“Do you think to frighten me, A’valman, to chase me away from you precious little fiefdom?” A’stoc laughed coldly. “Do not worry, councilor, I have no interest in your place in the Collegium. You have your status; enjoy it—while you can.”

  “Fool!” A’valman nearly spat the word. “This is no game, A’stoc. We are not children, anymore, wrestling for my father’s attention. There are evil forces working within the Collegium. The Staff is in danger as long as you remain!”

  “Evil?” A’stoc’s eyes grew wide in mocking amazement. “Surely, you are mistaken. No one here would try to wrest the Staff from its rightful owner. No one here would send assassins to stalk me in the night. But I thank you for the warning.” Suddenly, all humor vanished from A’stoc’s face. He planted the Staff against the floor, and thunder echoed behind his voice. “Have no doubts. Whatever comes this night, I will be prepared.”

  “Will you?” A’valman said, scowling in disgust. “You rage against shadows a half century gone and ignore the peril that surrounds you. Have you forgotten all caution? Look at your companions: a spawn of the Heresiarchs, a Tengarian with darkness woven into his very soul, even the High Bishop is touched by evil!”

  “That isn’t fair!” Chentelle stepped between the wizards. “You don’t know anything about Sulmar or Brother Gorin. And how dare you slander the High Bishop of Norivika. You should be—uhhn.”

  A shaft of pain drove into Chentelle’s mind. She staggered and fell to her knees, clutching her head.

  “What is it?” A’stoc’s words sounded faint and distant. “Damn you, A’valman. If this is your—”

  “Wizard A’stoc!” Gorin’s deep rumble cut through the room. “A’valman is not the source. There is Ill-Lore being used, very near.”

  “What? Are you certain? There is magic all around us.”

  “No,” Chentelle said. “Gorin is right.” Her pain had vanished as suddenly as it came, but the memory of it was still vivid. “Something terrible is happening.”

  “Where?” A’stoc said. “Can you locate the source?”

  “I cannot,” Brother Gorin said. “I sense only that it is near.”

  Chentelle concentrated on the echo of her pain. If she could track along it, follow it back to the source…But everything was so hazy. Spells and shadows swirled in her mind, writhing around each other, obscuring the trail. “I’m sorry. It’s too faint.”

  “Everyone find cover.” Dacius’ sword flashed from its sheath. A pale blue glow shone faintly from the blade. “Legionnaires, ready bows. Sulmar, watch the terrace.”

  “Wait! Goblin, elf-girl, come here.” A’valman reached into his robes and pulled out four golden bracelets. He muttered a brief incantation and tossed them into the air. The rings formed a diamond and hung in the air, spinning slowly. “Quickly, cast your thoughts into the center, between the rings.”

  Chentelle stared at the pattern. A tiny pinprick of light marked the center of the diamond. She reached into it with her Gift, and the light surrounded her. All was whiteness, and yet she was somehow aware that the rings were spinning much faster, now. She heard—no, felt A’valman chant another spell. The syllables vibrated through her world, casting shadows in the brilliance.

  The shadows thickened and took on substance—a room, filled with books and cluttered shelves. Father Marcus was there. The priest stood absolutely still, his mouth hanging open in an expression of horror or surprise. A small, wrinkled old human paced before him, waving a long wand of twisted bone. He seemed to be carrying on a one-sided conversation with Father Marcus. Suddenly, he froze. He turned and looked straight at Chentelle. His eyes gleamed with reflected light, and his thin lips twisted into an evil smile. The bone wand shot out, scratching across the High Bishop’s face.

  Chentelle screamed. Her mind was ripped open, and a river of agony poured through her body, searing every nerve. Her muscles convulsed wildly, throwing her to the ground. She writhed helplessly, unable to breathe, unable to speak. A faint whimper quivered past her lips, but in her mind, in her mind she was screaming.

  This time, the pain did not fade. The eyes burned through her soul, seeing every secret, fouling every dream. There was no escape from the eyes, no relief. She would carry them with her forever, and they would destroy her. Already, they taunted her with whispers of despair, whispers that found echoes within her own heart.

  You are weak. Soon, you will do anything to end the pain. You will betray all that you serve, all that you love. And even then you will not be free.

