The Castle Of Hape. Caves Of Fire And Ice. The Joining Of The Stone

“Nasty beasts all the same. Talking like men, pretending to the wisdom of Seers—such as it is. He would be better off with flying lizards. They are more natural.”

“And stubborn and stupid and bad-tempered.” He eased back on the stone bench. “The countries are beginning to panic, Kish. RilkenDal must move ahead now. Now is the time to attack.”

Kish smiled coldly. “Soon all of Ere will be ours.”

“It is not ours yet,” he said testily. “We must watch the girl. Make sure she is successful. I cannot lose my hold on her. Ah, Kish, once we possess the two runestones she will bring us, and the four the boy carries . . .” He shook the stone in the golden casket that dangled at his waist. “Seven stones, Kish. Seven shards of the runestone.”

“You don’t have his four yet.”

“I have them. I simply let him carry them. It makes the chase more exciting.” He did not mention his ruined eye. He was close to euphoria with the drug, dulled and rested and inane. “Think, Kish, when the stone is joined . . .” She smiled and nodded and stared at him appraisingly.

“With the power of all the stones . . .” He laughed drunkenly. “Oh, I will have the nine stones, and soon. And then the son of Ramad will be useful!” His long face warped into an evil smile, twisted with the drug and maimed into a mask of horror by the gory eye.

“Will you have them, Drac?” she said cruelly. “You let him defeat you just now. The whelp and the powers that joined him defeated you. Are you too drugged to remember that the girl helped him!” She rose and began to pace. “You had best keep better control, Drac. You had best move that girl quickly! And that band of Seers moving among my cults—I have groomed those cults too carefully to allow . . .”

His laugh became a giggle. He lounged drunkenly on the bench, as if he had forgotten the injured eye, perhaps the socket was as numb now as if no eye had ever existed. “The cults will not dare turn from you, my dear. Though perhaps you are right, perhaps it is time you appeared among them. Perhaps their goddess has been absent too long. I should like to play with some foe besides that puny young Seer for a change. He will follow the trail I laid. The ogres will see to his capture.” He made an effort to rise. “Shall we journey to the battles, my dear? Witness the fun, speak to your multitudes? Ah, then I will be close to the young woman as she brings the stones out of Pelli.”

Kish scowled. “Can you change back to dragon and hold that form with the drug on you? I don’t want . . . Are you in condition to carry us?”

He felt the neck wound with long, exploring fingers, did not touch his eye, moved restlessly, stared at her glassily for some moments with the one good eye. He was trying to change. After some moments, when he remained in the form of a man, he rose unsteadily, took the runestone from its casket, spoke to it, trying to draw power from it.

Nothing happened, he was impotent with the effects of the drug, remained humiliatingly trapped in the human body. Kish watched him with disgust.

At last she drew close to him; scowling at his weakness but unwilling to be deprived of his usefulness. Her voice fell into a soft chant, smooth as honey. “I feel the dark Seers waking, Drac,” she crooned. “I have felt all day their voices calling up out of infinite darkness.” Her voice flowed as compelling and hypnotizing as the spell of a snake luring its prey. “Dark Seers, Drac, dark Seers waking in darkness, keening to the call of the runestones, their spirits rising to draw together and join us, to join the power of the stones. The spirits of the dead Seers, Drac, the spirits of those in whom the spark has lain as dead—too long idle, they will join us now; they will be one with us now, I feel the power of the Hape, of dark beings beyond the Ring of Fire rising—never dead, never really dead.” Her pale hands lifted and caressed him. The firemaster stared at her, bound to her caressing voice. “Now our time is coming, Drac, now our strength gathers, now we will quell the light-struck rule of Carriol.” She wet her lips with a pale tongue. “Too long have they held the stone, Drac, too long their cloying light washed that which should couch itself in darkness, too long spoken of love, and of honor. I feel the dark Seers, Dracvadrig, I feel their spirits waking from times long past, NiMarn who fashioned the wolf bell, NilokEm and his get, HarThass, who failed so miserably to win the soul of Ramad—I feel the dark core of each rising now, I feel powers huge and pulsing, breathing life into those who have slept. Their spirits rise, Drac, they will join us. Feel it, Dracvadrig. Feel them touching you.”