The Shadow Dragons - James A. Owen [87]
“I do understand,” Rose answered, “at least as much as I am able to. But I must try, nevertheless. Many people are counting on it.”
“Very well,” said Taliesin. He looked at Quixote. “Are you prepared for the challenge?”
Quixote nearly fell off his rock. He composed himself and stammered something that sounded like an acceptance. Would it be a trial of skill? Or a battle of wits?
“If you can answer my question, you may pass,” said Taliesin. “How long is a rope?”
“Eh . . . What?” said Quixote.
Taliesin chuckled and waved his hands. “I but jest. It’s a joke I heard from a bird once. Of course you may pass.” He stood up and gestured to them. “Come this way.”
He led them up and over a small, grassy rise, then down to a hidden cove. It was more placid than silent, and was unremarkable: just a sandy beach, a few grasses, and the occasional petrified log. Then they saw it.
It was a small ring of standing stones, which glittered in the light of the rising moon. A miniature Ring of Power.
“I will leave you to your business,” Taliesin said. “Do you know what to say?”
Rose nodded. The old man shifted his staff to his other hand, clapped Quixote on the shoulder, and walked back over the rise.
With an encouraging nod from Quixote, Rose stepped inside the ring and began to speak.
By right and rule
For need of might
I call on thee
I call on thee
By blood bound
By honor given
I call on thee
I call on thee
For life and light your protection given
From within this ring by the power of Heaven
I call on thee
I call on thee
At first she was afraid it hadn’t worked—that she had done something wrong, or, worse, that she simply hadn’t been worthy enough to speak the summoning.
Then a ripple appeared on the placid surface of the water in the cove, then another, and another.
A greenish blue light began to emanate from somewhere below—far deeper than the water actually seemed to be. Then she appeared.
To describe the lady as an apparition would not have done her justice. The folds of her gown floating in the water, twinned with the long strands of her auburn hair, gave her a spectral appearance, but as she rose higher and broke the surface, she was revealed as a creature of flesh and bone. But whatever else she appeared to be, she was not to be toyed with.
Her eyes were stern and cold, and her bearing was haughty. She glided closer to the shoreline, her feet never losing contact with the water.
“Who has summoned me in the old way?” she asked, barely containing her fury. “Who has called the Lady of the Lake?”
Rose knelt in the sand, careful not to touch the water. “I have,” she said simply. “I am Rose Dyson, daughter of Guinevere.”
The Lady moved closer. “I know who you are,” she said coldly. “Tell me why I should not take you now and drag you into the deeps of the sea to drown.”
“I gave my lifeblood once to save your son,” Rose said softly. “Would you take it again, just to avenge him?”
The Lady retreated, just a little, and the mask of anger slipped, then fell.
“Would that I could,” she answered. “Your kin have always been a vexation to me.”
“Your kin as well, milady,” Rose reminded her, “and I cannot say I disagree with you.”
The Lady smiled at that—this girl was an odd mix, she thought. Confidence and boldness, but coupled with an openness that made her hard to dislike.
“Why have you summoned me, child? You may not like the answers I have for you, whatever you ask.”
“I summoned you because I could,” Rose answered, “and I do have many questions, but there is someone else here who would speak with you.”
With that cue, Quixote strode forward next to the ring and removed his helmet.
“Greetings, milady,” he said, bowing his head. “It is good to see you again.”
“As it