The Rise and Fall of a Dragon King

Chapter Fifteen

Ruari had wedged himself into the corner where his narrow cot met the walls of his room, the better to keep both cot and walls from swaying wildly. His eyelids were the heaviest part of his body, but he didn't dare let them close. Without the moonlight patterns on the wall to tell him up from down, he'd be overwhelmed with the sensation of falling backward, endlessly falling backward until his gut began to heave in the other direction.

The half-elf knew this because it had already happened, not once, but twice. He'd shed his reeking clothes outside the room and crawled the last distance to his cot on his hands and knees. His mind wasn't working particularly well, but it seemed fairly certain that he'd never felt quite this sick, this stupid, this drunk before. Given a choice between death right then or holding the walls up and his gut down until dawn, Ruari would have chosen death without hesitation.

"Preserve and protect," he muttered, the conclusion of a druid blessing the first few words of which he'd forgotten.

Grinding his heels into the mattress, Ruari pushed himself backward, but his legs were weak and the walls of Pavek's red-and-yellow house were made of brick, not woven reeds, like the walls of his hut back in Quraite. Terror seized him when she reached the cot and laid a surprisingly warm—for death, anyway—hand on his foot.

Terror was nothing Ruari's wine-drenched gut could handle at that moment. He made a desperate sideways lunge. Death caught him before he hit the floor.

"You shouldn't drink so much," she chided him.

Death smoothed his dank hair behind his ears—which Ruari didn't appreciate. Ears were supposed to match and his didn't. One of them was more tapering, more elven, than the other. He tried to hide the defect; she caught his hand before he caught his hair.

"Relax," she suggested, raising his hand. "You'll feel better." She pressed her lips against his knuckles.

Very warm lips.

Very warm and relaxing lips.

Ruari did feel better than he had a moment ago. His gut was calmer, and when she put her-arms around him, the room no longer threatened to spin wildly, either sideways or backward. He protested when she released him, but it was only to stand a moment while she undid the laces of her shift. It fell in a dun-colored circle about her ankles, revealing soft curves that glowed in the moonlight.

Ruari rose to his knees, balancing easily on the knotted rope mattress. No trace of his drunken unsteadiness remained in his movements when he welcomed her.

"If you're not death," he whispered in her ear, "who are—?"

"Shhh-sh," she replied, surrendering to his embrace.

Entwined around each other, they sank as one onto the bed linens.

Later, Ruari thought they were flying high above the city.

Pavek didn't try to sleep, didn't bother going to bed. After the midnight watch bells rang, when his household was at last asleep, he took a lamp and Hamanu's scroll case back to the atrium. Sitting where Urik's king had sat in a youth's disguise, Pavek cleared a place on the littered table and unrolled the vellum sheets.

He set aside the ones that he'd already read and started with the score or so of boldly scripted sheets that his king said contained the truth. Pausing only to refill the lamp when its light began to flicker, he read how Manu became a champion, how a champion cleansed Athas of trolls. The air was cold and the eastern horizon was faintly brighter than the west when Pavek came to the last words: the onus of genocide, rightfully, falls on me, on Hamanu. His heart was far colder.

Not long ago, on a night when he'd bandaged the Lion-King's hand, Hamanu had told him that no mortal could imagine or judge him. As he rolled the vellum and stuffed it into the case, Pavek tried to do both, and failed. He couldn't imagine the forces that had transformed the young man who'd come to his house into the champion who stood and watched the last trolls march silently to their deaths. More than that, he couldn't imagine how the man—and despite the vellum, Pavek thought of the Lion of Urik as a man, now, more than ever—he knew had remained sane.

And without knowing that, without being absolutely certain that Hamanu was sane, as mortals measured sanity, Pavek couldn't begin to judge his king, his master, and— Whim of the Lion—his friend. He could confidently judge Rajaat more evil than Hamanu, but that was no sound footing for judging Hamanu.

The eastern sky was definitely brighter than the west when Pavek sealed the scroll case and got to his feet. His gold medallion thumped against his breastbone. He drew it out and studied the rampant lion engraved on its shiny face. While he wore a medallion, be it gold or cheap ceramic, Pavek was a templar. A templar obeyed his king and left the judging to the guardian.

