Illusion

Again!” The Regente of Enth clapped her hands with delight, like the little girl she used to be.

Pleased, Angelo smoothed his impressive silver beard and mustachios with a forefinger, and straightened his tall, T-shaped hat.

“You wouldn’t want the same spell over again, would you, your serenity?” the court magician asked. “Having a troupe of pixies come to dance for you is all very well, but they have their own duties and responsibilities to attend to.” As do the grandees and grandaas standing about your throne, he thought.

“Yes! I do love them so.” Zoraida squirmed into the enormous throne. Her heavy amber skirts and voluminous red cloak of office made her seem like a child playing dress-up. Only the jeweled circlet on her thick bronze hair seemed a comfortable fit.

Angelo regarded the young woman with affection. He liked to grant her wishes, to help take her mind off the heavy duties of the office that had been thrust upon her so recently. It didn’t matter, he supposed, as they were not real pixies anyhow. Very well, once more wouldn’t hurt.

He raised the tall silverwood staff in his left hand and brought the golden ferrule down on the stone floor with an impressive bang! Angelo always made certain he worked his wonders in a corner of the audience chamber where the rugs did not cover the floor. The noise was nowhere near as impressive if it was muffled by yards of woven silk. Once again, he stroked a hand over the whitstone and drew upon his imagination, fed by storybooks and the tales sung by troubadours. He felt the magic rise within him, like water bubbling in a well. He opened his soul to the beauty of creativity, funneling the ideas in his mind through his body, until streamers of color emerged from his eyes, his mouth, and the palms of his hands. Sight, sound and touch, the images formed, lifting his heart as they came into being. What seemed a wonder to others was no less a miracle to him, though he was its source.

From the very ground they stood upon, fluting arpeggios rose, visible as dancing wisps of colors, until they formed a landscape of both sound and sight. At a grand chord, the mists cleared, revealing tiny, perfectly-shaped beings whirling and leaping in a circle. As each faced the regente, they bowed to her, making gestures of respect to her with delicate hands. The music grew more intricate, adding the sound of instruments that Angelo had heard on his visits to the land of fairies and sprites. He had stopped summoning actual fae to the palace for the regente’s entertainment, as they had a tendency to help themselves to jewels from the royal treasury and anything else sparkly that caught their eye. If Zoraida realized the difference, she never mentioned it. Illusion could be its own reward.

The regente clapped her hands to the rhythm, or almost. Her talents, of swordswomanship, philosophy, and listening, did not include any for music. The courtiers present never dared to indicate that they noticed anything wrong. Zoraida had a temper, almost certainly one of the reasons why she had not yet chosen her first consort.

At the corners of the fairy dance, the colors began to run into one another, blue melting into orange and making a muddy brown. Angelo stroked his hand over the big oval whitstone at the top of his staff. The colors brightened, and the dancers leaped and twirled more merrily. The microscopic crumb of the mystic mineral that exploded under his palm was enough to sustain the dance for weeks on end, if need be.

Whitstones were rare, especially ones of the size he possessed. It had come from the hoard of a dragon who remained in his debt to that day. He fed the silver orb with his own energy and that summoned from earth and sky whenever he could, but that only rebuilt smaller morsels of it than he actually used. One day, he would almost certainly have to seek out another. A wizard whose talents were of a more active sort depleted the substance of her or his whitstone far more quickly than he did. Angelo was fortunate that Enth had been peaceful since before he had arrived, decades ago. A sinecure like this made his fellow magical practitioners green with envy. He couldn’t help but preen when visiting mages sneered over his growing school of noble apprentices, the wealth evident in his quarters, his magical accoutrements and his dress, and the leisurely life he led, making pretty pictures for his employer.

The third tune drew to a coda, and Angelo made the seeming fae turn to take one more bow to the regente as the pipes swirled one last time. Zoraida applauded so hard that her palms turned red. The rest of the court patted their hands softly, waiting for their ruler’s pleasure.

“Again!” The regente tapped the ground with the foot of her long scepter of office.

