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  “I am an Emperor’s daughter no longer,” she reminded herself. “I am the Empress, and the Empress cannot afford the luxury of tears.”

  She turned at the slight sound of the chapel door opening behind her. Vildan Vildir stood there in a simple green robe, his hands folded in his sleeves. He started to bow, but Savina rose and ran to him quickly, holding him to her instead.

  “My child,” Vildan said gently. He wiped fresh tears with the touch of his finger to her cheek. Savina thought he had the bluest eyes she’d ever seen—bluer surely than the eyes of the gods themselves, though that might not be the proper thing to say.

  “I shouldn’t cry,” she said. “It is unseemly for me now.”

  “You cried when you skinned your knee as a child,” he said, stroking her silken hair. “Do you think you are less a human now? Or possibly something more?”

  Savina gave him a curious look. “I am the Empress. I’m not supposed to be like anyone else.”

  “I know, child.” Vildan leaned in close to whisper in her ear. “Don’t ever tell anyone, but you are.”

  He guided her to a bench and sat beside her. “You are not alone, Savina. I am here with you, as I was with your father before. And there are others who are with you as well.”

  “And many against me, too.”

  Vildan shook his head. “The council has committed a great sin in voting against you—a sin they will deeply regret. Anyone with half a wit knows you do not consort with dragons or set cities afire. That’s nonsense, and everyone knows it.”

  “Vildan—”

  “Hush, now.” He laid a finger to her lips. The sight of her nearly broke his heart. She was eighteen, and as beautiful as her long-departed mother, but now she looked like a helpless child. How could he make her strong against the forces that faced her now? That was a job for the gods themselves, not a weary mage who’d nearly lost his powers.

  “Listen to me. The palace counselors will come to you, Savina, but you must shut your mind to their advice. They, too, have betrayed your father, and they will not hesitate to betray you. They are weak-kneed, frightened fools in the hands of the Council of Mages now. You must not give up your scepter just to keep peace with that gallery of selfish old men. That is the last thing you must do. That, indeed, would be the end of Izmer and the beginning of chaos, the end of all that is good in men…”

  Savina held him close and gazed up at the soaring marble columns and the bright golden dome. She spoke to Vildan, but did not look at him.

  “It’s Profion, isn’t it? He wanted my father’s throne, and now he wants mine.”

  “He plays on the fear of others, and he does it quite well. He has the serpent Damodar by his side.” He ran a hand across his silvered beard. “I don’t have to tell you that your concept of an Empire where even commoners have a voice is not popular in high places.”

  “But it’s a good concept, Vildan, and a right one. I will not walk away from it. I’ll die before I do that.”

  And so you might, child, and take all of us with you as well….

  Vildan stood. He searched the dark corners of the chapel, clutched his robes about him, and gripped Savina’s shoulders in his hands.

  “There is only one way to beat Lord Profion. You cannot meet him head on. You have to outsmart him. You must force him to show his true intentions and give himself away before the council.”

  Savina frowned. “He will never do that.”

  “He will, if he thinks he’s won.” Vildan caught the Empress’ gaze and held it. “If you give up the scepter as he asks—as I said you must never do, I know—if you do this, he’ll think that he’s won.”

  “No!” Savina stared at the mage and drew away. “He’ll be right. He will have won. How can you counsel me to do such a thing?”

  “Lady, I do not counsel surrender. Those words will never pass my lips.” He leaned in closer still. “You will not be defenseless, Savina, if you have a weapon greater than the one you give away.”

  Savina started to speak, but Vildan cut her off. “Listen, Empress. For centuries, those close to the Emperors of Izmer have kept a great secret. It has long been known that there exists an ancient artifact called the Rod of Savrille. This wondrous instrument is said to hold the same power as your scepter, but for a single difference….” Vildan paused, and the hint of a smile touched his wrinkled features. “This rod, Savina, gives its owner control over red dragons.”

