Brind'Amour snorted at the halfling's perceptive question. He had been physically in this room-all the night and half the day it would seem-but in truth, he had visited many places. A frown creased his face as he considered those journeys now. The last of them, to the isle of Dulsen-Berra, central of the Five Sentinels, haunted him. The vision the crystal ball had given him was somewhere back in time, though how long ago he could not tell. He saw cyclopians scaling the rocky hills of the island. Then he saw their guide: a man he recognized, though he was not as fat and thick-jowled as he was now, a man Brind'Amour now held captive in the dungeons of this very building!

In the vision, Resmore carried an unusual object, a forked rod, a divining stick. So-called "witches" of the more remote villages of Avonsea, and all across wild Baranduine, used such an object to find water. Normally a divining rod was a form of the very least magic, but this time, Resmore's rod had been truly enchanted. Guided by it, Resmore and his one-eyed cronies had found a secret glen and the blocked entrance to a cave. Several wards exploded, killing more than a few cyclopians, but there were more than enough of the brutes to complete the task. Soon enough, the cave mouth was opened and the brutes rushed in. They returned to Resmore in the grassy glen, dragging a stiff body behind them. It was Duparte, dear Duparte, another of Brind'Amour's closest friends, who had helped Brind'Amour in the construction of the Ministry and had taught so many Eriadoran fisherfolk the ways of the dangerous dorsal whales.

All the long night Brind'Amour had suffered such scenes of murder as his fellows were routed from their places of magical sleep. All the long night he had seen Resmore and Greensparrow, Morkney and Paragor, and one other wizard he did not know, flush out his helpless, sleeping fellows and destroy them.

Brind'Amour shuddered visibly, and Luthien put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"They are all dead, I fear," Brind'Amour said quietly.

"Who?" Oliver asked, looking around nervously.

"The ancient brotherhood," the old wizard replied-and he truly seemed old at that moment! "Only I, who spent so long enacting magical wards against intrusion, seem to have escaped the treachery of Greensparrow."

"You witnessed all of their deaths?" Luthien asked incredulously, looking at the crystal ball. By Brind'Amour's tales, many, many wizards had gone into the magical slumber those centuries before.

"Not all."

"Why did you look?" Oliver asked.

"Your tale of the encounter with Resmore," Brind'Amour replied.

"You did not send the lightning," Luthien reasoned. "Thus you believed that one of your brothers had awakened, and had come to our aid."

"But that is not the case," Brind'Amour said.

"You said you did not find them all," Oliver reminded.

"But none are awake; of that I am almost certain," Brind'Amour replied. "If any of them were, my divining would have revealed them, or at least a hint of them."

"But if you did not send the lightning . . ." Luthien began.

Brind'Amour only shrugged, having no explanation.

The old wizard sighed and leaned back in his chair. "We erred, my friends," he said. "And badly."

"Not I," Oliver argued.

"The ancient brotherhood?" Luthien asked, pausing only to shake his head at Oliver's unending self-importance.

"We thought the land safe and in good hands," Brind'Amour explained. "The time of magic was fast fading, and thus we faded away, went into our slumber to conserve what remained of our powers until the world needed us once more.

"We all went into that sleep," the wizard went on, his voice barely above a whisper, "except for Greensparrow, it seems, who was but a minor wizard, a man of no consequence. Even the great dragons had been destroyed, or bottled up, as I and my fellows had done to Balthazar."

Luthien and Oliver shuddered at the mention of that name, a dragon they knew all too well!

"I lost my staff in Balthazar's cave," the wizard continued, turning to regard Luthien. "But I didn't think I would ever need it again-until after I awoke to find the land in the darkness of Greensparrow."

"This much we knew," Luthien said. "But if Greensparrow had been such a minor wizard, then how did he rise?"

"What a great error," Brind'Amour said to himself. "We thought magic on the wane, and so it was, by our standards of the art. But Greensparrow found another way. He allied with demons, tapped powers that should have been left alone, to rebuild a source of magical power. We should have foreseen this, and warded against it before our time of slumber."