  If she could have spoken, she would have begged to die. But there was no death. There was only pain and fear and the eyes that never blinked.

  Peace.

  Chentelle floated in unending anguish. Deep in her spirit, she struggled to keep an ember of hope alive. She had to hold on. Her friends would rescue her, A’stoc or Father Marcus. She had to hold on. Help would come. But soon, Blessed Creator, let it be soon. A dull pain caused a brief ripple in the torment, and she realized that her body had just hit the ground. Hardly a second had passed since the eyes first touched her.

  Peace.

  A second! One second! It was hopeless. She could never endure. The pain was all. She would surrender to it, let it wash her soul away. It was so easy. She just had to let go, to open herself to the exquisite agony of the glowing eyes. It was easy. But something held her back. A single note that refused to blend into the song of pain.

  Peace.

  Sanctuary! She felt it—the hymn of sanctuary. Brother Gorin was trying to reach her. She hurled herself toward the sound. The pain closed around her, filling her mind with screams and fire. But she felt the rhythm now. She poured her will into the Gift, pressing it through the anguish.

  Contact! Instantly, the harmony of the sanctuary enfolded her. She was lying on the floor, her head cradled in Sulmar’s arms. Brother Gorin knelt beside her, chanting steadily, and A’stoc was crouched above them. The expression on his face was unreadable.

  The pain was gone, banished by the peace of the Holy Order. But the memory remained. Tears streamed down her cheeks, and she could not stop trembling. The specter of those horrible eyes loomed in her mind. She grabbed Gorin and hugged him tightly. “Thank you. Blessed Creator, thank you so much.”

  “Enchantress?” Dacius touched her shoulder gently. “I’m sorry, Chentelle, but I have to know what happened. Did you find the source of the Ill-Lore?”

  “You didn’t see?” Chentelle scrambled to her feet, struggling to make her body work. “We have to hurry. Father Marcus is being tortured.”

  Dacius turned to A’valman. “A’trile’s house! Where is it?”

  “Follow me.” A’valman spun around and ran for the door. The four golden rings clattered to the ground behind him.

  A’valman led them on a mad dash through the dark streets. Chentelle’s legs were still unsteady, and even with Sulmar’s assistance, she fell quickly behind. Luckily the Legionnaires’ vorpal swords were glowing steadily. The blue light gave them an easy trail to follow.

  After a short run, the procession of blades stopped before a tall tower. Chentelle could see the open grass of the park lying just beyond. Angry shouts drifted back to Chentelle and Sulmar. As they caught up to the party, Earthpower flared around A’stoc’s Staff.

  The wizard stepped forward and slammed the Thunderwood against the entrance to the tower. The metal doors burst inward, tearing loose from their hinges. Dust and rubble billowed from the broken archway.

  Shouts of alarm sounded inside the tower, and there was the scrape of steel weapons being drawn.

  “Move!”

  Dacius charged through the opening, Drup and Thildemar following close at his flanks. All three held swords leveled and ready. Six eyes searched the darkness for enemies.

  There was a scream, and a blur of light slashed through the dimness, arcing toward Dacius’s head.

  The human lord parried. Steel on steel as he turned the blow. His arm whipped around for a counterthrust, and he froze. “Gerruth!”

  “Lord Gemine!” The elf’s eyes widened in shock. He stared at his glowing sword. “But the vorpal—”

  “Quickly, where is Father Marcus?”

  “In the study with Councilor A’trile.” Gerruth pointed toward the stairs. “They wanted to speak in—”

  Dacius was already moving. He bolted up the stairs. Leth emerged from cover, holding an arrow nocked in his bow and a look of confusion on his face. Dacius ran past, motioning for him to follow.

  Chentelle’s steps were becoming surer, and she hardly lagged at all as they wound their way up the narrow stairs. Hollow cackling rang in her ears an instant before she emerged into a dusty chamber, the chamber she had seen through the rings.

  “Stay where you are!” The voice was parched and grating like a desert wind. Across the room, the withered old man from her vision stared down Legionnaires and wizards alike. His twisted wand waved in the air, barely a cubit away from Father Marcus’ throat. The High Bishop stood motionless, frozen in the same posture she had seen before. “He dies at your first attack!”