  Savina gasped, startled at his words. She was sure she had misunderstood. Such a weapon was surely an unholy force, no less evil than the frightening spells Profion used to maintain his power.

  “I’ve followed the trail of this instrument for half a century, Lady. Now, I have a scroll in my hands that reveals where the rod is hidden. Do you see my reasoning here? If you obtain this rod, it would mean nothing to give up your scepter. You would have in your hands an even greater protection against Profion and his followers.”

  “Yes, I see, but…”

  “If he doesn’t know you have this instrument of power, he will proceed with his plans. He will trap himself, Lady, expose his evil in front of the Council of Mages.”

  Vildan looked down at the young Empress. Light from the multitude of candles danced in her sea-green eyes, flickered across her dark brown hair. He breathed a silent sigh of relief and sent a prayer to the gods of the afterworld. For the first time since her father’s tragic death—his murder—he saw, instead of a frightened, callow girl, the beginnings of a woman, the iron strength of her father, the indomitable will of her mother.

  He reached out, then, drew her close for a moment, and then held her away by her shoulders.

  “Red dragons are among the most evil of all creatures. This is a truth from which I cannot shield you, but you are the Empress now. I see that mantle of greatness on your shoulders as surely as if it were a jeweled cape of ermine and the fur of the northern bear. I have done all I can in this, my Lady. I fear that whatever wisdom is left in this weary head is of little value to you now. I have the scroll, and I will do all I can, but we must have the help of another to discover where this miraculous rod is hidden.”

  Savina nodded but said nothing.

  “I have sent word to one who will come to you soon. She is one in whom you can fully trust, one who has shown her loyalty to your family for generations past.”

  Savina’s eyes brightened. “Norda! Yes! Am I right, Vildan?”

  “You are indeed, Empress. The elven tracker is the one I have chosen for this task. She will come in silence, and you may be certain that not even Profion with all his spells will know that she is here. He could as easily hear a whisper from the moon or the breath of a star.”

  “Norda.” Savina spoke the word, the name a thing of magic itself.

  Vildan sensed her new confidence, her exhilaration at the prospect of meeting Norda again. He did nothing to dispel this joy, the strength that had now replaced her tears. He knew, though, for he had seen as clearly as others see the coming of the day, that all would not come to pass as easily as the young Empress now believed.

  * * *

  The chapel doors closed behind the Empress and the old man. As the sound of their footsteps faded, something moved behind a pew in the back of the chapel. From the shadows it stirred, daring into the flickering light of the hundreds of candles. Shaped like an emaciated, diminutive dragon, the imp hissed in pleasure, having heard every word of the exchange between the slip of a girl and the old man.

  Taking to the air on its frail wings, the imp began to spin, faster and faster until it was only a shadowy blur. The wind from its flight caused the nearby candle flames to flicker and sent shadows dancing on the marble columns. The breeze ceased, the flames steadied, and the imp was gone.

  CHAPTER

  8

  If night is dark and day is light, if black is black and white is white, then no two places of worship could be farther poles apart than the golden chapel of the Empress Savina and the grim walls and tainted altar
s where dwelled the likes of Profion the Mage.

  Here, the pale, ragged columns that stretched up into foul darkness contained a pattern of skeletal arms, one dry and wasted hand clutching at the next, circling ever higher, higher, and higher still, until the fearsome column swept into a bent and twisted arch of broken spines, spines that appeared like dead and tortured vines reaching for another bony tower across the room.

  There were six gray columns and six high arches, the brittle remains of countless souls who had failed, offended, or angered Profion—or often had simply served to amuse the great mage for an idle moment or two.

  The far wall of the chapel was called the Hall of Heads, one white skull placed flush against the next from the ceiling to the floor. It was spoken in whispers that Profion knew the names behind every grinning mouth, behind every empty eye. Some said he talked to them at times, and even brought them back to life, fleshed and frightened as before, so he might have the pleasure of hearing their screams again.

  No one knew if this was so, and no one ever dreamed of asking the man who knew if it was true.

