“I have a thirst, child. It is not a good time to toy with me.”
“I’m not.” Orvendel’s voice was so soft that Tanalasta barely heard what followed. “I have something special for you.”
“Where?” demanded Luthax. “I feel no magic.”
“Not magic-something better,” said Orvendel. In the box next to Tanalasta, Owden cursed under his breath, apparently convinced that the boy meant to betray them yet. Orvendel continued, “Come downstairs.”
“Downstairs?” Luthax’s voice was suspicious. “Bring it up.”
“Uh, I can’t.”
“Are you playing at something, child?” A muffled slap sounded from above, followed by the thump of Orvendel hitting the roof again. “Do what I tell-“
“Orvendel?” Tanalasta called. She passed Draxius’s crown to Owden and pushed out of her hiding place. “Orvendel, I heard voices. Is someone up there with you?”
The roof went silent, and Owden caught hold of her arm. “What are you doing?”
“Quiet!” Tanalasta hissed. She pulled free and went to the base of the stairs. “Orvendel! Answer me!”
Something rustled across the roof, and the brimstone cloud grew thicker and harsher. Korvarr emerged from the stairs below and took Tanalasta by the arm.
“Orvendel!” Tanalasta yelled. “I won’t wait much longer for this surprise of yours. A princess’s time is-“
“Orvendel?” Korvarr called sternly, now following Tanalasta’s lead. He stepped in front of the princess and began to back away from the stairwell, pushing her toward her coffin. “If this is another of your childish games…”
“Hardly!” rumbled Luthax’s deep voice.
A tongue of crimson flame licked out of the stairwell, striking Korvarr square in the chest and blasting him into Tanalasta. She stumbled backward and fell, her nostrils filled with the sickening stench of charred flesh. Korvarr landed square atop her, howling and screaming as his burning limbs pounded the floor beside her.
A wizard’s head poked out from behind the curtain over the arrow loop, then the bookshelf began to sway as the dragoneers hiding behind started to slide the case aside.
“Stop!” she yelled, putting a tone of royal command into her voice. The wizard’s head vanished behind the screen at once, and the bookcase stopped moving. She sighed in relief, then repeated herself in a more panicked voice, “Stop moving, Korvarr!”
Though the order had not really been meant for him, somehow through his pain and fear, Korvarr found the strength to hold still. Tanalasta rolled him off her and tried desperately to think of what she would do next, were she not aware of Luthax lurking on the roof above, listening to her every move and trying to smell out a trap.
“Help!” Even as she screamed the word, she motioned Owden to close the “wardrobe” and waved the rest of her companions to remain where they were. Korvarr, she left burning on the floor beside her. “Guards, help!”
That was all Luthax needed. A tremendous crash rumbled down the stairwell into the room, followed by a choking fog of ash and smoke. In the center of the cloud stood a manlike silhouette with a sizable wizard’s paunch and crooked, stick-thin legs. His fiery eyes swung in Tanalasta’s direction, then he took one step forward.
A tempest of coughing erupted behind the false book shelf, and the ghazneth’s eyes grew as wide as saucers. He spun toward the sound raising a finger.
“Now!” Tanalasta screamed. “Do it now!”
The bookcase toppled forward, slamming Luthax to the floor. A circle of crimson flame erupted beneath it, shooting out to lick at Tanalasta’s feet and set the carpets ablaze, then a dozen dragoneers scrambled forward and pulled the iron backing off the shelves.
A pillar of flame shot up through the opening, blasting a horse-sized hole in the room’s oaken ceiling. Two dragoneers fell back screaming, hands pressed to their melting faces. The others began to hack and stab through the hole with their iron swords.
Now that the ghazneth was trapped, Tanalasta turned her thoughts to Korvarr, whipping her weathercloak off and spreading it over the lionar’s still burning body. He screamed and rolled away, entangling himself in the cloth and smothering the flames.
A tremendous crack shot through the room, then the floor on the far side gave way and dropped into the story below. Choking and coughing on sulfurous fumes, Tanalasta rushed forward and peered over a knee-high curtain of flame into the smoky room below.