“No, no, your grace,” Angelo said, with an avuncular smile. “The pixies are weary. Let them rest.” He swept his staff high, and the entire phantasm vanished, leaving the audience room comfortably ordinary. The courtiers heaved a collective sigh of relief. Even the page sitting on the steps of the throne at the regente’s feet looked grateful.

“A marvel!” Zoraida crowed, beaming at him. “You are without a doubt the finest wizard in the world!”

Angelo bowed until his beard touched the hem of his ornate purple robe.

“I thank you, my liege.”

The young warrior queen twisted in the oversized throne, made for one of her long-ago ancestors who had six or eight times her bulk, and rucked up her full brocade skirts so she could draw a knee up to rest on the gilded and carved armrest.

“Now, I would have you relate one of your grand adventures,” Zoraida said, not quite willing to return to the business of reigning. “Tell us about the time you bested three giants who had been laying waste to that village in the north. Or your battle with the necromancer of Fillith! Your heroic exploits have always inspired me, my friend.”

Angelo cringed inwardly.

“My lady, the Grand Potestad has a number of requisitions for you to sign,” he said, gesturing toward that worthy, who had been shifting from foot to foot through the last illusion. “The minister of justice has cases she needs to bring before you. And the other ricohombres and ricahembras have been so patient, although I am certain that they loved the entertainment I provided for you.”

“Oh, all right,” Zoraida said, beckoning the nobles forward. Potestad Miguel de la Hora, Chancellor of the Exchequer, strode into the head of the queue, his pendulous belly leading the way.

Angelo watched the regente reluctantly resume her duties. She was so young! If only her dear father had not been so unlucky as to die before she had had time to gain some small experience ruling a province. She would have more confidence in her role, and her reputation as a diplomat and leader would have equaled that of her abilities in the field. Reputation was everything, far above ability.

“Your serenity,” de la Hora began in his sonorous voice. “Trade with Moris has not been as profitable of late.…”

“Your serenity!”

Forgoing all dignity, Condestable Inez de Donunza hurtled into the room. The chief minister cast her ceremonial sword belt into the hands of the nearest man-at-arms and pushed past the rest of the nobles to kneel on the steps at Zoraida’s feet.

“What is wrong?” the regente asked, reaching for her friend’s hand to help her up. The minister sprang to her feet. Her usual neat braids bounded in her agitation.

“What is wrong?” the condestable echoed. “A scout has just returned from the eastern border. Enth is being invaded! The sky to the east is full of flying snakes, each with a warrior on its back! Armies swarm over the mountain passes beneath them.”

At her words, the rest of the court burst into a hubbub of alarm.

The East? Angelo recoiled in dismay. The Solognians!

Enth had had many decades of peace, based upon Constantino’s skills as a general and negotiator. Zoraida, his eldest, was just of an age to begin to consolidate her power with diplomatic ties when her father had died. She was entitled to take three consorts. None of her suitors to date was, well, suitable. The most likely candidate, Francour of Sologne, the realm to the East, had a temper almost but not quite as terrible as Zoraida’s. The few times that their parents had put them together as children, they had fought like angry weasels. Francour had emerged with more bite marks, which the heiress of Enth counted as victory. Marrying for love was never a consideration, but profound dislike and hatred did make diplomatic ties difficult. Francour remained on the list, though not seriously considered. A pity, as Sologne had many advantages that would add to Enth’s influence across the world, and the eastern realm could have used the infusion of hard currency that Enth possessed. Mweko, a prince of Moris, the realm across the narrow sea to the south, was only a third son, though the favorite of his queen mother. Moris had a great navy of trading ships that ranged over the world. Mweko was a delightful companion, charming and handsome, and Zoraida liked him enormously, but Angelo had been told in confidence that he did not seek marriage with a woman. The laird of Escotio, the cold northlands, had all but told Constantino that Zoraida’s first and principal consort would be his second son, Amish. Amish was nine years old.

Francour looked like the only reasonable local candidate, but Zoraida always sent his emissaries back without answers. It seemed that Francour had stopped waiting for Zoraida to come around to an economic necessity and meant to take Enth’s resources by force.

Zoraida sprang to her feet, her dark eyes blazing.

“Call the army! Summon all of my generals!”

“General Rafello is on his way, my liege,” de Donunza said. “He only halted to call for the castle to be secured.”