  Now, the mage himself stood in this dark chamber of the lost. Red light flickered across his face, light from the open skulls of bullocks, goats and multi-horned creatures no man alive had ever seen before. The sweet, cloying scent in here was neither blossom nor spice. The only odor here was death.

  Profion stood alone, his thoughts, for the moment, far beyond the grim chamber itself. He was angry, in a rage, in a fury past all imagining in the minds of ordinary men. When such a mood struck him, no man with his wits about him cared to face the mage.

  Finally, he turned, so quickly his great cloak wrapped around him like a shroud. Damodar, a vile little imp perched upon his shoulder, stood well apart and wisely kept his silence, his gaze upon the floor beneath his boots. Behind him, cowering in the dark, were four hooded figures, their faces pressed to the ground.

  “I detest bad news,” Profion said, his voice so harsh, so strangled with hate, that the hooded figures trembled at the sound. The imp gave a frightened squeak and scuttled off into the darkness. “Somewhere, hidden in some… some hollow, some cavern, some dungeon in the blasted Empire, there is another rod that supposedly brings the red dragon to its scaly knees.” Profion threw back his head and laughed, laughter that chilled the bones of everyone in sight. “Imagine that, Damodar. Another rod somewhere, a rod that would bring us power unconfined… or send us all to hell!”

  Damodar remained silent. In shadow, he was nearly lost from sight, his crimson cape faded to black. His face was barely visible in the hollow of the jeweled green cowl that swept up in a high, magnificent arc, framing his gaunt, pitiless features and hairless skull. His shoulders, arms, and even his gauntlets were festooned with curved and sharpened spikes.

  “If what Vildan said was so, Lord,” he said finally. “Imps are not the most reliable messengers, but I do not doubt the story of the rod is true. Vildan is one of those rare people who imagines himself above a lie.” Damodar shook his head, as though this was a near unheard of quality in a man, an act against nature itself. “If the Empress should actually come to possess this instrument, I fear there is nothing you could do that will overcome her powers. We will, Lord, have a bloodbath on our hands.”

  Profion shot Damodar a killing look. He didn’t like to hear words that might harbor a fight he could lose.

  “Find this cursed rod, then, wherever it is. I’ll take this girl-child down, and that council of fools as well. I sicken of asking my beloved brothers what I am to do. I know what I will do, and I will not tolerate the so-called wisdom of old men!”

  “Your wish, then, my lord?”

  “What do you think I wish, you idiot? Pay a visit to the magic school, and see our friend Vildan. Find this scroll he babbles about.”

  “Indeed, Lord. And may I say I sense that better days are soon to come?” Damodar couldn’t resist the suggestion of a smile. “Your wall is heavy with relics, but we will surely find room for several more.”

  He bowed, then, took a step back, and began to fade into the chapel’s shadow.

  “And Damodar?”

  Damodar paused, bowing, and said, “My lord?”

  “Make sure that Vildan is no longer around to give our young Empress any more advice.”

  Damodar bowed lower, turned, and proceeded up the stairs. Profion watched him go, following his motion long after the man was out of sight.

  “Perhaps a trophy you hadn’t counted on, my treacherous friend,” the mage whispered.

  A viper is useful for ridding the house of mice, Profion thought, but once the rodents are gone, I do not wish to have an idle serpent around.

  CHAPTER

  9

  Snails decided the best thing to do was fall. If he simply let go from such a height, he would only have seconds before his body struck the ground, and in those few seconds, he could think how lucky he was to have perished before he found another handhold scarcely deep enough to hold the corpse of a gnat. Stretching for the next tiny crevice, Snails’ heart nearly stopped as he slipped and started sliding down the side of the high stone building.

  It was a joke! Can’t any of you gods take a joke?

  Ridley’s strong hand snaked down and grabbed Snails by his wrist. Snails shut his eyes and hung there in the dark.

  “Put your foot somewhere,” Ridley whispered. “I can’t do this all night.”