The false bookshelf lay square in the center of a larger section of burning floor, beneath which lay dozens of groaning, screaming dragoneers. Luthax was just rising to his knees, poking his head up through the back of the case. The ghazneth was surrounded by perhaps thirty dragoneers, their iron weapons clanging off each other as they struck at him madly. Though many of the wounds seemed to close as fast as they opened, some did not, and Tanalasta knew they were prevailing by sheer numbers.
“Owden, the crown!” She thrust her hand out behind her, then pointed at the wizards who had been hiding behind the huge desk. “And get your box down there!”
The wizards flipped the top off the desk, exposing the large iron box that had been concealed beneath the walnut veneer, and shoved the heavy crate toward the hole. In the room below, Luthax finally seemed to realize even he could not regenerate his wounds as fast as his attackers were inflicting them. He stop struggling and closed his eyes in concentration. A low rumble shook the tower. The wall tapestries began to undulate rhythmically, and tiny bits of mortar started to drop from the seams between the stones.
“Move!” Tanalasta ordered, waving the wizards and their box toward the hole.
Owden slapped the crown into her hand, then hurled his shoulder into the iron box. The heavy crate slid forward, then tumbled over the edge and crashed onto the top of Luthax’s skull. The ghazneth went limp and fell to his back, the box resting atop his chest, the crown of his head smashed flat.
The shaking ceased and the smoke started to clear, then the dent in Luthax’s skull began to pop back to normal. Tanalasta pulled her weathercloak off Korvarr’s charred form and used it to dampen the flames at the edge of the hole. She swung her legs over the side and raised an arm to Owden.
“Lower me down.”
Owden’s eyes grew wide. “That must be fifteen feet.”
“Which is too far to jump,” she said, “but I will if I must.”
“Not necessary.” Owden clasped her wrist and dropped to his belly, then lowered her over the edge. “A little help below!”
Several pairs of hands reached up and caught hold of Tanalasta’s legs, then gently set her on the floor below. Though the whole process took no more than thirty seconds, by the time she stepped around the iron box to kneel at Luthax’s side, his smashed skull had returned to normal.
Tanalasta held the ancient crown over his black, bald pate. “Luthax the Mighty, High Castellan of the War Wizards, as a true Obarskyr and heir to the Dragon Throne, I grant you the thing you most desire, the desire that made you betray what you loved most.” As the princess spoke, Luthax’s eyes shot open. She slapped the crown on his head, then finished the speech Alaphondar had written for her. “The Crown of Draxius Obarskyr is yours.”
“No!” Luthax’s hand shot up and caught the princess on the side of the head.
Her ear exploded with pain and everything went black. For a moment she thought Alaphondar must have been wrong, then her vision cleared and she saw the fire leave Luthax’s eyes. The shadow lifted from his face, and Tanalasta found herself looking into the bitter eyes of a hateful, power-mad old wizard.
Luthax’s arm came up again, but this time a dragoneer blocked it in mid swing. The wizard’s eyes widened in shock. He jerked his hand free and began to scratch at the crown, trying in vain to slip a finger beneath the circlet and fling it away. He succeeded only in tearing four bloody furrows down the side of his head.
Tanalasta sighed in relief. “It’s no use, Luthax.” She raised a hand and let out a weary groan as someone pulled her to feet. “You wanted that crown, and now it’s yours.”
“Yes, so I did.” His voice sound brittle and petty. “But what do you want? I have it, I think.”
Luthax’s gaze dropped to his flabby chest, where Tanalasta was surprised to see a silver chain supporting a silver belt buckle shaped like a budding sunflower.
The buckle was as familiar to her as the holy symbol she wore around her own neck. It was the same buckle Rowen Cormaeril had worn on his leather scout’s belt, the same buckle that she had caught herself watching a hundred times on her journey through the Stonelands with the quiet ranger, the same buckle she had worked so hard to unfasten on her wedding night.
