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"Bowdragons have always been masters of magic," Maelra answered the Spellmaster, a trifle stiffly. "We were archmages in Arlund before there was an Aglirta, kingless or otherwise."
That earned her his soft smile. "How nice," he purred, in a tone that was anything but. "Yet you'd do well to remember that a tradition of sorcery and mage-lore, while vital to all who work magic, means nothing to the accomplishments of any one practitioner. Do the Wise rule realms, or advise kings daily at court, or dictate policies by their very presence and feared powers?"
He strode across the room, and then turned and snapped, "No. 'Tis archmages who can truthfully claim such accomplishments. Twas an arch-mage that made this" he added, lifting the Dwaer, "and now an archmage wields it-alongside a baron."
Those last three words sounded like a hasty addition to Maelra, and no doubt they did to both of her hosts, given the way Ambelter flushed and the Baron Pheli
"In short, young Bowdragon, many may prance and take airs in their attempts to gather importance and to cow warriors and petty rulers. But those who work magic know better: beyond our ability to guide and harness the forces we call 'magic,' we're none of us special. We're simply masters of greater or lesser amounts of technique, experience-and power."
The Spellmaster made the Dwaer flame, causing Pheli
He took a step toward her. "If our paths are to run together for the nonce, 'tis best that you respect our power properly, so obedience to us will become your watchword, and pride in your heritage be set in its rightful place: a comfort to you, but not a throne you can relax upon, or a mirror you can sneer at yourself in. You should rightly take pride only in what you alone have done-and the way to win such pride is to follow our orders, and in that doing come to be someone your uncles will regard with awe."
The Spellmaster glanced at the baron, a silent signal that brought Pheli
She gasped in wonder, narrowing her eyes in case this glory might become a flash to blind her-for she'd truly be an obedient slave to these two men then, if they desired her so-but instead each facet around her kindled an i
She cried out in pleasure, seeking to peer at several scenes at once. But even as she did everything shimmered, the scenes flowing into their constituent hues, and she heard Ingryl Ambelter cry out-with anger and surprise, not pleasure.
"What is it?" Baron Pheli
Ambelter was closer. Maelra could feel as well as hear his reply as he said, "Another Dwaer, very close by! We must-"
Then their converse shifted, plunging into a bright but private thread of thoughts, not voices, that Maelra could not follow. She could still feel, though, through the rushing of shifting radiances and flowing, swirling power-and she beheld, across a dimness that could only be a place where the power of the Dwaer was not present, a rising, rushing arc of power akin to what she was caught up in, but somehow subtly different…
That must be the other Dwaer, or rather its power unleashed-and this, here beside her, rising in urgency and brightness, must be whatever Ambelter and Pheli
Lash out, in a burst of ruby-red and defiant power that shook Maelra with its might even as it thrilled her… clawlike bolts that slashed at that other flood, stabbing across the darkness between like fingers of lightning, seeking to disrupt!
Seeking, and succeeding. With a thrill that left her gasping, Maelra Bowdragon watched that great arc of power split apart, riven asunder to thrust streamers and sprays of energy in all directions. A backlash slammed into the flow around her, thrusting her up above the chaos of wrestling energies. Such power Such… By the Three, to be able to ride this, across all Darsar like a roving dragon, slaying wherever it glanced…
That other Dwaer-flow was shattered entirely now, curling in all directions with a mighty grandeur, turning, turning…
A scrying-whorl burst apart, shedding spi
With a scream that was more rage than pain, the ever-shifting figure sprang into the air, using the Dwaer that was searing his hands as a flying steed to take him up above the lancing death. Smokes trailed from his blackened body as he flew, snarling as he fought down his agonies to heal himself and master the roiling energies of his disrupted Stone once more. Whirling across the cavern he came, fighting, fighting… and prevailing.
Whoever had struck at him-and 'twas not the Silvertree lass, but some other-would taste the fire of a Dwaer wielded by someone who knew how to use it! The Koglaur threw back a head that sported only a mouth to gasp away pain and draw in deep gulps of the lightning-reeking air, and came to a halt, floating in the air high above the cavern. Smoke curled in the light of the last few lightning bolts, as he sucked them back into the Dwaer in his hands until it quivered, as red as blood and as angry as he was.
He turned his eyeless head as if he could see-or smell, in the sharp smoke-stink-his foe. Turned, stiffened, and acquired a grim smile. Slowly he lifted the Dwaer in both hands.
There were two, both with hands on the same Stone. Well, 'twas time to let them burn! Right about-now!
The world flashed and splashed, and Maelra Bowdragon was suddenly back in the Spellmaster's lair, its flagstone floor rocking under her boots as wild lightnings and showers of sparks burst from the Dwaer in Ambelter's hands.
Yes, the Spellmaster's alone-the armored form of Baron Pheli
The very air crackled and flowed, forcing its shuddering through Maelra's body-and suddenly she wanted nothing so much in life as to be far, far away from it, somewhere safe from this dark cave where magic that could blast castles apart could at any moment veer a trifle and make scattered ashes of Maelra Bowdragon…