"Each of you now take up your scepter," he said quietly, "and hold it out until the hand atop your staff can grasp it. Let the hand do so."
Some of the scepters were extended with reluctance, a few even with trembling fear-but extended they all were, after a few moments that seemed an eternity. The seated Bowdragons then stared at him and each other in mounting wonder as the thrumming power reached into and through them, and they started to share thoughts and sight…
Someone gasped, and Dolmur said swiftly and firmly, "The meld begins. Sit still, all of you, from now on. It can be death to arise suddenly, at the wrong time, whatever happens. Remember: Obey me absolutely, or you may doom not only yourself but all the rest of us."
Ithim and Multhas had done this before, but the shuddering power was making the younglings visibly excited, eager at last, as Dolmur swiftly wove the spell that called on the power of the staves to spy from afar. "First," he announced, his voice now echoing in their minds as well as in their ears, "we'll gaze upon Flowfoam, observing any wizards there who serve the King of Aglirta…"
The room shook, hurling Blackgult and Tshamarra into the air like rag dolls, and a web of crackling lightnings burst out of the untamed Dwaer as it shot from its cage and skidded along the floor, rending flagstones in its wake.
Eyes swimming, Embra used her Dwaer to drink in those lightnings- and slowly, like fisherfolk dragging laden nets out of the Silverflow, she managed to drag the second, enspelled-against-her Stone closer.
When it hung in front of her, spitting angry sparks and smokes, she drew in a deep breath, cloaked herself in all the power she could summon, and-clasped her hand around it, whilst still firmly gripping her own Stone.
And thereby learned what true pain was.
Tshamarra, lying dazed and winded on shattered and jumbled rock that had been a smooth, unbroken floor not long ago, thought she'd never heard such a loud and powerful howl of agony, not even from clawbears of the peaks burned alive by Talasorn spells.
Raking tangled hair out of her eyes, she stared at Embra-who stood rigid in Dwaer-glow, arms outstretched and with a warring Stone in either one.
The eyes of the Lady of Jewels were like raging flames, and lightnings seemed to be tumbling from her mouth. Tumbling… and slowly dying away.
Embra swayed, uttered a weak but very unladylike curse, and then stumbled forward, looking wearily down the room to Blackgult. "Please come and get this, Father," she gasped, "for I fear I'll fall on my face if I have to walk all the way to where you stand. I… gods, I still hurt. Dwaer-healed, yes, but my body doesn't quite believe it yet."
She shook her head. "Don't any of you ever try that. The pain…"
The Golden Griffon chuckled. "I knew you'd do it, lass. Did I not set out to sire someone fit to rule the realm, all those years ago? A sorceress to shame all others?"
"You sound like Craer," the Lady Talasorn muttered, as she hastened to Embra.
The Lady Silvertree sighed. "Ah, to have been born a man," she said lightly, "and so always know exactly where my feet and all Darsar beneath them are headed, even before I stop to think."
Tshamarra drew back as Embra dropped the newly tamed Stone into her father's hands, threw up her hands, and gasped, "Lady, how can you speak so of the Lord Blackgult, your own father?" There was a twinkle in her dark eyes, and the corners of her lips twitched.
Twitched, then curved, and then burst into merry laughter. Embra joined in as they embraced in giddy mirth, rocking briefly breast-to-breast as men often did. By unspoken agreement, however, as their laughter died into chuckles and they drew apart again, they refrained from slapping each other heartily on backs and shoulders, and snarling praises back and forth like tossed fruit.
That was about the time they noticed that Ezendor Blackgult was standing as still as a statue, staring down silently at the Stone in his hands-and that it was twinkling gently, casting up tiny moving reflections onto his motionless face.
"Father?" Embra asked hesitantly.
"Lord Blackgult," Tshamarra snapped, "attend us!"
The Golden Griffon's head slowly lifted, and he blinked. "Aye, I hear and heed." He shook himself, and then smiled. "Gods, girl, but I was scared you'd been blown or burned apart right in front of me."
He shook himself again, and was suddenly the brisk, sardonic Blackgult of old. "So, shall we raid the kitchens and pantries properly this time, and get you and your men a good night's sleep or tumble, as you prefer, before you set out down the Vale again? Hey?"
The Lady Talasorn spread her hands. "Seeing as we have privacy here, why don't you two use the Stones together now, to seek the other two Dwaer?"
Embra and Blackgult exchanged glances, lifted eyebrows… then nodded. They went to opposite ends of the chamber, and Embra waved Tshamarra behind her so the Talasorn sorceress wasn't standing between the two Dwaerindim.
The air between the Stones started to sing almost immediately, and that singing somehow carried Embra's murmur clearly to the ears of the others. "Feel it, Father? Power's taken thus, and received thus. Try… yes, 'tis easy, see? Now let me do the scrying, and feed me power when I call for it… yes, yes, that's it… now! Give me power now!"
The singing rose into a whistling snarl and then climbed into a shriek that made Tshamarra wince and cover her ears-as Embra suddenly cried: "More!"
A breath later, Blackgult called, "There! Over there! I saw…"
The singing Died, and Embra nodded. "Yes, definitely another Dwaer. Close by the river, but underground-just underground, perhaps in a cellar. There was other magic around it, something stirring…"
Blackgult said nothing, and it was a moment before Tshamarra glanced in his direction and saw him standing hunched over, trembling. She'd seen a man stand like that years ago, after a sword had thrust through his guts and then been snatched out again. He'd stood swaying thus for some time, feeling his death filling him, ere toppling…
"Embra," she said quietly, laying a hand on her friend's arm. The Lady of Jewels followed her gaze, and watched her father slowly straighten and then look down at the Stone in his hand with a certain surprise. She exchanged glances with Tshamarra, and then strode down the room, the Lady Talasorn right behind her.
"Father," she asked firmly, taking Blackgult's chin in her hand and staring into his eyes, "how fare you?"
He gave her the wry, crooked smile he used so often these days. "As well as can be expected after a defeat that cost me my army, friends, wealth, and barony, and left me hated by thousands of folk who still seek my death; a short but harried career of outlawry; aging right out of the days when women clawed each other to share my bed; the cares of regency; personally battling the Great Serpent a time or two… and being mind-blasted. I get along."
Embra gave him a frown. "Your list is not unfamiliar-but tell me more about this 'mind-blasted.' "
Blackgult glanced at her and then at Tshamarra, and for a flickering moment his eyes seemed to glow green. "Once, in battle, I used a Dwaer to snatch myself away from the midair blast that killed Jhavarr Bowdragon. Calling on the Stone to speed me out of being torn apart, I was trapped in linkage to it when the blast broke over me and, ah, twisted the Dwaer. I can remember, sometimes, what I once was-but there are always mists now, clinging and hiding. My memory-even my thinking-comes and goes, despite the Dwaer-healing since."
His gaze flicked up to Embra, thrust into her like a cool swordthrust, and then dropped away again. " 'Tis gone," he added quietly. "None can restore it, for none can see what was there before. I am… worn down. Feeling old. For the first time I see in myself feebleness, and failure, and forgetting."