"I do so agree!" Oliver chimed in, but then he lowered his gaze as Luthien's scowl found him.

"You should have seen me!" Brind'Amour said suddenly, his face flashing with the vigor of a long past youth. "Oh, my powers were so much greater then! I could use the art all the day, sleep well that night, then use it again all the next day." A cloud seemed to pass over his aged features. "But now, I am not so strong. Greensparrow and his cohorts find most of their strength through demonic aid, a source I cannot, and will not, tap."

"You destroyed Duke Paragor," Luthien reminded.

Brind'Amour snorted, but managed a weak smile. "True," he admitted. "And Morkney is dead, and Duke Resmore, his demon somehow taken from him, is but a minor wizard, and no more a threat." Again he looked to Luthien, his face truly grim. "But these are but cohorts of Greensparrow, who is of the ancient brotherhood. These dukes, and the duchess of Mannington, are mortals, and not of my brotherhood. Minor tricksters empowered by Greensparrow."

Luthien saw that his old friend needed his strength at that moment. "When Greensparrow is dead," he declared, "you, Brind'Amour, king of Eriador, will be the most powerful wizard in all the world."

Oliver clapped his hands, but Brind'Amour only replied quietly, "Something I never desired."

"Leave us," Brind'Amour instructed as he entered the dungeon cell below the Ministry. The small room was smoky, lighted by a single torch that burned in an unremarkable wall sconce beside the door.

The two elvish guards looked nervously to each other, and to the prisoner, but they would not disobey their king. With curt bows, they exited, though they stubbornly took up positions just outside the cell's small door.

Brind'Amour closed that door, eyeing Resmore all the while. The miserable duke sat in the middle of the floor, hands bound behind his back and shackled by a tight chain to his ankles. He was also gagged and blindfolded.

Brind'Amour clapped his hands and the shackles fell from Resmore's wrists. Slowly, the man reached up and removed first the blindfold and then the gag, stretching his numb legs as he did so.

"I demand better treatment!" he growled.

Brind'Amour circled the room, muttering under his breath and dropping a line of yellow powder at the base of the wall.

Resmore called to him several times, but when the old wizard would not answer, the duke sat quiet, curious.

Brind'Amour completed the powder line, encompassing the entire room, and looked at the man directly.

"Who destroyed your demon?" Brind'Amour asked directly.

Resmore stuttered for lack of an answer; he had thought, as had Luthien and Oliver, that Brind'Amour had done it.

"If A'ta'arrefi-" Brind'Amour began.

"A wizard should be more careful when uttering that name!" Resmore interrupted.

Brind'Amour shook his head slowly, calmly. "Not in here," he explained, looking to the line of yellow powder. "Your fiend, if it survives, cannot hear your call, or mine, from in here, nor can you, or your magic, leave this room."

Resmore threw his head back with a wild burst of laughter, as if mocking the other. He struggled to his feet, and nearly fell over, for his legs were still tingling from sitting for so long. "You should treat your peers with more respect, you who claim the throne of this forsaken land."

"And you should wag your tongue more carefully," Brind'Amour warned, "or I shall tear it from your mouth and wag it for you."

"How dare you!"

"Silence!" the old wizard roared, his power bared in the sheer strength of his voice. Resmore's eyes widened and he fell back a step. "You are no peer of mine!" Brind'Amour went on. "You and your fellows, lackeys all to Greensparrow, are a mere shadow of the power that was the brotherhood."

"I-"

"Fight me!" Brind'Amour commanded.

Resmore snorted, but the scoff was lost in his throat as Brind'Amour launched into the movements of spellcasting, chanting heartily. Resmore began a spell of his own, reaching out to the torch and pulling a piece of fire from it, a flicker of flame to sting the older wizard.