Lamp in hand, Pavek went from room to room, awakening the Quraite druids whom he'd asked to join him on the south gate tower. Twice before, he'd awakened Urik's guardian spirit and brought it from the depths of Athas to the surface where it had guided him and preserved him. Hamanu believed the city's guardian could surmount one of Rajaat's dragons. After reading the vellum sheets, Pavek was less certain than ever. He was a novice in druidry, with only his devotion to his city and—yes—his devotion to the Lion-King to sustain him. He'd try to justify Hamanu's faith in him, but didn't want to be standing alone on the south gate tower when the Dragon of Urik came calling.

Five of the six druids were awake when Pavek came looking for them. Ruari's cast-off, reeking clothes were heaped outside his door. Considering how much the slight half-elf had drunk the previous evening and how unaccustomed he was to wine's perils, Pavek expected to find his troublesome young friend curled up on the floor, still too far gone to rouse. Instead, when he opened the door, his lamp revealed an empty room.

The bed-linen was disheveled. The patterned lattice night-shutters weren't merely open, they were gone. And there was a woman's shift on the floor beside Ruari's cot.

Clutching the neck of his shirt and the gold chain beneath it, Pavek shouted Ruari's name and got no response. He levered himself over the high windowsill and peered down into a night-dark alley, two stories below.

Nothing. By then, the other druids had joined him. They searched the house frantically, as aware of the brightening horizon as they were of the missing half-elf. A search of the alley produced a pair of shattered night-shutters, nothing more. A search of all the inside rooms brought word that there was a young woman missing, too.

"She got up in the middle of the night, my lord, put on her shift, and went to the door," a somewhat younger girl explained to Pavek. "I asked her what was the matter, and she didn't answer. She didn't seem to hear me at all. It were passing odd, my lord, but I didn't think no harm would come of it. Whim of the Lion, my lord."

To no one's surprise, the girl identified the linen garment Pavek held in his hand as belonging to the missing woman.

Whim of the Damned Lion, indeed. Pavek swore a string of templar oaths that widened the eyes of Quraiters. But the whim of the Lion-King was the best, the only, explanation he could offer his stunned guests, and even then, Pavek didn't tell them how or why the half-elf might have caught the mighty king's eye.

"He's young. Impulsive and reckless," one of the other druids said. "He'll be here waiting for us when we get back."

"And we'll never hear the end of it," another added.

Pavek raked his hair and stared at the sky. In his heart, he reminded himself that he was not the one to judge Hamanu of Urik and that one life measured against Hamanu's crimes and accomplishments was not terribly significant. It was merely that the life had belonged to a friend, and he'd thought another friend might respect it.

Urik's situation had changed overnight, and not for the better. From the south gate tower, Pavek saw the roofs and kitchen-smoke of four market villages, the velvet expanse of Urik's farmland, and well beyond all that, three dusty, torch-lit smears where the armies of Nibenay, Gulg, and Giustenal had reestablished themselves during the night. Urik's army had fallen back into a thick black line between the farmland and the enemy.

"Orders," Javed said when Pavek stepped back from the tower balustrade. "Everybody's been moving all night. Everybody's tired, and we're jammed up like fish in a barrel. Not enough room to fight. Not for us or them. There's not going to be a battle."

The ebony-skinned elf stared straight at Pavek, expecting confirmation or denial.

"He told me to be here at dawn," was Pavek's answer, until he added—foolishly—"Ruari's missing. Gone from his bed. A girl, too."

It was a foolish remark because there wasn't a full-elf anywhere who'd ever truly sympathized with a half-elf. If the missing girl had been an elf, that might have gotten a rise out of the Hero of Urik, but for Ruari the best Javed could manage was a sigh and an offhand gesture.

"He destroyed the trolls, every last one of them," the commandant said, as if that accounted for Ruari's fate. "He knows that whether there's battle today or not, he's not walking away from this battlefield. Not the way he walked onto it."

The Hero of Urik had performed some unpleasant duties during his forty-year tenure. Every few years, he'd marched the slave levies into the barrens and kept watch over them until the Dragon of Tyr showed up.

"We're meat, Pavek," said the Hero of Urik. "Less than meat. Just grease and ash. That's all that was left when Borys was done with them. But I saw those shards, too." He shook his head. "We die so the Lion can fight Rajaat. It's fair, I suppose, but I'd rather fight Rajaat myself."