“We must protect our people,” Zoraida said. She cast about for a moment, then beckoned Angelo close. “My friend, you are needed.”

“For what?” Angelo almost squawked.

Zoraida regarded him with puzzlement. “Why, for the defense of the realm,” she said. “You can do anything with your powers. You always told me that.”

“I …” The wizard pulled his spine straight. “Yes! We shall defend. I shall … I must go and study the best way to win this battle, your serenity! Please excuse me. I will return … I will return anon.” He made an elegant bow. The regente’s page ran for the prime minister and the rest of her advisors. Angelo backed out of the room.

In the anteroom, servants, who had already heard the rumor, ran about like ants whose nest had been kicked, paying no attention to the court wizard. Angelo put his forehead against the nearest stone wall, resisting the urge to batter his own brains out on it.

Oh, great Fate, what am I supposed to do?

Feeling like a salmon swimming upstream through the crowds of servants and soldiers who poured into the great keep, Angelo rushed back to his tower.

On his hasty ascent along the winding stone staircase that circled the tower from broad base to narrow peak, he observed the frenetic activity below, proving that word of the coming invasion had spread to the entire castle and beyond. Carts laden with goods and herds of beasts crowded in through the portcullis and the postern gates. The palace guard mustered in front of the keep itself, with the sergeant-at-arms berating soldiers who ran toward her, tying on pieces of armor and holding armfuls of weapons against their chests. No one was ready for war, least of all him.

Once in a while, a hustling minion or soldier would look up and see Angelo with his purple robes fluttering in the cold wind, and their shoulders would relax. Angelo offered a grave wave and a somber smile, and continued his ascent. They relied upon him. He felt that weight ponderously upon his shoulders.

The conical spire of ivory stone that stood at the rear of the castle keep had been the court magician’s domicile for over eight centuries. At the top it measured only one trimeter across, so that when one emerged from the stairs that spiraled up around the outside, one stepped directly into the magic circle incised upon the tiled floor, a conceit of his predecessor, the mage Cornelio, and a good joke on visitors, who thought they would only be observing a ritual, not participating in it. The main difficulty with it for everyday use was that while a trimeter, one and one half times the height of a man (Regente Ludovido I, to be precise), it made things more than a trifle snug if one’s cabal consisted of more than six people. The magic circle lost something of dignity and demeanor when one had to purify people in groups, then send them to wait, shivering in Enth’s cold mountain weather, on the narrow stairs, while everyone else was consecrated and blessed. Since he had been saddled with a multitude of apprentices, from every noble family with the merest hint of magical ability in the realm, he was up to three changes of circle attendants, and ritual purification took more than an hour. At least, the parents paid for their offspring’s apprenticeships, and very well, too.

The small chamber did, however, provide him with a useful haven. The impenetrable blue haze that rose around it when he was inside (another conceit of its previous occupant) looked suitably forbidding, and kept interlopers, even the regente’s servants, from interrupting his thoughts there.

At the top, the mist thickened, concealing the scene below from view. He passed his hand over the crystal glyph inset in the precious morwood door. The portal creaked open, then slammed dramatically behind him. (Was there no end to Cornelio’s histrionic touches? He must have begun his career as a showman!)

But, Angelo mused, he was no better. He, too, had a touch of the carnival charlatan about him. He was a terrible fraud. If he was all the realm of Enth had to defend itself against the Solognians and their poisonous krilla steeds, it was doomed.

His appointment to the court as its official wizard by the present regente’s father years ago had been based upon the reputation of his illustrious master, the great mage Budestro. He had driven off the hordes of Salamar with a lightning storm called down from the very heavens. Budestro, who consorted with demons, swam with leviathans, and banished dragons with a wave of his mighty hand, was a genuine hero. Angelo had come to Budestro’s school as a trembling stripling with, as the great master had proclaimed, “the greatest of promise, almost as great as my own!” But for all his potential, Angelo never could come close to his distinguished teacher’s prowess. He, Budestro realized at last and to Angelo’s dismay, possessed the very seeming of a great wizard, but not its substance.

