For just an instant, Strabo loomed over Libiris and the surrounding woods like a huge dark cloud that threatened to engulf them all. Then he turned to smoke, vaporized in an instant without warning, and was gone.
There was a stunned silence as everyone but Mistaya waited for his return. Then, quite slowly and deliberately, Laphroig climbed back to his feet, brushed himself off, turned to Mistaya with a smile, and struck her as hard as he could across the face. She managed to partially deflect the blow, but went down anyway, her head ringing.
“You witch!” he hissed at her.
His Eminence stepped in front of Rhyndweir’s Lord, blocking his way. “Enough of that, Lord Laphroig. Remember our purpose here. Time enough for retribution later, after the wedding.”
Mistaya heard him and took his meaning, but pretended not to. She hung her head for a moment, waiting for the ringing to stop and her vision to clear, her eyes filled with tears.
Then she climbed back to her feet. “It was only pretend,” she said to Laphroig, brushing at her eyes. “It wasn’t meant to hurt anyone. I kept my word; I did not try to escape. I thought that a demonstration of what my magic can do might make your knights respect you even more. If you have a wife who can—”
“Spare us your bogus explanations,” Craswell Crabbit interrupted. “Your intention was to distract us and escape. The only reason you are still here is that your magic was insufficient to allow for it.”
He made a quick series of gestures, spoke a few brief words, and Mistaya’s hands were again bound, encased in the swirling mist. She stared at them in dismay, even though she had known that this would happen, that her momentary freedom would be taken away. But escape would have put Thom at risk, and she wasn’t about to do anything that would allow for that. Her plan was to see them both freed, and anything less was unacceptable.
Laphroig moved over to stand so close to her she could smell his mix of fear and rage. “When this is over, Princess,” he whispered, “I shall take whatever time it requires to teach you the manners you so badly need. And I shall enjoy doing it, although I doubt that you will.”
He stalked away, calling back his knights, some of whom still remained close enough to hear his voice. Those who responded he dispatched to gather up the others. The wedding would proceed with all present, including those who had fled. Even Cordstick had managed to put himself back in the picture, standing by uneasily, trying to look as if nothing much had happened.
It took awhile—quite a while, in fact—but eventually all were gathered together once more, and His Eminence rearranged the bride and groom and began to speak anew.
“Be it known, one and all, from the nearest to the farthest corners of the land, that this man and woman have consented to be joined …”
“You’ve already said that!” Laphroig roared. “Get to the part where you left off and start from there, and be quick about it!”
His Eminence looked at Laphroig as he might have looked at a bothersome insect, but he held his tongue. Mistaya had hoped that he would say he had to start over in order for the ceremony to be valid, but apparently that wasn’t the case. She shifted her feet worriedly, gazing down anew at her shackled hands. She could feel time slipping away and her chances with it.
His Eminence took a deep breath and began anew. “Having spoken their vows and pledged their love, having exchanged rings—ah, rings and other gifts—to demonstrate their commitment, I find no reason that they should not be man and wife. Therefore, by the power invested in me, as a certified and fully authorized delegate of the crown, I …”
“Run!” someone screamed from behind him, someone who seconds later went tearing away from the wedding party and across the hills, waving and shouting and pointing.
“Isn’t that your man Cordstick?” His Eminence asked.
“Yes,
As the words left his mouth, a huge shadow fell over the assemblage, sweeping out of the skies like a thundercloud falling from the heavens, thick with dark rain. It was winged and horned and spike-encrusted and black as the mud pits of the lower Melchor, and when Mistaya saw who it was, she felt her heart leap with impossible gratitude.
“Strabo!” she exclaimed.
His Eminence and Laphroig were caught between emotions, not knowing whether to run or to stand their ground, looking from the dragon to Mistaya and back again as they tried to figure out how she had made this latest apparition appear. What sort of magic was she using now that her hands were shackled anew? But there were no answers to be found, and by the time they had determined that this dragon was not an apparition, but the real