Beyond the steel medallion he wore, Javed didn't have much faith in magic, whether it was sorcery or druidry. But it was magic that drew them all to the balustrade when a sergeant shouted:

"There he is!"

The gates hadn't opened, and there were no outbuildings beyond the tower where Hamanu could have hidden while he strapped on the glowing armor that had been his hallmark at the front of Urik armies for thirteen ages. Yet, he was there, a solitary figure, shining in the light as the bloody sun poked above the horizon, walking south to face his enemies' might.

Pavek wanted to believe. He wanted to feel his heart soar with admiration and awe for a true champion. He even wanted the despair of knowing not even a champion could surmount the odds the Lion-King faced. Instead, he felt nothing, a dull, sour nothing because, in taking Ruari, Hamanu had proved he was no different than his enemies, and there was no hope for Athas.

Still, he couldn't turn away. He watched, transfixed, as the striding figure grew smaller and smaller, until he couldn't see it at all.

"What next?" one of the Quraite druids asked. "Is it time to evoke the guardian?"

Pavek shook his head. He sat down with his back against the southern balustrade and buried his face in his hands. The sun began its daily climb from the eastern horizon. The sky changed color, and the first hints of the day's heat could be felt in the air. Pavek raised his head and studied the light. At the rate Hamanu had been walking, he should have been nearing one of the villages. He lowered his head again.

"Pavek!"

He looked up. The voice was so familiar. He thought it had come from his heart, not his ears—but the others with him had heard it, too, and were looking at the stairs.

"Pavek!"

Pavek was on his feet when Ruari cleared the last stain. "Pavek—you'll never believe what happened—"

Pavek needed another moment to realize the shirt was silk, trimmed with gold, nothing Ruari could have found in the red-and-yellow house in the templar quarter.

Then he seized Ruari's wrists and gave them a violent shake. "Where were you, Ru? I looked all over. You weren't in your room."

"You'll never believe—" Ruari repeated before his lungs demanded air.

"Try me."

They gave him more water and a stool to sit on.

"I was drunk, Pavek—"

"I know."

"I was so drunk I thought she was Death when she came into my room. But she wasn't, Pavek," Ruari gulped more water.

Pavek waited. He didn't really need to hear anything more. It was enough that Ruari had survived whatever encounter he'd had with the Lion-King, because, surely, that was Hamanu's shirt he was wearing. He wanted nothing more than to grab his friend and hold him tight, but Ruari had gotten his breath and was talking again.

"She was so beautiful, standing there in the moonlight. I thought—I thought it couldn't get better, then we were flying, Pavek—"

Pavek started to shake his head in disbelief, then curbed himself. Ruari hadn't been in his room; Ruari had been with Hamanu—whatever else the half-elf had seen or thought or chose to believe—and he could very well have been flying. There had to be some explanation for the shirt.

"Then, I woke up in this huge bed—on the palace roof. The palace roof! Do you believe it?"

Pavek nodded.

"Wind and fire—I knew you'd be looking for me. I found some clothes and got out of there as quick as I could—I knew you'd be angry, Pavek. I knew you would. But what does it mean?"

"Whim of the Lion," a druid and sergeant said together.

"What about the girl?" Pavek asked.

Ruari blushed; his already heat-flushed skin turned a shade darker than the bloody sun. "I sent her back to your house—in a shirt, Pavek. I found another shirt for her and sent her back to the templar quarter."

There was laughter, from the women as well as the men. Ruari's face became dangerously bright.

"What else was I supposed to do?" he demanded.

"Nothing, Ru," Pavek assured him. "You did the right thing." Then he welcomed his friend back from the presumed-dead with a bone-snapping embrace. "What's her name?"

"I don't know, Pavek. But she's beautiful, and I think she loves me," Ruari whispered his answers before they separated. "I think it's forever."

"I'm sure it is." Pavek held Ruari at arm's length; the young man was clearly besotted. But that was hardly surprising. "I'm sure you'll be very happy together."

He saw them together in his mind's eye—Ruari and a beautiful woman and children, also beautiful; one of whom had yellow eyes. Pavek hadn't ever had a vision before; prophecy wasn't at all common among druids... or templars. But he believed what he saw, and it lifted his heart. He hugged Ruari again, then let him go, and walked by himself to the tower's southern balustrade where, with his vision still strong in his mind, he stared at the empty road until he could see both of them together.