That said, Budestro put Angelo forward as one of the prospects when a small kingdom sent an inquiry to the master for a court wizard. Over the years, Angelo had done well enough, moving from assignment to minor assignment to merit consideration when Regente Constantino of Enth sent out his requirements for the newest occupant of the tower.

To everyone’s surprise and delight, Angelo proved the perfect match for Enth. He reveled in spectacle, filled every feast day with celestial sparkles and the best of weather. Over time, he had acquired confidence in the one great talent he possessed, even become proud of it. His greatest glory was the friendship of Zoraida, the heiress to the regente throne. She adored him, and everything he did. She trusted him, and often asked his advice. He was truthful about everything he told her, except for that one small detail.

With her father’s death, Zoraida had taken the throne. She was not yet the seasoned diplomat or soldier. Enth was seen as vulnerable. Her officers and ministers did their best to bring her to maturity, but alas, the krilla were at the gates or, rather, above them.

Now she believed that he, Angelo, would be their bulwark against the foe, to buy peace and resecure the borders.

Angelo sat in the center of the cold tiles, on the heart of the pentagram, and clutched his head with both hands, the skirts of his elegant robes spread around him. How could he defeat an army? He was an illusionist!

All the grand stories that Angelo had claimed for his own had been exploits performed by his master. His own tales could have stirred no one’s soul. The three giants he had “bested” had drunk themselves half to death. He had only told the townsfolk that he had put them into a deep sleep, and let them take care of the ugly details. The battle with the necromancer of Filith had been a chess game, and a poor player that lich had been. Even the dragon whose hoard had produced his whitstone and the other treasures had been a wingling he had rescued in the woods, pursued by a farmer for stealing a goose. Oh, Andoria had grown up to be a massive and fearsome beast, though she still felt beholden to him. They shared a picnic now and again on the slopes of her mountain fastness: an entire sheep for her, a pie and a keg of ale for him. He signaled to Andoria by holding high a crystal she had given him, and she would come. They had had many a golden time together. Angelo recalled every day with pleasure.

The dragon! The crystal!

Angelo lifted his head from his hands, his heart filling with hope. That was his solution! No army could withstand the onslaught of a full-grown dragon!

But Andoria was not at his beck. She had business of her own to attend to, flying with other dragons, adding to her hoard (Angelo never asked how), and hunting to fill her belly and that of her occasional offspring. Even when he wanted to see her, she often didn’t see his signal for days on end.

Yet she would see it soon enough, Angelo thought, standing and brushing chalk dust from his robes. Yes, if they could hold off the onslaught for a while with the realm’s armies, his dragon friend would rid Enth of the invaders. Zoraida was counting on him to work miracles. He must prepare to the best of his abilities. Yes! There was much to be done!

He hurried down to the classroom. The door stood ajar, a sign that all was not right. His dozen apprentices in their plain, plum-colored tunics and dark trousers stood huddled together beside their scarred and stained work tables, listening intently as Mistress Drucella, his journeywoman and housekeeper, explained the news. How were they taking it? He cloaked himself in shadow and insinuated himself into the room.

Across the top of the enormous slate that filled the wall at the front of the room were written the laws of magic, which each would-be wizard had to memorize to pass even the first test of apprenticeship, among them the Law of Confusion, the Rule of Three, the Law of Attraction, the Law of Contagion, and the Law of Distraction. Half a sentence had been scrawled under the last one, meaning that a lesson in it had been under way when the word came.

“This is the safest location you may find yourselves in,” the tall, narrow-faced woman said, her hands clenched at her sides. “The best defenses in the realm, the stoutest walls and the bravest guards. We had an excellent harvest this year, so there will be no shortage of food, and the wells in each of the courtyards are guarded by pixies, so the water will stay sweet. Are there any questions?” The severe look she sent around to the trembling students suggested that they had better not have any. Nothing was allowed to be out of place in her domain, no matter what the provocation. Even her tight bun looked like black lacquer instead of individual strands.

But, there was always one in every crowd who failed to see the obvious. The honorable Francisco de Monteleone held up one thick-fingered hand.

“Shouldn’t we go somewhere else? This is where the enemy is going to come, isn’t it?”

