Legends of the Dragonrealm, Vol. III

fashion.

Footsteps hurried up to her door. The disheveled woman turned, at first expecting a new ghost to rear its ugly head, but instead Setera and two human servants stood nervously at the entrance, obviously drawn by her loud appeal.

“I’m all right!” she snapped. Taking a deep breath, Valea added more calmly, “It was just a nightmare. I’m sorry if I startled anyone.”

The humans left immediately, but Setera took a moment longer, clearly a bit more suspicious over her mistress’s actions. When the drake, too, had finally departed, Valea again glared at the bed and the walls. Something had to be done. There was no reason why this horrific game had to continue. Valea had learned her lesson, had learned not to delve too close in the past of the Manor; what more did the magical edifice and its ghosts want of her?

It was possible for Valea to contact her parents through the means of spells, but she dared not disturb either of them now. That left her only one person with whom she could speak who might have some knowledge.

Seated on a bench in the center of the vast maze, the same location where Galani and Shade had been attacked, Valea concentrated. Drawing from the lines of force crisscrossing even her, the sorceress molded together her spell.

A light-blue sphere formed before her . . . and within it fire briefly reigned. Muttering, Valea envisioned the one she sought.

In the midst of the floating sphere, a fearsome avian head suddenly thrust forth.

“Valea Bedlam . . . and to what do I owe this intrusion in my thoughts?”

The young human swallowed as the predatory visage cocked to one side. “Forgive me, Lord Gryphon, I had some questions with which I had to turn to you.”

The master of Penacles, the City of Knowledge, blinked once. His magnificent white and gold plumage transformed to golden brown fur near the base of his neck. Valea could just barely make out a regal red cloak and, below that, brown robes of state. The Gryphon was a creature both man and myth and one of the closest friends the Bedlams had. He could, if he wished, take on a human form, but that he did most for his mate, the feline woman Troia.

“I have a few minutes I may spare for you, Valea. What is it you wish to know?”

“Have you ever studied the ghosts of the Manor?”

“Aah, your pet passion. No, I prefer my interests more earthbound.” Despite being a magical creature, the Gryphon had spent much of his two-plus centuries as a mercenary until fate had thrust him into the role of king.

“Did you ever hear of an elf named Arak? Was he ever famous for anything?”

“Again, I must answer no. The elves are secretive. Did you wish me to consult the libraries for mention of him?”

“No . . . definitely no.” Valea could not send the ruler of Penacles searching for the name of a likely obscure figure in history. Clearly Arak’s spell had somehow gone awry or the world she knew would have been very different. That left her only one question. “What, if anything, can you tell me about the Wyr Stone?”

The avian eye ceased blinking. Although it was only an illusion of the spell, Valea saw the Gryphon lean closer. “Say the name again . . .”

“The Wyr Stone.”

“The Wyr Stone . . .” He tasted the words, mulled them over, so much so that Valea’s hopes rose.

And were dashed again. “I thought . . . but no. I’m wrong.”

“You don’t know it, then?”

He read her disappointment. “I was reminded of a tale or two I heard long, long ago, when I was still only a soldier. Nothing much, mind you. I cannot even recall the specifics . . . but I will do a little research.”

Research could only mean the libraries. “My lord, please don’t bother! I’m sorry I interrupted your day at all! Please just forget! It was only a foolish-”

“My interest is piqued, Valea Bedlam . . . and it might not take me so very long as you think. The libraries and I are beginning to understand one another . . . to a point.”

He would not be dissuaded. With reluctance, Valea accepted his offer. Inside, her hope rose slightly again. The Gryphon might find nothing, but then again he might find something. Anything that could aid her in solving this mystery and freeing herself from the dreams was welcome.

With greetings to both families passed back and forth, Valea broke the spell. Perhaps she had gained something, but that she could hardly wait and see. She had to take a hand in the situation.

The manor library looked as innocuous as ever. Ignoring everything else, Valea went directly to the library, to the very bookcase she, as Galani, had used to open the way to the passage below.

Trouble was, the tomes now set in the shelves were different and despite her diligent effort, the sorceress could make none of them do as the crimson one in the dream had.

Leaning against the bookcase, she knocked, but the wall sounded as solid as any.

Spellwork was, under most conditions, forbidden in the library itself, but Valea had reached the limits of her patience. Stepping back, she gave the bookcase a reproving look, then cast.

“You’ll reveal me the truth if I have to tear a hole in you!” the sorceress growled. She did not really want to do that, of course. Instead, Valea acted as her father had taught her, reaching out with her mind to see the magic that might be playing around the case. If a spell hid the passage from her, she would find and unravel it.

But to her surprise, even her most cunning work revealed only a solid wall.

An investigation of the other walls of the library gave her the same results. Unless she had been very careless somewhere in her casting, there existed no passage. Yet, in the dream, it had been right before-

In the dream . . .

Valea had assumed that what she had dreamed had been an exact re-creation of events. Had she been wrong? Had the dream been all or at least part fiction? It had felt so true, though.

She could hardly argue with the obvious, however. The bookcase and the wall behind it were as solid as they looked. To eradicate any lingering doubt about that, Valea set both hands against the case and pushed with all her might, not just once, not just twice, but three times.

On the third time . . . she fell through.

A firm, even floor, not a death-dealing set of stone steps, welcomed her tumbling body. Valea crashed hard, every bone jarred.

And as she struggled to regain both her senses and the use of her body, a voice, Shade’s voice, whispered calmly, “It is time to strike, Galani.”

In her hand she once more held the dagger.

VII

His gloved hands gently helped her to her feet. Valea saw that she was now in the maze again, lying on the bench where she had cast the spell contacting Lord Gryphon. The moon rose full overhead.

In its light, Valea saw that she wore a gown of blue.

Shade was even more a specter now than before, but Valea felt Galani draw strength from his presence and so, in turn, did she. It was hard to tell where her own emotions separated from those of the elf. For all the stories of evil she had heard about the warlock, Valea had also heard the tales of sacrifice and heroics. She had long sympathized with his curse, his inability to have one true identity.

The hood obscured his murky visage completely as he bent down to peer at her. “Are you up to it, Galani? I