A hand fell heavily on his shoulder: Javed, his face deep in a hard, unreadable expression.

"Manu?" the elven commandant asked.

"Yes." Javed's hand left Pavek's shoulder. It made a fist that struck the black breastplate armor over the commandant's heart: a lifetime of unquestioning obedience followed by an eyes-closed sigh.

Pavek nodded. "Hope," he agreed.

But not for long. While both men watched, a second sun began to rise where the southern road met the horizon. It was as bright as the eastern sun and the same bloody color.

"Whim of the lion," one of the sergeants swore; the rest of them had lost their voices.

The templars lost more a few moments later when every medalLion-wearing man and woman collapsed. Pavek wrapped his arms around his head, lest his skull burst from the fire within. He beat his forehead on the rough planks of the watchtower floor. That helped, countering pain with pain. Someone stood behind him and broke his medallion's golden chain; that helped more.

But by then, it wasn't the physical pain that kept him on his knees with his face to the floor. It was the certain knowledge that the Lion-King, the Unseen presence in his life since he'd turned fifteen and received his first crude, ceramic medallion, had released him, had abandoned him, rather than destroy him.

Slowly, Pavek straightened and sat back on his heels. Javed was in front of him; his lips were bleeding where he'd bitten them. There were no words for what they felt as they steadied themselves against the balustrade and stood up. They turned away from each other and looked south, where the second sun had vanished behind—or within—a towering pillar of dust and light.

One of the lesser-ranked templars in the gate tower began a cheer. It died unfinished in her throat. No mortal could celebrate what was happening in the south once the sounds of death and sorcery reached the Urik walls.

The cloud-pillar grew until it could grow no higher—as high and mighty as the towering plumes that heralded an eruption of the Smoking Crown volcano to the northwest. Then, like those sooty plumes, the pillar began to flatten and spread out at its top. Lightning arcs connected the outer edge of the spreading cloud with the ground. The lightning danced wildly; it persisted longer than the blue bolts of a Tyr-storm.

Pavek knew—they all knew, though none of them was a weather witch—that the bolts sprang up from the ground, not down from the cloud.

The templars of Nibenay, Gulg, and Giustenal were not as fortunate as their Urikite peers. Their kings had sacrificed them and the rest of the three enemy armies to the dragon taking shape within the seething pillar.

Without warning, the cloud disintegrated before their awestruck eyes. A deep, rumbling roar struck the tower a few heartbeats later. Like a mighty fist—a dragon's fist—it drove each and every one of them backward. The tower shuddered and swayed; strong men and women fell to their knees and screamed in abject terror. Behind them, within Urik itself, roofs and walls collapsed, their lesser tumult subsumed in the ongoing echo of the southern blast. An echo that seemed, to Pavek, to last forever.

"We're next!" he shouted. He felt his words in his lungs and on his tongue, but his voice never penetrated his deafened ears.

But one voice did: Behold! The Dragon of Urik!

And another voice, immediately after the first: Now, Pavek.

He crawled to the balustrade. The blast-weakened rail crumbled in his hand when he clutched it. Pavek stood carefully, looked south. Everything was quiet beneath the light and heat of a single sun. The cloud was gone—as if it had never been. The three dark sprawls where the three enemy armies had camped were gone, too. The places where they'd been were as pale and dazzling as bleached bones in the morning light.

But the dark line of Urik's army still circled the still-green fields. They'd survived. They'd all survived. Their king was, indeed, stronger than the nature Rajaat and the other champions had given him.

Now, Pavek. Now, or never!

There was a black dot on the southern road, moving toward them. Far smaller than the monstrous creature Pavek had seen within the cloud, he didn't, at first, comprehend the words echoing in his thoughts. He didn't comprehend that they had not come from a frantic Quraite druid, but from the moving dot, the dragon, racing toward Urik's walls.

There were no mnemonics or patterns in Pavek's mind when he evoked the city's essence, just need—burning, desperate need.

Surely need had never been greater than the moment when Pavek reached out of himself to evoke—to implore and beg for—the Urik guardian's aid. The other times, the guardian had been pleased to save a handful of individuals. Surely, the guardian would be pleased now to save the entire city.