Drucella fixed a basilisk stare on the stocky lad and prepared to flay him with sharp words, but Angelo dropped his cloak of shadow, appearing in their midst like a phantasm. The apprentices gasped and gazed in wonder. They always did. One would think they would have learned to expect his dramatic entrances by then.

He shook his head. If they had realized what a fraud he was, they would be so disappointed. They had to believe in him, now, even if one day the truth came out. Angelo held himself erect. He should be the semblance of the prepared, powerful mage, if not the substance.

“I was going to ask for a volunteer,” he said. “I am so glad that one of you stepped forward!”

“But I didn’t volunteer,” the youth said. He resembled his father, Count Vincente, in that both of them looked like particularly dull cowherds, stolid, lantern-jawed, and strong as their own oxen, perfect for endurance and a simple task.

“Ah, I heard you say you wanted to be somewhere else,” the wizard said, enjoying the lad’s discomfiture. “That is convenient. I have somewhere for you to go.” He clapped sharply once, then opened his palms. The clear blue bubble of crystal dropped out of empty air into his cupped hands. The dragonstone felt good to the touch, cool and hot at the same time. The cone of blue power it emitted, visible to anyone with even a touch of the talent, lit his fingers and splayed a pattern of light on the ceiling. He eyed Francisco. It was a foolproof mission, but de Monteleone was capable of increasing the intensity of his foolhardiness to undo even the greatest of safeguards. Thank goodness he had his noble rank to fall back upon. “This task is of the greatest importance to Enth. I need a messenger stout of heart, strong in bone and sinew, enduring in the face of adversity.” And gullible in wit and will, Angelo thought, watching the boy straighten up on his stool at each increasing compliment. Francisco sprang to his feet.

“I will do it, sir!” he exclaimed.

“Good. Here are your instructions. Listen carefully.” Angelo plunked the globe into the boy’s palm. “Take this to the highest peak on the Naral Massif. Hold it up in the air. Wait until the dragon comes. Bring her here.”

“That’s all?” Francisco asked, clutching the stone orb.

“Yes!”

“No incantations? No spells? No potions? No magic passes or dances?”

“Oh, certainly, if you wish,” Angelo said, patting him on the head, though the boy stood several hands taller than he did. “You may chant, ‘Come, dragon, come,’ and perform the tarantella. That won’t help, but it might help keep you warmer on the mountaintop. On your way, then. Take a stout cloak, rations and a bedroll.” He shooed Francisco toward the open portal. The lad hesitated in the doorway.

“What about a sword?”

“Good idea! She can use it to pick her teeth.” Francisco scurried away, in search of supplies. A sword! Really. To defend against a friendly dragon? The other apprentices tittered. Angelo rounded upon them. “Don’t laugh! He will have the easiest task of all of us. There is much to plan. Now, listen closely.”

The Grandee Angelo, Court Wizard of Enth!” announced the herald pursuivant, as the Herald Regente himself was already engaged at the long table full of nobles and ministers of the realm. He repeated it, but his voice was drowned out in the hubbub. Angelo gave the balding, middle-aged man in the blue-and-silver livery a kindly look. None of them were ready for a situation like this.

“But why aren’t we prepared?” the condestable demanded, probably echoing the thoughts of everyone present.

“Too long at peace,” growled General Rafello. The chief of all the armed forces of Enth stood a head taller than anyone else present, and seemed even more massive because of his sapling-straight posture and heavy leather cloak. He flattened both rough palms on the broad planks of the table. Massive relief maps had been assembled from interlocking pieces like a giant jigsaw. Featureless game pawns painted gold for Enth’s troops and red to indicate Solognian forces had been deployed on the carved valleys and passes. The red vastly outnumbered the gold. “It wasn’t for want of me insisting we increase our defenses and soldiers under arms.”

Dragon Caller by Ciruelo

“Who could have foreseen that Sologne would invade?” Ricahembra Elisabetta Incypta asked. “Who would know that they were building up their army so much?”