  “Stand easy. No sudden moves.” Dacius slid slowly to his left, keeping his voice calm. “It doesn’t have to happen like this, Councilor A’trile.”

  “A’trile!” The old man laughed evilly. His skin began to bubble and melt. Flesh fell from his body and dissolved into ash, revealing a hideous caricature of life. Dull white skin was stretched taut over a human skeleton, every contour of bone visible beneath the thin covering. Pale yellow eyes glowed viciously from empty sockets. “Fool! I am Bone—Bone the necromancer, Bone the Dragon Lord, Bone the immortal.”

  The wand flicked in Bone’s hand. Lightning danced through Father Marcus’ body, glowing in his eyes and the hollow of his mouth. “You have one minute to leave this house. One second longer, and I boil the blood in his veins.”

  “I think not.” Green fire blazed into life as A’stoc raised the Staff. “Look around you, Ill-creature. You have no escape. Release the High Bishop or suffer the consequences.”

  More laughter. “So confident! Does my hostage mean nothing? Perhaps I need another.”

  The eyes swept through the party, searching, finding. They drove into Chentelle’s mind, piercing her, swallowing her. Her body moved forward, walking quickly across the room to stand next to the necromancer.

  No! She fought back, driving her will against the eyes. She tried to stop her feet, flail her arms, anything. But it was no use. She was trapped, helpless to control her own body.

  “Chentelle?” The Earthpower flickered and went out.

  “Mistress!” Sulmar jumped forward, vorpal sword twitching in his hand. He crouched in the center of the room, muscles tensed for an explosion of action.

  “Ah, the Tengarian.” Bone grinned, thin lips drawing back to reveal toothless bone. “Have a care, lackey. Your mistress survives only at my whim.”

  Chentelle wanted to cry out, to tell Sulmar not to hold back. Instead, her body moved behind Bone and opened a door that led to more stairs.

  “This is absurd.” A’valman stepped forward. A five-pointed metal throwing blade glowed fiercely in his hand. He gestured, and the weapon hovered in the air, spinning fiercely. “Release them or die.”

  “Tengarian!” Bone hissed. “Protect your mistress.”

  Sulmar lashed out. His knuckle bounced off of A’valman’s temple. The Councilor and his vorpal star hit the ground together. Continuing the motion, Sulmar pivoted and drove the edge of his hand into A’stoc’s neck. The surprised wizard crumpled slowly to the floor.

  “Sulmar!” Dacius spun on the Tengarian. The other Legionnaires spread out beside him. “Don’t be a fool, man. He won’t release them.”

  “But I will,” said Bone. “The girl, at least. She is of no use to me. Now, since you would not leave, I guess we shall have to.” He inched toward the door, pulling Father Marcus with him. “But first, bring me that pretty stick, Tengarian. I think I shall add it to my collection.”

  “No.” The deep growl echoed through the small chamber. All eyes turned as Brother Gorin threw back his cowl and marched forward.

  “The goblin!” Bone cackled. “Will you stop me, then, little priest? Do you think your faith will prevail where the master of your Order has failed?”

  “No.” Gorin raised his hand, and lightning blazed from his fingers. Ill-Lore! The goblin had called upon the Lore of the Heresiarchs!

  Bone was caught by surprise. Gorin’s barrage drove him backward into the wall and the wand fell from his fingers.

  Chentelle staggered as the eyes released her. Almost instantly, strong arms wrapped around her, and Sulmar pulled her away from the battle.

  Gorin and the necromancer were locked in struggle. The little priest pushed forward, driven by rage and desperation. Lightning surrounded him, flashing from eyes and claws and gleaming fangs. Bone countered with a shield of glowing white. The goblin’s assault rebounded from it, tearing through the study. Desks shattered. Books burst into flame. Great gouges ripped through the floor, filling the air with stone shrapnel.

  The Legionnaires hovered near the edge of the combat, unable to approach. The field of destruction had one gap, a small circle of peace surrounding the frozen form of Father Marcus, but that was unreachable.

  Slowly, Gorin drove forward. Cracks began to appear in Bone’s shield. The necromancer cowered backward, pulling his wards in closer.