Hamanu had thought so, and as he poured himself into the evocation, Pavek believed in Hamanu and the guardian equally, together. The guardian was the life essence of the city and Hamanu—the Hamanu that Pavek had known-had just died for it. No one could do more than the Lion-

King had done, yet Pavek tried, pouring himself into the evocation until he was empty, until they could see the dragon clearly: a scintillating black presence, as tall as the south gate tower and coming closer, with nothing—nothing at all—rousing from the depths to stop him.

Wisps of netherworld mist rose from the dragon's lustrous hide. His shape shifted subtly as he approached the tower. The changes were difficult for a mortal eye to perceive, but the eldest of the Quraite druids had a notion:

"He's not finished, not fully realized."

Pavek remembered the vellum, remembered the passages about Borys and the hundred years during which the unfinished dragon had ravaged the heartland before he regained his sanity.

"He's bigger than the Dragon of Tyr," Javed said to no one in particular; he was the only one among them who could make the comparison. "Different, yet the same."

"The guardian, Pavek." That was Ruari. "Where's the guardian?"

"I couldn't evoke it," he answered, giving voice to defeat and despair. "They can't be in the same place, Hamanu and the guardian."

A chorus of curses erupted, followed by moans of fear and despair, and a shout as one of the druids chose to leap from the tower to her death rather than face the Dragon of Urik. The dragon was a hundred paces away—a hundred of Pavek's paces, about eighty of Javed's, about ten of the dragon's. They could see it quite clearly now, more clearly than anyone truly wished to see a dragon.

Pavek, who'd seen Hamanu's true shape, saw the resemblance, though, in truth, the resemblance wasn't great. The talons were the same, though much larger, and the dragon's eyes were sulphur yellow. They were lidless eyes, now, covered with iridescent scales that shimmered in the light. Their pupils were sword-shaped, sword-sized. They did not seem so much to be eyes looking out as they seemed to be openings into a fathomless, dark space.

The longer Pavek looked at them, the less resemblance there seemed to be, until the dragon tilted its massive head.

"He sees us," Javed said. "Hamanu knows we're here. Go away, O Mighty One! Urik isn't your home any longer. Go fight Rajaat!"

The dragon cocked its head to the other side. Pavek was tempted—they were all tempted—to hope that something of Urik's Lion-King remained, resisting the madness that had claimed Borys's sanity for a hundred years. Hope vanished when the dragon roared and a gout of steaming grit battered the massive gate directly beneath them.

The dragon strode forward, its arms spread wide enough to seize a mekillot, ghastly liquid dripping from its bared fangs. Pavek's heart froze beneath his ribs; he couldn't keep his eyes open. The blasted, battered walls shuddered, and then there was light—brilliant, golden light that blinded him though his eyes were closed. There was a second dragon roar, and a third, with mortal screams between them. The air reeked and steamed. Pavek thought he was going to die with the others, but death didn't take him, and when he opened his eyes he saw that everyone around him remained alive, as well. Those who'd screamed had screamed from terror, not injury.

Urik's walls replied with another golden flash, and the dragon retreated.

"The Lion-Kings!" a templar shouted. "The eyes of the Lion-Kings."

The huge crystal eyes of the carved and painted portraits that marched along the city's walls were the source of the golden light that flashed a third time to drive the dragon farther back.

"The guardian," Pavek corrected as he began to laugh and shout for joy.

His celebration was contagious, but short-lived. The dragon didn't give up, and though the guardian lights drove it back every time it surged forward, the stalemate could not endure indefinitely.

And wouldn't have to. Well before midday, there was another cloud pillar spilling over the southern horizon. They speculated, exchanging the names of their enemies, until the cloud was large enough, close enough, that they could see the blue lightning seething inside.

"Tyr-storm," was the general consensus, but Javed and Pavek knew better:

"Rajaat," they told each other.

"They'll fight; the Lion-King will win, the Dragon of Urik will win," Javed continued.

"Not here," Pavek countered. "They'll destroy the city."

"Maybe. Maybe not. Maybe he'll see it coming and go south to meet it. Far enough south to save the city."

They made fools of themselves, then, while Rajaat's storm cloud drew closer, jumping up and down, waving their arms, shouting, trying to get the dragon's attention. It was mad, or mindless; it didn't understand, never looked over its shoulder to see another enemy coming up behind it.