“I did!” said Rafello. “Our late liege allowed the numbers to fall over the years of calm. We could have gone on longer, but our regente, forgive me for saying so, your serenity, rejected the suit of Prince Francour four times. He could not help but take it as an insult, not to mention dashing his kingdom’s hopes. The decline of Sologne’s economy has been known for some time. It would seem apparent that he wishes to take what he needs by means of force, as a last resort to solve their problems, and to assuage his pride. Now we do not have enough soldiers or siege weaponry to send to the front. Not that we would be able to counter so many krilla! Further reports from my scouts say there are as many as three thousand!”

Angelo slid into his chair on Zoraida’s left. She sent him a hopeful glance. He smiled in a reassuring manner.

“Nonsense,” said Count Guillerme Salazin, the realm’s treasurer, his pointed black beard bobbing with every syllable. “That would be the hatching of two decades, and cost a fortune to feed. If they are so desperate, they do not have those resources. Your scouts panicked and multiplied the invaders by a hundred.”

“How dare you suggest my scouts are cowards?” Rafello demanded, pounding both fists on the table. His mustaches seemed to uncurl and curl in his fury.

“What’s done is done,” Zoraida said, holding up her hands to silence them. “The enemy approaches! We must face this onslaught with what we have, not what we wish we had.” It was well said, something that her late father might have uttered. The fretting ministers looked wistful and worried.

“With your permission, your serenity, I would send to Moris for reinforcements,” Rafello said. “Their man-sized landsnakes could help hold back the ground forces!”

“Send the message immediately to the queen,” the regente said. The general flicked a finger in the direction of one of his military aides, who dashed out the door.

Angelo cleared his throat, drawing every eye in the room to him.

“It is at least two weeks’ march from the south shore even once they sail across the sea, your serenity. They will never arrive in time. Escotio’s army is close to our northern border, but still far away. We are on our own. Sologne is on the border closest to the castle. If the invaders are in the mountain pass, we have mere days to prepare a defense.”

“What do you know of defending a realm, magician?” Rafello sneered. “You tell stories and make pretty pictures.”

“He is a great wizard!” Zoraida said, her eyes flashing.

“If he is such a great wizard,” the general said, lowering his enormous eyebrows over his bony nose, “then why doesn’t he cause the Solognian army to turn around and go home?”

“That is precisely what I intend to do,” Angelo said, confident and grave. The ministers broke out into exclamations of disbelief. From his eyes and hands, he sent colors to form shapes on the features of the raised relief map. In a moment, tiny figures marching two by two under a Solognian flag took the place of the clumsy pawns. “See here: they must come west through here to reach the castle. It is the only access point, so here your forces will meet them.” A vast troop in gold, with Enth’s dark-blue and silver banners flying, appeared at the mouth of the pass, blocking the red from advancing.

“You don’t need to tell me that,” Rafello said, his eyebrows lowering still farther. We will throw all our forces at them there. We will fight to the last soldier, to the last arrow and bolt in our quivers! They shall not conquer this citadel.”

Angelo caused the two armies to wade into one another, swords arcing and arrows flying. Some fell immediately. Others bled convincingly from wounds in body or limb, but continued to fight. The red forces overwhelmed them and forced them back, back, back to the very gates of the castle and inside, where unarmed men and women in livery dropped to the ground, bleeding their lives out. Suddenly, the winged snakes swooped from the sky to worry the fighters in gold. They harried the cavalry that survived, and surrounded the keep. A tiny figure that resembled Zoraida slashed with a silver-bladed sword at the striking beasts. Her defenders fell one by one. Around him, the ministers gasped.

“And the krilla?” Angelo asked. “Do we have enough to withstand them and their poison? The archers and sword-wielders who ride upon them?”

Every eye turned to the general. His mustachios seemed to wilt.

“No,” he said. “I have only forty krilla. My forces are spread to every border. They cannot gather here in time. Can you cause the earth to heave up and swallow Sologne’s army? Can you cause lightning to rain down on them and destroy those cursed flying monsters? How can you achieve victory against such odds?”

Angelo couldn’t help but smile, the expression lifting the corners of his mustache.

“I can’t. But I can help to lessen the loss of life and cause Prince Francour to turn back. Not right away, but very soon after he arrives.”

“How?” Zoraida asked, her eyes wide.