It rolled out from the wall at Resmore's bidding, flaring stronger right in front of Brind'Amour's pointy nose, and Resmore snapped his fingers, the completion of his spell, the last thrust of energy that should have caused the lick of flame to burst into a miniature fireball. Again, Resmore's hopes were abruptly quashed as his flame fell to the floor and elongated, something he never intended for it to do.

Brind'Amour continued his casting, aiming his magic at the conjured flame, wresting control of it and strengthening it, transforming it. It widened and gradually took the shape of a lion, a great and fiery cat with blazing eyes and a mane that danced with the excitement of fire.

Resmore paled and fell back another step, then turned and bolted for the door. He hit a magical wall, as solid as one of stone, and staggered back into the middle of the room, gradually regaining his senses and turning to face the wizard and his flaming pet.

Brind'Amour reached down and patted the beast's flaming mane.

Resmore cocked his head. "An illusion," he proclaimed.

"An illusion?" Brind'Amour echoed. He looked to the cat. "He called you an illusion," he said. "Quite an insult. You may kill him."

Resmore's eyes popped wide as the lion's roar resounded about the room. The cat dropped low-the duke had nowhere to run!-and then sprang out, flying for Resmore. The man screamed and fell to the floor, covering his head with his arms, thrashing for all his life.

But he was alone in the dirt, and when at last he dared to peek out, he saw Brind'Amour standing casually near the side of the room, with no sign of the flaming lion to be found, no sign that the cat had ever been there.

"An illusion," Resmore insisted. In a futile effort to regain a measure of his dignity, he stood up and brushed himself off.

"And am I an illusion?" Brind'Amour asked.

Resmore eyed him curiously.

Suddenly Brind'Amour waved his arms and a great gust of wind hit Resmore and hurled him backward, to slam hard into the magical barrier. He staggered forward a couple of steps and looked up just as Brind'Amour clapped his hands together, then threw his palms out toward Resmore. A crackling black bolt hit the man in the gut, doubling him over in pain.

Brind'Amour snarled and brought one hand sweeping down in the air. His magic, the extension of his fury, sent a burst of energy down on the back of stooping Resmore's neck, hurling him face-first into the hard dirt.

He lay there, dazed and bleeding, with no intention of getting back up. But then he felt something-a hand?-close about his throat and hoist him. He was back to his feet, and then off his feet, hanging in midair, the hand choking the life from him.

His bulging eyes looked across to his adversary. Brind'Amour stood with one arm extended, hand grasping the empty air.

"I saw you," Brind'Amour said grimly. "I saw what you did to Duparte on the Isle of Dulsen-Berra!"

Resmore tried to utter a denial, but he could not find the breath for words.

"I saw you!" Brind'Amour yelled, clenching tighter.

Resmore jerked and thought his neck would surely snap.

But Brind'Amour threw his hand out wide, opening it as he went, and Resmore went flying across the room, to slam the magical barrier once more and fall to his knees, gasping, his nose surely broken. It took him a long while to manage to turn about and face terrible Brind'Amour again, and when he did, he found the old wizard standing calmly, holding a quill pen and a board that had a parchment tacked to it.

Brind'Amour tossed both items into the air, and they floated, as if hung on invisible ropes, Resmore's way.

"Your confession," Brind'Amour explained. "Your admission that you, at King Greensparrow's bidding, worked to incite the cyclopians in their raids on Eriadoran and dwarvish settlements."

The items stopped right before the kneeling duke, hanging in the empty air. He looked to them, then studied Brind'Amour.

"And if I refuse to sign?" he dared to ask.

"Then I will rend you limb from limb," Brind'Amour casually promised. "I will flail the skin from your bones, and hold up your heart, that you may witness its last beat." The calm way he said it unnerved Resmore.

"I saw what you did," Brind'Amour said again, and that was all the proof the poor duke needed to hear to know that this terrible old wizard was not bluffing. He took up the quill and the board and quickly scratched his name.

Brind'Amour walked over and took the confession personally, without magical aid. He wanted Resmore to see his scowl up close, wanted the man to know that Brind'Amour had seen his crimes, and would neither forget, nor forgive.