If it—if the Dragon of Urik perceived Rajaat as the enemy. If enough of Hamanu remained within it, hating his creator. If it hadn't become Rajaat's final champion, destined to cleanse humanity from everywhere in the heartland.

The guardian was enough against a mad, mindless dragon, but not against Rajaat's conscious insanity. Pavek slipped down the tower stairs. He opened the postern door—its warding had been dispelled when Hamanu released the medallions—and began walking toward the dragon.

"Rajaat," he shouted, though the words he held in his mind were the words Hamanu had written and the images they conjured. "Rajaat is coming to destroy Urik."

The dragon surged forward, arms out, reaching for Pavek. The yellow Lion-King lights drove it back.

Pavek tried again: "Urik, Hamanu—Rajaat will destroy Urik!"

Another surge, another flash.

"The fields, Hamanu! He'll destroy the fields where the green grain grows!"

This time the dragon stopped. It cocked its head, as it had before, and swiveled its long neck down to get a better look.

"Rajaat will destroy the fields, Hamanu. Winning's no good, if the grain won't grow."

A brimstone sigh washed over him. The dragon straightened and turned. It pointed its snout at the approaching storm and along the horizon, swaying from east to west, where—Pavek hoped—it saw the fields. At last the dragon roared and began walking—then running—to the south.

The blue storm raged above the black dragon and the dragon raged back. Neither fought with conscious intent, but instinct was strong, as was hatred—especially in the dragon, which moved constantly to the south, then to the southeast, as it fought. When they entered the Sea of Silt, they raised enough dust to blot out the sun for the three days they needed to reach the island where another dragon had built a city around a prison.

If the War-Bringer had had more than a toehold in the substantial world, he could have crushed the black dragon as he'd crushed Borys. But he had only Tithian and Tithian's storms, which had already proved ineffective. And he lost Tithian, too, shortly after the black dragon entered Ur Draxa, when Tithian's mortal enemies from Tyr planted themselves on the rim of the lava lake and drove their erstwhile king back into the Dark Lens.

That cleared a path, which the dragon followed into the molten rock. It roared; it howled as even its tough hide was seared away by the heat. For an instant, there was thought within the agony. Rajaat's hope soared; he spun dense sorcery from the Hollow, promising to heal his wayward champion's wounds and grant his wishes.

I wish for your bones, your heart, your shadow.

The dragon leapt out of the lava, trailing fire behind him. He arched his back and dived beneath the molten surface. Beyond the reach of curse or care, he plunged to the bottom, where lava became stone, where the remnants of Rajaat's substance had formed a crystal matrix around the Dark Lens. Smashing the crystal, he gathered the shattered pieces in his arms. He left the Lens for the mortals to destroy or control, as they wished; it was merely an artifact, neither inherently good or evil. Then, with the last of his strength, he took himself into the stone heart of Athas.

Athas claimed the black dragon. It stripped him of his hard-won treasures; swallowing the War-Bringer's substance while it sealed the dragon himself in a tomb that shrank and squeezed. Then, when there was nothing left of the dragon, Athas restored Hamanu's sanity, while leaving him encased in stone. He was still immortal: he couldn't die, even without air, water, or food, with the weight of the world pressed around him.

There was no end of Hamanu, no end to his memories as Athas pummeled him and polished him, a living pebble moving slowly through the world's gut. He relived every moment of his life. He suffered. He regretted. He endured the pain and torment of the choices he'd made; then the Lion-King of Urik relived his life again.

And again until Athas was done with Hamanu and spat him out.

Hamanu was senseless when he fell from an unknown height. He landed hard on his shoulder and rolled to his side, unable for a moment to perceive his surroundings or to comprehend that he was living, not remembering.

Slowly, and with a fragility that had never been a part of his remembered life, Hamanu rediscovered the muscles, sinew, and bones of his body. He found his feet, and then his hands, which he used to steady himself as he stood. The world was smooth beneath his fingers, hard and warm and—following a jolt of consciousness that nearly cost Hamanu his balance—utterly without illusion. The flesh he felt was his own simple, vulnerable, forgotten flesh. Wherever he'd come, Hamanu had left the Dragon of Urik behind. His whims had no power and the ache in his shoulder where he'd landed couldn't be numbed with an idle thought.

