Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

Thinking of magic drew her back to her dream . . . or whatever it had been. Cora had said that she had slept through most of the day! What sort of dream would cause that? It was surely no coincidence that it had concerned the very characters out of the Manor’s ghostly memory.

She bolted upright in bed. Had she somehow become tied to that memory? But why . . . and how?

And what would happen when she next went to sleep?

V

The night stretched long. Too long, as far as Valea was concerned. Candle in hand, she strode through the high halls of her home, passing without gazing at wall tapestries collected by her mother or vases and other decorative gifts given to both her parents over the years. As the foremost wizards of the lands, the Bedlams had as many friends as they did enemies and among the former were some of those most influential. A three-foot tall rearing steed made of onyx and reminiscent of Darkhorse stood atop a pedestal to her right, a recent present from the ruler of Zuu, Belfour. The people of Zuu had an obsession for horses and their sculptors could fashion the most marvelous, intricate statues of the equines, but even this, a favorite of Valea’s, did not distract her.

She did not want to go to sleep. Having done so all day should have aided her in that regard, but there had been no rest in that slumber. The dream had sapped her of her strength as if she had actually expended herself physically. Valea still wanted to investigate the events behind the apparitions and the dream, but on her own terms.

Once more she stopped in the library, this time to research what history of the Manor her father had chronicled. Valea already knew that there would be no mention of an elf called Arak nor of his cousin Galani. What she did seek, however, was any mention of an artifact called the Wyr Stone. Clearly it was of great significance, if both Arak and Shade had believed it useful against the Dragon Kings.

For the next hour, she thumbed through the first journal, finding reference to other past inhabitants but not to the object in question. Discarding that tome, the crimson-tressed sorceress seized a volume related to the Dragon Masters, a band of wizards and other spellcasters of whom her great-grandfather, Nathan, had been one of the foremost . . . as had been her mother. Gwendolyn Bedlam had put down with quill all that she could recall of her days as part of the group that had attempted to oust the drakes from rule . . . even her love for her husband’s grandfather.

The story made for fascinating reading and Valea had pored over it more than once in the past, but now she hunted a specific section. Somewhere there had been made mention of the artifacts that the Masters had sought for their grand purpose and Valea wondered if perhaps one of them might be the one she hunted.

The candle sank into a waxy puddle as she perused page after page, finding nothing. One passage briefly seized her attention, for it spoke of a possession rod, but little more could Valea discern from it.

She rubbed her eyes, squinting more and more as the candle became less useful. Her father had raised her to use magic judiciously, not for every whim or minor physical activity, but Valea realized that soon she would be attempting to read in utter darkness. Raising her hand, she cast a minor light spell, one that surely her father would have seen as a very miserly use of her abilities-

A face stared back at her from the other side of the desk.

“No!” Startled, Valea pushed the chair back . . . and fell with it. She caught herself at the very end, preventing a possible broken neck but promising many bruises.

Rolling away from the chair, Valea amplified the light spell, filling the library with almost blinding illumination. Ceiling-high shelves filled with book after book, scroll upon scroll-all carefully collected by not only the Bedlams but some of their predecessors-revealed themselves to her, but of her intruder there was no trace.

Rising, Valea hurried to the doorway, but saw no sign. She frowned, recalling what she could of the face- and her mouth dropped.

Arak.

Yet, there had been something else about him, some details about his elven visage that had only partly registered. He had not been as she had seen him initially-tall, handsome, foreboding. What had changed?

She turned back toward the desk-and this time gasped as Arak once more glared at her.

Now Valea saw with horror what was different about him. He still retained elven features, but they had also become something different, something reptilian.

Arak moved, but he did not walk toward her. Rather he stared past her, his mouth working as if speaking to another in the room. Then the elf, his garments misshapen as if his body was not entirely normal any more, darted toward the far wall . . . and through the very shelves.

At the same time, feminine sobbing echoed through the corridors outside.

Valea stood momentarily torn between investigating the apparition in the library or pursuing the ghostly sounds beyond. When Arak did not reappear, she finally abandoned the chamber and hurried down the halls, wondering why no one else came in response to the anguished cries.

Not at all to her surprise, the sobbing led her back to the staircase.

Once more the elven figure bent down and once more blood pooled beneath. This time, Valea did not reach out, hoping that by holding back she would see the vision do more.

It did. Rather than finally crumple to the floor, it rose. In one hand something glittered despite no other light, a dagger fine and silver whose end was drenched crimson.

The female elf-surely Galani-shifted back toward the staircase.

Valea stared at her own face.

No . . . not exactly her own. Much akin to hers, save that the features were better defined, far more graceful. Valea’s face without imperfection.

Yet another gasp escaped the sorceress at this revelation . . . and suddenly the spectral figure looked her way.

“I had to do it, didn’t I?” Galani asked her.

The elf’s wound finally proved too much. She doubled over, the dagger dropping from her failing grip. Valea reached forward, but her arms caught no body, for Galani’s ghost vanished even as death claimed it not for the first time.

Shivering, the younger Bedlam gazed unblinking at the site where the elf had been. No blood, no Galani, no-

The silver dagger still lay on the floor.

No blood covered the tip now. Biting her lip, Valea approached the weapon, waiting every moment for it to vanish. When it did not, she cautiously pushed at it with her slipper.

With a slight scraping sound, the dagger slid a few inches away.

The sorceress hesitated, peering around. No one had as yet come in response to all the noise and that bothered her. This entire scene had been played out for her and her alone and now the weapon that had evidently ended Galani’s life lay tantalizingly nearby. All she had to do was pick it up. Surely then with some spell she could divine some of its secrets.

But with her fingers only inches from the silver artifact, Valea paused. By taking the dagger, she also risked falling prey again to the ghostly apparitions. The Manor played some sort of macabre game, one that went well beyond her interest in the phantoms inhabiting her home.

Valea pulled back.

The dagger flew from the floor, thrusting itself hilt first into her hand-

Her face stared back at her.

No, not Valea’s face, but rather Galani’s. Valea sat at a high, gold-framed mirror, an emerald brush, not a dagger, clutched in her hand. The brush dropped from her grip as she studied the elven features closer. Still strikingly similar to her own, they had undergone some changes. The beauty was now not quite perfect, for there were dark circles under the eyes, which held much, much sadness. There was also a small scar on the left edge of the chin, a recent scar.

Valea recalled Arak’s moods and grew angry. If he had done this-