  “I don’t have a somewhere. Don’t think about me. Let go and save yourself. Oh, wait—there’s a good spot. Thanks for not listening to me, Rid.”

  Ridley let out a breath. “Now why would I ever do that? Be careful, will you, please? The climbing part’s a walk in the park. We get up there, the place will be crawling with traps.”

  “This is the easy part?”

  “Well, yeah, I guess it is.”

  “This whole thing is crazy, is what it is. No one in their right mind would break into the magic school. What does that say about us?”

  “Don’t talk. Climb.”

  “I hate you, Ridley,” Snails said as they resumed their ascent. “Before we get skewered, hung, quartered, or whatever it is they do, I want you to know that. I want you to know I don’t like you at all. I don’t think I ever did.”

  “All right, Snails.”

  “You know what else? If I ever get out of this, which I won’t, I’m going to look up that girl at the Ferret and Fox. If she doesn’t like you, it stands to reason she’ll be crazy about me.”

  “How do you figure that?”

  “Because we both don’t like you, Rid. That’s the way it works. Two people who despise you, they’ve got a lot in common; they’re bound to be friends. Or maybe more than that. Maybe love and romance. I can see us—Rid? Damnation, where are you? Where did you go?”

  “I’m up here at the top. Shut up and give me your hand. We’re almost in.”

  “Can’t we just rob the first floor next time?” Snails asked as he reached for a more secure handhold.

  “Sssh!” Ridley hissed. “Quiet!”

  “Great gods above, if you can hear poor Snails, turn me into a bird so I can fly out of here. An eagle’s fine. A crow’s all right with me.”

  “You keep babbling, I’m not giving you half of the treasure, Snails. I’m keeping the Cloak of Invisibility for myself, and the Gem Finder, too. And the Sniffer. I’m hanging onto that.”

  Snails blinked. “What cloak? What are you talking about? What’s a Sniffer? I never heard of that.”

  “A Sniffer’s for when you forget to wear your cloak,” Ridley explained. “A Sniffer tells you if a guard or somebody’s around so you can get away fast.”

  “Where’d you hear all this? You don’t have any idea what’s in this place.”

  “My point exactly.” Ridley grabbed Snails’ shoulder and grinned. “We don’t know what’s in there. Think how wonderful it’ll be when we really find out.”

  Snails risked a look down and felt his stomach begin to do a fli
p.

  “We don’t have to, Rid. We could go home and go to bed.”

  “Too early to go to bed,” said Ridley as he began to explore the wall. “Sunrise is hours away, and we—Here!”

  “What?”

  “Quiet. Down here.”

  Squinting in the near dark, Snails saw his friend slide through a narrow window and disappear. He took a final look at Sumdall City. Even at this hour, it was lit by a thousand yellow lights. Was everybody still up? Didn’t anyone sleep in this devil’s town?

  He muttered a prayer, the only one he could recall, and crawled into the blackness where Ridley had disappeared.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The room smelled of dust, old paper, rotting leather, and mice. It was a fine, comfortable smell, the best smell there was to those who spent their lives here, puttering through the past, searching along the high wooden shelves that lined the walls, shelves packed to overflowing with thin, fat, ancient books, and even some that were new. There were books with covers and books without, scrolls and books laid flat, books about this, books about that, books of every conceivable sort.

  The room was well-lit or badly lit, depending upon where a reader chose to sit. In addition to an ample supply of thick, slow-burning candles, there were immense oil lamps with mirrored tops, the mirrors a clever device designed to ease the strain on weary eyes. These massive lamps hung from chains linked to the ceiling high above. On this ceiling, beneath a coating of grime, was a painting that depicted a grand and bloody scene of battle from a war now long forgot.

  Crowded into the center of the room were long wooden tables and scattered highback chairs. The tables and chairs were covered with large, open books and scrolls, tomes with lofty titles such as:

  Dragons: A True and Precise Anatomy of Scaled and Flying Beasts Various Engines of Siege and Other Machines of War Alchemy for the Beginning Student, Volume 329