Belatedly, Hamanu found his eyes and opened them; after so many stone-bound memories, he'd forgotten sight, the world that was smooth, hard, and warm was also gently luminous, casting a soft golden light onto a young man's hands, a young man's arms, legs, and torso. The surface lay a hand's depth within the light. He moved his hands through the light, seeking but not finding the gap through which

"It took you long enough."

Sound startled Hamanu and he dropped into a brawler's crouch. The ease of his movements startled him as well, but not as much as what his eyes revealed when he turned around: The glowing chamber defied easy measurement. It could have been a hundred paces square or a thousand, yet at its center, hovering higher than his head, Hamanu saw his own ostentatious, uncomfortable throne. And sitting on the throne was a figure he remembered well, a half-man, half-lion figure that his laborers had painted on his city walls, a black-maned figure with a naked golden sword at his side.

The Lion-King of Urik, who'd saved Hamanu when he was deeply disguised and blundered too close to the Black.

The guardian of Urik.

For the first time in his life—if he was alive—Hamanu was speechless. He looked from the Lion-King to his own hand, his own mortal hand returned to him through sorcery he couldn't fathom and for reasons he dared not guess. Myriad questions filled his mind; answers followed, all but one.

"Why could I never find you?"

The Lion-King descended from his throne. He seemed no taller than Hamanu, no stronger, but Hamanu remembered illusion's power and was not deceived.

"I sought my city's guardian. You could have revealed yourself," the now-mortal man complained. "For Urik, you could have revealed yourself."

"My spirit—the spirit of Urik that you engendered—was there from the beginning. I revealed myself a thousand times, ten thousand times. You were always looking in the wrong place, Manu. You became a great king—a great man—but you cherished your past and it remained with you, until you were ready to part with it."

Hamanu opened his mouth and closed it again. He was a proud man, but throughout his long life he'd cherished nothing... nothing after Dorean. He hadn't died, so he'd lived from one day to the next until Rajaat had made him a champion. As a champion, he'd won a terrible war and governed a mighty city and become the Dragon of Urik. As a dragon, he'd entombed himself in stone beneath a lava lake, and there recollected his entire life more times than he cared to count. He knew in the depths of his being that he cherished nothing.

Yet the Lion-King, the guardian of Urik, had spoken the truth, and Hamanu couldn't argue with the truth. Once again he studied his own mortal hand.

"How long?" he asked.

"A thousand years in the stone," the guardian replied. "A thousand years to understand yourself."

"A thousand years to scrape off Rajaat's curse," Hamanu countered. "A thousand years to return to the beginning, to Urik. Does my city endure?"

"Your city! Have you learned nothing, Manu? Will you go back into the stone for another thousand years?"

"A thousand years or ten thousand. What difference would it make? Regret won't change my memories; punishment won't, either. What I did cannot be undone. Leave me in the stone beside Windreaver until the sun and the wind scour our cursed bones—but answer my question: Does my city, endure?"

The guardian threw back his lion's head and laughed. "My city, Manu, my city! It was never yours. No man—not even a cursed and immortal champion—can possess a city."

Hamanu was mortal again, with no more power than he'd had long ago when he'd faced Myron Troll-Scorcher on the dusty plain. He faced the guardian as he'd faced the Troll-Scorcher, armed with only his quick intelligence and stubbornness.

"My city, because I gave it its shape. I gave it its strength to stand against what Athas had become, against what Rajaat had done through me and the others. My city, because without me you'd be the guardian spirit of an underground lake. I gave you my shape, my strength. You are me and Urik is my city." The guardian ceased laughing. He bared the Lion-King's fangs. His sulphur eyes seethed, then quieted. "You talk too much, Manu. That mouth of yours will get you killed... eventually. Our city, Manu. Our city endures. Look into the light, and see what Urik has become."

"Pass through, Manu," the guardian commanded. "There is nothing more for you to do in this world. Your destiny was fulfilled: Urik survives. Urik will survive."

He was free. After a thousand years of life and a thousand years in the stone, Hamanu had come to the end of his path. He was free to walk into the light.

There was music: a reed pipe melody. There was a woman to welcome him.

And, further on, they found a waterfall.