“Never mind,” the count said, his voice gentle with false concern. “Let them come.”
She glared at him. “Have you gone mad?”
“Please. Hear me out Don’t, hinder them, I say.” Volmar smiled at her, enjoying her confusion. “Who knows? While the boy is here, perhaps he’ll find that elusive manuscript for us.”
“Yes. but—”
“Carlotta, my dear princess, you worry too much.”
“Don’t patronize me.” It was all the more alarming for having been quietly said.
“I didn’t mean—”
“Ah, but you did.”
He could have sworn she hadn’t done anything more than raise a hand. But suddenly Volmar was——. nowhere, floating helplessly in empty grayness with no sense of up, no down, no light; or dark or life ... Choking, the count fought in vain to breathe, but oh gods, there was no air here, either. His lungs were aching, his heart was pounding painfully, he was dying ....
Carlotta, no! Please, no!
All at once there was a real world about him once more. All at once he was fallen to hands and knees on a hard stone floor, able to think of nothing but drawing air into his lungs.
After a time, Volmar realized he was back in his casde, with Carlotta standing over him, face impassive. “Never underestimate me, either,” she murmured.
The count dragged himself to his feet, collapsing into a chair, bathed in cold perspiration. “Never,” he echoed weakly.
Illusion. It had to have been illusion. He couldn’t have actually left this realm. He couldn’t really have just been trapped in—in that deadly emptiness.
Volmar took a deep breath. “You misunderstand me.” He forced a ghost of sincerity into his voice. “I never meant to belittle you. Nor,” the count added honestly, “to deny your powers.”
She raised a skeptical eyebrow, then smiled sweetly.
“No. You wouldn’t dare, would you? All right.
Continue.”
“This is my castle, these are my people. What, did you think I’d been idle all this while?” Little by little, Volmar felt self-confidence stealing back into him. Of course it had been illusion. “Once the boy and his misguided comrades are actually here, I have a few surprises of my own to spring on them. And I don’t believe,” the count added with dark humor, “that they will enjoy them.”
“Naitachal!”
Eliathanis raced to the fallen elf’s side, closely followed by the others. Kevin got there an instant before Lydia and the fluttering Tich’ki, dropping to his knees beside Naitachal’s still form. The White Elf glanced across at the bardling, green eyes wide. “I d-don’t think he’s breathing.”
“Oh no, that can’t be right, he has to be!”
Kevin hastily snatched up a dark wrist. For a panic-stricken, seemingly endless while, he couldn’t find any pulse at all.
Come on, come on, you can’t he dead, not now.
All at once the bardling felt ... yes. Kevin released Naitachal’s wrist with a sigh of relief. “He’s alive. I... think he’s just asleep. Deeply asleep. That sorcerous duel must really have worn him out.”
Eliathanis shuddered faintly. “Yes.” He straightened slowly, fussing with the set of his now sadly tattered cloak, plainly struggling to regain his composure. “Of course it did. I should have realized that.”
Well, what do you, know? Kevin stared at the White Elf in surprise. You really were worried about him!
Not that such revelations mattered right now. Kevin glanced doubtfully down at Naitachal. Sleeping like this on bare ground couldn’t be doing the Dark Elf any good. Particularly not on this ground. Everybody else seemed to
