broke into a sob. He looked up at his mother. 'You wanted to kill me. but she saved me. She gave her life to save me. You are more evil than even I believed.'
'Now it is your turn, whelp,' Epona said, and suddenly another knife appeared in her hand. 'Your turn and then I shall rule and all will be as it was supposed to be. I always told Sarimund his spells were worth spit.'
She raised the knife, but Egan didn't run. He jumped to his feet and faced her. He said, 'You cannot kill me, you cannot. I am a wizard. I will not let you,' and he pointed his finger at her and began to chant.
'You are a little nothing!' She raised the knife to plunge it into his heart, but the sound of running feet made her jerk up.
Nicholas ran into the white room, an ancient sword in his hand. He saw Rosalind lying on her back, so still, lifeless, a knife sticking from her heart. A small boy was leaning over her, his hand pressed against her shoulder.
'No!' He threw back his head and howled.
'Get out of here! She failed, you have no business here. He dies now, and there is nothing you can do about it, nothing!'
Nicholas felt pain so great fill him, choke him, he thought he would die with it. But he forced himself to look away from Rosalind, to look at the mad witch, at Epona, holding her knife poised and ready, knowing she'd killed Rosalind, knowing she would kill Egan as well if he did not stop her. It made the pain freeze. Now all he knew was wild rage. He wanted her blood on his hands, the smell of it in his nostrils.
Nicholas saw the witch rise off the floor, her white gown billowing around her, and fly directly at him, snarling, white teeth glistening. But now there wasn't a knife in her hand. Instead she held, in one thin white hand, a short ink-black spear, its tip so sharp it seemed to split the air.
Nicholas shouted, 'Black witch, your demon lover gave you the sword, didn't he? Sent it up to you from Hell. What did he expect you to do with it-eat it with your hay?'
Epona hesitated a moment, screamed curses, and aimed the demon sword at him. Bright orange light shot from the end of it, lighting the still air, forming terrifying shapes.
He looked at his own sword, a very old sword, perhaps older than Captain Jared Vail, its handle bejeweled.
He then stared up at the creature who had killed his wife, his wife who'd willingly given her life for the boy. 'You are a monstrous evil,' he said, voice as soft as the night air. 'It ends here, and I am the one to end it.' And he leapt upward, slashing with his sword.
But Epona leapt up another five feet into the air, out of reach.
He was in the Pale. He could do anything at all. He rose straight up, his sword aimed at her. 'Come fight me, witch, or perhaps you wish to gallop away from me?'
She hurled curses at his head and Nicholas flew nearer to her, only about six feet away from her, and he taunted her, laughed at her-'Your face is the color of fresh dead snow, and all those billowing white skirts-you are ridiculous, witch.'
Epona howled at him. 'You are nothing more than a mortal loosed upon us who believes himself powerful, but you are so new I can see the wet on your flanks!' She froze, moved farther away from him, hovered, then landed gracefully on the white floor.
He looked down at her, bored as a man six feet in the air could look. She yelled, 'I did not mean to say flanks! A new colt has wet flanks, not a human.'
Nicholas neighed down at her.
Epona suddenly wore bright red, the skirts still billowing out in an unfelt wind. She rose straight up again, pointed the demon spear at him, mumbled something very, very old, and hurled it at him.
His hurled his owr! sword. It clashed hard against the demon spear in midair, both hitting their tips together; then as one, they exploded, filling the room with a rainbow of lights. Then Nicholas dove for her, his hands outstretched.
She screamed, 'No!' and in her hand was a knife. 'You damnable wizard! You're dead!'
Nicholas simply thought it and the ancient sword was once again in his hand. He knocked her knife aside and plunged the sword through her, its point sticking out of her back a good foot.
She hung there in the air, staring down at the sword thrust through her chest. Her surprise was plain on her face. She looked up at him. 'This cannot happen, it cannot. My demon chant, none can overcome it, but you have killed me.'
'Yes,' he said. 'It is a very old, very powerful sword.'
'But my demon spear-'
'Naught but weak and pitiful evil,' Nicholas said, and reached out. He pulled the sword out of her body. She hung, as if suspended by unseen strings, until finally she fell onto the floor, on her back. He hovered over her and watched her eyes slowly go blank into death. He watched white drops of blood pool out around her body, seep into her gown, not red now, but white again. And the white mixed together. Her face began to lose its beauty, its youth. She began to change, her flesh growing slack, wrinkles digging into her cheeks, her forehead. She continued to wither until nothing but a skeleton lay on the floor, swathed in white. Then there was nothing save a small pool of white blood where her back had once lain.
Nicholas dropped to the floor and raced to Rosalind. The boy was gone. The knife was still in her chest. 'No,' he whispered and pressed his face against hers. 'No, this was not to happen. You cannot die. You give your own life for the boy's? No, surely that was not to happen!'
'Nicholas, could you please pull out the knife? It is very cold inside me.'
He jerked back, stared down at her. He was shaking his head, then suddenly-
'Yes, you remember what Sarimund told me. No evil can touch me. And so it didn't, just blotted out the world for a moment and sent me into darkness. But I am here again and I am all right. Please, pull out the knife. I tried to order it out of me, but I couldn't, and my hands don't want to move. I don't think I yet have the strength.'
He couldn't, couldn't-he grasped the hilt and jerked it out of her. He stared down. There was no blood, only the rent in her white wool gown.
'Ah,' she said, still not moving, 'that feels much better.'
He went back onto his knees. 'I believed that monster had killed you.'
'No, no. You killed her, just as you were supposed to, just as I knew you would. I was conscious, I simply couldn't move, couldn't speak. Where is Egan?'
'I saw the boy leaning over you when I came in, but then he was gone.'
'Well, now, that makes sense, doesn't it?'
'Nothing makes sense in this accursed place.'
Rosalind lightly touched her fingers to her chest. The gown was whole once again. 'Ah, I am coming back to myself.' Slowly, she sat upright, smiled at his hand cupping her elbow.
'You swear to me you are all right?'
'Oh, yes. Egan is gone, Nicholas, because you cannot meet yourself, even here in the Pale. You know that.'
Suddenly they heard Taranis trumpet.
Nicholas and Rosalind walked out of the strange stark white room. But there was no endless corridor with statues of warriors and rooms filled with colorful cushions. No, they were once again standing on the ramparts of Blood Rock.
They raised their faces to see Taranis hovering above them, his wings whipping the rivulets of blood outward on the black rocks, making them splatter to the rampart stones.
Taranis raised his huge head and trumpeted again, the sound echoing off the rocks, making the sky lighten to a pale gray color. The wind died. All was silent, save for the echo of Taranis's shattering bellow. She knew all could hear it- every Tiber, every Lasis, even the yellow Sillow tree. And the wizards and witches.
He sang to them, 'All is well. All is well. You saved Prince Egan, mistress, as you were supposed to. Ah, Sarimund, finally, his spell succeeded.
'To know a modern man can kill a monster, it is gratifying. It is over. The mistress saved the prince, and you, the man, paid your debt to her. It is over and Prince Egan will rule as he was meant to rule.'
Nicholas smiled at her. 'I wonder how high I can jump here in the Pale?'
'As high as the eggplant clouds. After all, you can fly.' She couldn't help herself, she threw back her head
