The Dragon's Doom

The Spellmaster shook his head. "Only through the work of your brother Dolmur, whom you thus feel the same indebtedness to-and who can compel you as surely as could a tyrant king on your doorstep, or a merchant you owed every stone of Bowdragon Towers to!"

"I believe," Multhas Bowdragon snarled, "that this interview is at an end."

The Spellmaster held up a hand. "Please, Multhas, take no hasty offense. I meant not to anger you, but merely to honestly refute-and how often do you hear another mage speak such plain truth to you, hmm? Is that alone not a rarity worth having more of?"

The master of Bowdragon Towers glowered, then nodded reluctandy. "You speak rightly there. Yet I still know not what you desire of me. Has Aglirta not taken leave of its senses enough to enthrone a boy as King? Use your spells to rule him, and you have your kingdom with no help from me!"

His visitor nodded. "I could-but would then be plunged into a struggle that would lay waste to Aglirta even as I won it. Have you not wondered how this unknown lad came to be King? He's backed by the senior barons, Blackgult and Silvertree, and the rest of the self-styled overdukes… and they're in league with the most powerful wizards left in Aglirta."

Multhas waved at his crystals. "Oh? I've spent some time scrying the Vale from afar, and have failed to notice any mages of note left there. In Sirlptar, yes, but Aglirta?"

Ambelter smiled again. "I trust you've heard of the Master of Bats?"

"Yes, but he's not Aglirtan, nor even in the Vale."

"Oh? Have you farscryed him lately?"

The Blackheart glared at his visitor, and then snapped, "So perhaps he's in league with this cabal of Flowfoam nobles-what then? Surely you can smite down one wizard, however notorious!"

"Ah, but there are many more. I can defeat them, yes, but once I work openly, they'll be at me like a pack of hungry wolves, watching day and night, and the long struggle will begin. The shrewdest attacks come from a surprise source-such as yourself. Ton could smite down my foes, seize their magics for yourself, and be gone again before the rest even knew a death had taken place, let alone who did the deed."

"So who are these 'many more'? Are they all skilled enough to hide themselves from me, all these months?" Multhas waved at the scrying-spheres, letting the ready fire of his ring show.

Ingryl Ambelter smirked at it, then let his face grow very serious as he met the angry gaze of his unwilling host. "Not all Lords of the Serpent perished when the Great Serpent fell. Surely a mage of accomplishment like yourself is aware that the Serpent is no god like the Three, but an archwiz-ard commanding a great web of spells. His priests are mages-some like you and me, but most little better than the hedge-wizards of yore, who can be found in a threadbare and useless carpet over most of Asmarand, muttering mysteries from every back lane. That web of magic, however, welds them

into a formidable army-a host that knows and watches me, but leaves its backside unguarded against you and others it knows not!"

"And how," Multhas Bowdragon asked very quiedy, discovering to his surprise that he was sweating so freely that a droplet was about to fall from his nose, "do I know they aren't watching you right now, listening to every word that passes between us, and marking me as a foe to be struck down before my platter here has quite cooled?"

"Oh," the Spellmaster told him softly, "you need have no fear of that." Slowly and casually he drew forth the hand he'd kept hidden in his robes, and held it up as though faintly surprised at what rested in its palm: a small, mottled brown-and-white stone.

"I believe," he remarked, "you know what this is without my having to tell you-or demonstrate, by, say, snuffing out all the wands you've awakened around me, that little bauble on your finger, and every last Bowdragon enchantment at work in Arlund."

"A-a Dwaer-Stone?"

Ingryl Ambelter smiled broadly. "Indeed, and more. 'Tis very dangerous for any lone mage to carry more than one Dwaerindim… but I know where there are others. One could well soon be yours."

He took another step forward. "So you can surely see, friend Multhas, that I can blast you to ashes at will-and every other mage, baron, or plow farmer in all Darsar, too. I've had this Stone for years, and have hurled down barons and archwizards alike with it. I could have done that to you and all the Bowdragons years ago. But that's not what I want, and not why I came here."

He stepped back as a haze of tiny stars suddenly encircled the Stone in his hand. "I want allies. More than that: I want friends. Think about that, Multhas. I'll come calling again… and although I give you my word that refusing me will be a completely safe thing for you to do, I hope you'll join with me. Now fare you well. 'Twould be churlish of me to let the last of your feast grow cold."

And the man holding the Dwaer seemed to become a drifting, fading figure of smoke-a figure that was gone before Multhas could think of something to say. He stared at where it had been, and then cast a hasty spell to make sure Ambelter wasn't tarrying, invisible.

When that magic told him he was indeed alone in his most private chamber-and, what's more, had been alone therein since he last invoked it, right after sending out the servants who'd brought his feast-Multhas Bowdragon at last found the right word to shout: "Dolmur!"

His older brother infuriated and unsettled him. In Dolmur's presence, Multhas always felt like a young and irresponsible child-a child being silently judged, by one full of pity who always found him wanting-and reached that finding with a complete lack of surprise.

Yet, a Dwaer! A mage of Aglirta stepping through his wards at will! A war of mages and a realm of wizards!

Temptation, very great temptation. Anger, of course-so much anger that his hands trembled as he shut down wands and fire-ring and snatched up his most powerful rod of magics-but also fear.

Yes, bebolt it, he was afraid. Multhas Bowdragon whirled out of his spellgirt chamber like an angry black tempest, forgetting the last of his feast completely in his haste to consult with Dolmur.

A last few wisps of steam rose from the platter, but there was no one left in that chamber to see them.

They were, however, observed by someone not in the room. Someone who almost squealed with excitement as she wove spells in eager haste, barely able to breathe over the racing of her own heart. By linking three of her uncle's scrying-crystals in her ghostwatch-spell, its reach through his wards had been subtle enough to pass undetected these last two seasons-and why not? After all, Multhas the Roaring-Bearded Storm wanted to be able to look through his wards with them himself-and those same crystals could serve as anchors to a tracer-spell.

If this Ambelter revisited Uncle Multhas in the same room-and why not? Multhas spent hardly a moment anywhere else, these days-she could, with luck, magically follow him when he departed.

Uncle Multhas was a greedy, blustering fool. His sneering superiority blinded him to his own weaknesses as a wizard, and to the carelessness that would always keep him weak. Uncle Dolmur would never join anything that he could not control, and her own father was as gentle as a blubbering chambermaid, weaker in his sorcery even than Multhas.

No, if the Spellmaster of Aglirta wanted a real ally to win his kingdom-even, perhaps, a consort? he was not that old and ugly, after all-he should look past the elder Bowdragons, and see the most capable of the younger ones.

Herself. Maelra Bowdragon, aquiver with excitement now as her last deft spell fell into place and completed the subtle web that should trace Ingryl Ambelter, if he came again.

She drew in a shuddering breath, ran slender hands down over her hips to wipe them dry, and then hugged herself in sheer excitement. This might be the road opening before her at last. The road to power.