had already shown herself to the king's troops once, and he knew she would accept risk to rescue Zylas and, he hoped, himself.

Quinton rose with slow thoughtfulness. "I… could do it," she finally said, the words anything hut a guarantee.

Collins could not afford to let it go at that. "And will you?"

"I… will." Quinton continued to study Collins. "With conditions. You take me to whoever can fix me. Korfius stays."

Though relieved Quinton had taken the bait, Collins tried to appear circumspect. "Korfius?"

"Sorry. Your partner. He stays."

Collins attempted to control his response, but he couldn't conceal the horror he felt over this proposal. "No!"

"As collateral. To assure you take me to the right place and don't try to hold me prisoner."

Collins could understand why she might need such reassurance, but he could not afford to agree to it. "Release both of us or no deal."

Quinton ran her fingers lightly over her ruined cheeks, shuddering as she did so. "I can't agree to that."

"How do I know you'll release my friend, then?"

"How do I know you won't just kill me?" Quinton shrugged. "One of us will always have an edge. That's what brought us to negotiation in the first place. Since we captured you first, I think it's only fair that we have it."

Collins did not agree but saw no benefit to arguing the point. She did have the upper hand. "Maybe you could keep me instead. Is that enough of an edge?" The words came out before Collins could consider them, and he appreciated and cursed his own courage. Zylas would do a better job of leading Quinton to Prinivere, keeping both safe, and rescuing him afterward. Collins just did not know whether or not he would survive long with his identity revealed. Longer than Zylas would. Though Collins dreaded the thought of staying, he hoped Quinton would accept his sacrifice.

"Very noble of you."

"Thanks…"

"But no."

Hope died before Collins could even savor it. "No?"

"You take me; your friend stays."

"But-"

Quinton cut him off with a wave. "That's it.

Collins knew no argument would change her mind on the matter. If he became too insistent, she might figure out the true identity of the man she now believed was Korfius. "All… right," he finally said. "But, since you get the advantage, I get one more condition."

Quinton's brows beetled, a look that might once have made her look sensuously angry. Now, it made her features appear even more homely. "What?"

Collins minced his words. To speak them directly would expose his claim to have come to see her as a lie. "You'll… talk to me. See if we're still… compatible." He gauged her expression as he spoke, pleased to find a glow coming to her ruined cheeks. "Tell me if and why you still want to stay in Barakhai and what's happened with your dragons."

Quinton stiffened. "My dragons?" she said, honing in on exactly the words Collins had tried to soften.

Damn. Collins nodded. "They're what was keeping you in Barakhai the last time we talked, remember? You're a geneticist." He reminded her of his own interest. "I'm a biologist. You were raising them, studying them, wanting to breed them eventually."

"Right." Quinton seemed to look through Collins, then her attention returned to him and she met his dark gaze with her icy blue stare. "And when I get my face back you'll… want me again?" The hardness left her eyes, replaced by a desire that seemed more grasping than sexual.

Collins approached her, winding his arms through the bars. He could not understand how the self-esteem of a woman as competent and beautiful as Carrie Quinton had been could hinge upon the interest of an undistinguished, plain-looking man like himself. Is it real, or is she bluffing as much as I am? "Come here."

Warily, the woman approached, allowing Collins to wrap his arms around her, to draw her face near his. He forced himself to keep his eyes open, to look upon the fleshy carnage he had wrought. "It's not your face I'm in love with." Nor any part of you, he added to himself, the only way he managed to force out such a heinous lie. His lips found hers, and he kissed her with all the passion he could muster. To his surprise, his young body responded even to this feigned ardor. "It doesn't matter to me if you never get restored. Looks don't matter," he repeated, "to a man in love."

Benton Collins hoped his own conscience would forgive him.