  Gorin pressed his advantage. Ill-Lore screamed through his body, crashing against Bone’s will in wave after wave of rage and power. The shield splintered and started to flicker. Gorin reached forward with a crackling claw.

  Suddenly, Bone opened one hand. The wand leaped from the stones behind him and flew to his grasp. His arm shot forward, and the twisted bone stabbed into Gorin’s skull.

  Gorin’s skeleton shattered at the touch. Splinters drove outward, ripping through flesh and skins. The priest didn’t even have time to scream. He fell to the floor, brain and heart pierced with a thousand needles of bone. The shape of the corpse was only vaguely recognizable.

  “Enough!” Green flames roared into life behind her. “Legionnaires, stand aside.”

  A’stoc! But hadn’t Sulmar knocked him unconscious? Out of the corner of her eye, she saw the Tengarian smile. She realized that Sulmar must have pulled his blow, to deceive Bone.

  The necromancer bolted up the stairs, rounding the corner barely ahead of a jet of green flame.

  “After him!” Dacius ran for the stairs, and then jumped backward. A sheet of crackling fire sprang into life, blocking the passage. The human staggered back into the study, driven from the oppressive heat.

  A’stoc waved the Staff. A cool green glow floated toward the stairs. It enveloped the flames, surrounding and smothering. The green flashed brightly and disappeared. A’stoc moved forward and froze in midstep. The flames were still there.

  Heat drove through the room, pressing steadily against their faces. Chentelle stared at the flickering flames. Something wasn’t right. Maybe magical fires gave perfectly even heat, but she had never noticed it before. She reached out with her Gift, searching for the flame. Searching, searching, but finding nothing.

  Then she realized. “It’s an illusion! There’s nothing there.”

  “Of course! No wonder the counterspell failed.” A’stoc marched forward, passing through the flames and continuing up the stairs.

  Chentelle and the others hurried after.

  They climbed to the top floor of the tower. An ornate wooden door lay open before them. Beyond it was a bedroom, furnished with ascetic simplicity. Glass doors on the far wall revealed Bone, standing on the rail of a narrow balcony.

  The necromancer’s arms were raised into the air, but he spun about when they entered the room. “Too late, fools!” He sprang backward, hanging in the air for an instant, then plummeting downward.

  They ran to the balcony and looked over the edge. The ground was more than thirty cubits below, but Bone danced on the ground, unharmed.

  “Your quest is doomed!” he called. “We will meet again, and I will destroy you all!”

  A shadow passed above them, blacker than the night. It floated toward the park, gliding on leathery wings and coming to rest in a clearing between trees. The sinewy body was covered in dark scales and at least forty cubits in length. The long neck tapered to a thin, earless head, and the beaked mouth looked large enough to swallow a horse in one bite.

  “KALIYAAAAA!” Sulmar backed into the bedroom, then ran forward. He leaped, planted a foot on the ledge, and hurled himself off the balcony. He flew through the air and crashed into the limbs of a tall birch. He bounced and rolled and tumbled through the leaves, landing on the ground in a loose tuck.

  The vorpal blade had been twisted from his grip, and it fell to the ground next to him. Ignoring it, he drew his black sword and charged for the clearing.

  Bone was already aboard the dragon’s back. He pointed with his wand, and a stream of raw power shot toward the Tengarian.

  Sulmar dived to the side, barely avoiding the magical bolt. He rolled to his feet and started running again, but the dragon was already lifting into the air.

  “NOOO!” The Tengarian hurled his sword at the dragon. The blade spun through the air, spinning slowly end over end. It passed beneath the dragon’s belly and fell, plunging into the soft dirt of the garden.

  Flames blazed along the length of the Thunderwood. A’stoc took aim at the flying beast, then reconsidered. The Earthpower faded as he pulled out his mandril wand instead. A jet of hot flame shot from the wand and sizzled against the dragon’s wing.

  The beast’s only response was to dip its long neck and open its mouth. Vile liquid sprayed from its maw, arcing toward the company.

  A’stoc jumped backward, using the Staff to push Chentelle and the Legionnaires into the bedroom.

  Dark acid splashed on the balcony behind them. It hissed and bubbled. The stone terrace disintegrated and tumbled to the ground.

  Far above them, hollow laughter faded into the distance.