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By Root 1239 0

waterswift is perhaps the most beautiful. Deep blue of back and wing, gray of head and tail, with rainbow iridescence of breast and glossy black eyes set in a black eye-mask stripe, it darts here, there, and everywhere. It may chitter softly, or make deep liquid bubblings, or mew loudly if angry or alarmed. Ever-curious, cocking its head to look at things, it often befriends fisherfolk, drovers watering their beasts, and bargemasters, and will flit in to visit, day after day, ere swooping away in pursuit of the insects that dance above the Silverflow. It has a sense of humor, but none of the thieving ways of the stormjack or the drale, and is also known to sit still as a statue on strange perches for hours-human heads among them-just watching its surroundings.

The waterswift now whirling above the river was older than most, and no stranger to Flowfoam. It swooped and darted above the Silverflow, dining on shimmerwings and stinging mierye, and did no more than peer curiously, once or twice, at the cloud of shadow that seemed to cling to the Royal Isle.

When the shimmerwings were all gone, it turned to cross Flowfoam, and dine on whatever droneflies might be found above the rushing waters on its far side. Chittering to itself, it darted into the dimness-and froze.

Had another waterswift happened by and turned a curious eye on the gloom upon seeing the motionless tail of a fellow swift, it would have observed a bird hanging motionless in the air, stopped in midwingbeat, beak parted to chitter, eyes staring ahead, and claws drawn back in its haste.

Alive and unaware-frozen by magic. On Flowfoam, in the wake of Kelgrael's sacrifice, all that moved was air and dust.

* * *

Frozen in grief, frozen in darkness with great magic roaring through and past him, Sarasper Codelmer had the dream again. It had haunted him before this, in his sleeping hours, at first rarely but in recent days almost every night. Always it left him wide-awake and as cold as winter ice drenched with sweat.

Always, 'twas the same vivid thing: a dragon, red-gold and large and terrible--no beast of bardic legend, but very much alive!

Alive and staring right at him, gaze golden and knowing as it challenged him. He hung frozen, every time, as it turned with lazy, ponderous grace and began its dive towards him, jaws and claws opening…

Which is when he always came awake-silent but bolt upright and trembling in terror. To gasp for a long time and stare wide-eyed into the darkness, before sinking back down into dreams that never held the dragon again, the same night.

Why Sarasper so feared it he did not know. Perhaps every man fears what comes plunging towards him unbidden out of the night, long-taloned claws outstretched to clutch…

Empty air shimmered above the grave of Maeraunden Silvertree, dead some eight hundred years-and its cracked and crumbling slab suddenly grew a dark-eyed, rather slender man in robes whose face was far less forgotten in the Barony of Silvertree than Lord Maeraunden's. The Spell-master cast a quick glance around at the overgrown graveyard, smiled in satisfaction-free of watchful eyes, and wildly surging magic, too-and strode around several cracked and leaning memorial columns, up through the tall grass and creeping vines towards the Silent House.

Whatever mighty magic had rocked Flowfoam-right behind him, out in midriver-did not seem to have reached here. Ingryl Ambelter smiled again as he peered around at familiar overgrown Silvertree crypts and tombstones and found no lurking children at play or farm folk tending snares.

Let the game begin again, then.

He headed for one of the doors of the Silent House that he'd spell-sealed on the orders of Faerod Silvertree years before. There were safe chambers within, and one hideaway is as good as another-this one, with its view of Flowfoam, would be the best hide-hold of all in Aglirta just now, for watching various armored brutes arrive to slay one another. When scrying showed the situation best suitable, he could return to the Royal Isle to parley with-or simply destroy-the last survivor.