Then Brind'Amour left the room, crossing through the magical wall with a single word.

"You will no longer be needed here," Resmore heard him say to the elves. "Duke Resmore is a harmless fool."

The dungeon door banged shut. The single torch that had been burning in the place was suddenly snuffed out, leaving Resmore alone and miserable in the utter darkness.

CHAPTER 14.

THE P PRINCESS AND H HER C CROWN.

SHE SAT BEFORE THE MIRROR brushing her silken hair, her soft eyes staring vacantly through space and time. The bejeweled crown was set on the dresser before her, the link to her past, as a child princess. Beside the crown sat a bag of powder Deanna used to brighten the flames of a brazier enough to open a gate from Hell for the demon Taknapotin. brushing her silken hair, her soft eyes staring vacantly through space and time. The bejeweled crown was set on the dresser before her, the link to her past, as a child princess. Beside the crown sat a bag of powder Deanna used to brighten the flames of a brazier enough to open a gate from Hell for the demon Taknapotin.

She had been just a child when that bag had become more important to her than the crown, when Greensparrow had become closer to her than her own father, the king of Avon. Greensparrow, who gave her magic. Greensparrow, who gave her Taknapotin. Greensparrow, who took her father's throne and saved the kingdom after a treacherous coup by a handful of upstart lords.

That was the tale Deanna Wellworth had been told by those loyal to the new king, and repeated to her by Greensparrow himself on the occasion of their next meeting. Greensparrow had lamented that, with his ascent to the throne, she was now out of the royal line. In truth, it mattered little because Greensparrow was a wizard of the ancient brotherhood, after all, blessed with long years, and would surely outlive Deanna, and all of her children, if she had any, and all of their children as well. But Greensparrow was not unsympathetic to the orphaned girl. Mannington, a not-unimportant port city on the western shore of Avon, would be her domain, her private kingdom.

That was the story Deanna Wellworth had heard since her childhood and for all of her adult life; that was the tale the sympathetic Greensparrow had offered to her.

Only now, nearing the age of thirty, had Deanna come to question, indeed to dismiss, that story. She tried to remember that fateful night of the coup, but all was confusion. Taknapotin had come to her and whisked her away in the dark of night; she vividly heard the screams of her siblings receding behind her.

O noble rescuer . . . a demon.

Why hadn't Taknapotin, a fiend of no small power, rescued her brothers and sister as well? And why hadn't the fiend and, more important, Greensparrow, who was easily the most powerful individual in the world, simply halted the coup? His answers, his excuses, were obvious and straightforward: there was no time; we were caught by surprise.

Those questions had often led Deanna to an impenetrable veil of mystery, and it wasn't until many years later that the duchess of Mannington came to ask the more important questions. Why had she been spared? And since she was alive after the supposed murderers had been executed, then why hadn't she been placed in Carlisle as the rightful queen of Avon?

Her stiff brush scraped hard against her head as the now-familiar rage began to mount inside of her. For several years, Deanna had suspected the betrayal and had felt the anger, but until recently she had suppressed those feelings. If what she feared had truly happened those two decades ago, then she could not readily excuse her own role in the murder of her mother and father, her five brothers and her sister.

"You look so much like her," came a call from the doorway.

Deanna looked into the mirror and saw Selna's reflection, the older woman coming into the room with Deanna's nightclothes over her arm. The duchess turned about in her seat to face the woman.

"Your mother," Selna explained with a disarming smile. She walked right over and put her hand gently against Deanna's cheek. "You have her eyes, so soft, so blue."

It was like a religious ceremony for the handmaid. Weekly at least, over the last twenty years, Selna, who had been her nanny in the days when her father ruled Avon, would brush her hand against Deanna's cheek and tell her how much she looked like her murdered mother. For so many of those years, Deanna had beamed under the compliment and begged Selna to tell her of Bettien, her mother.