The wizard patted her hand. He had just struck on a desperate, but possible solution. “By making him think that he has won, but not the prize that he seeks.”

Angelo’s apprentices greeted the visiting ministers and other dignitaries with grace, helping them up the narrow stairs to the top of the mystic tower. The spire was under guard by the household cavalry, two dozen picked krilla riders, all that remained in the citadel of the airborne force.

As always, a crowd in the trimeter room was a tight fit, but every minister in the castle who had not taken to horse or to krilla wanted to watch Angelo’s plan take shape. They clustered around the enormous crystal sphere, a relic of LaDarnel, the third court magician who had served the royal family of Enth, making a modicum of room for Zoraida, who had changed from her court finery into her field uniform of leather tunic and boots.

He had never been as proud of his apprentices as at that moment. Grandaa Alessandra TalEmbra, a big, strapping girl from the western provinces, her blond braids bound up under a borrowed helmet, stood with the volunteer archers and spear carriers in the very bottom of the pass. At the bottom of the sphere, they saw her gloved palm. All around the perimeter of the globe were the images of men and women in leathern tunics and caps, holding their weapons ready, every face as nervous as if they were facing a tax audit.

“How is it we see what is happening so far away?” Rafello asked, digging in one nostril with the nail of his little finger.

“The Law of Contagion,” Angelo explained. “These two magical orbs touched one another during a joining ritual, so everything that happens around the one is visible through the other.”

Hastily, the general whipped his finger away from his nose.

“Why do I not have one of these crystals?” Rafello demanded, to cover his embarrassment.

“You do not have the wits to use it,” Angelo said, frankly. “If you had any magical talent, you would have learned it in childhood, and you would probably have been one of my students, instead of joining the army.”

“I will conscript your apprentices, all of them!”

Angelo sighed.

“You nearly have, general. My students have left their studies to help to defend this realm. May we have this argument later?”

“Very well,” Rafello said, the blaze in his eyes assuring Angelo that the discussion would be resumed in the very near future.

Alessandra held the crystal out to the left and right, just in time to see the fifty hunters disappear into the thick woods to either side of the two trimeter-wide gravel-topped road. Two hundred peasants armed with bows and spears, cloaked by wizardry in the semblance of trained fighters, stood more or less in formation, awaiting the signal. One company of real soldiers were split front and back, to keep them from running away. Angelo couldn’t say he blamed them. They wanted to defend the realm, but they were scared, as any sensible person would be.

A deathly shriek came out of the very air, the cry of the krilla. Suddenly, the air was full of wings. The gigantic red-and-yellow-banded snakes, each with a human rider, swooped out of the sky toward the first ranks. At the company’s head rode Francour, whooping and laughing.

“I hate him,” Zoraida said, through gritted teeth. Angelo reached over to pat her hand.

The soldiers loosed quarrels from their crossbows, then dropped them onto their tethers to lift sword against the airborne foes.

“Let fly!” the master bowman bellowed from the woods. Arrows arched from among the trees. The riders had to raise their shields to protect themselves from the onslaught. At least one of the winged serpents fell, to be chopped to pieces by the Enthian defenders. But foot soldiers were no match for flying troops, especially with beasts that wielded a poisonous bite.

Make it look good, Angelo murmured. Steady. Steady. Now!

The Enth cavalry rose up from the forest. The lieutenant in charge, the finest rider in the realm with the finest steed, made straight for Francour. The prince recoiled, then raised his sword to defend himself. The lieutenant, acting on strict orders, zipped around him in a circle.

“Gnyaaah!” the lead officer shouted, putting his thumb to his nose. Then he lit out at a sharp vector to the south, his reptile almost flat out on the air.

“Gnyaaah!” the squad bellowed, following their commander’s lead.

The prince’s dark eyebrows shot up his forehead.

“Kill them!” he yelled, spurring his lashing steed.

As predicted, the Solognian force followed them, bellowing, shooting bolts from their crossbows. The Enthians fled, their krilla weaving from side to side to avoid the arrows. Below, suddenly deprived of their air cover, the Solognian army poured from the mountain pass, swords high and teeth bared.

The professional soldiers at the head of the Enth forces met them bravely, fighting with sword and shield, shouting their defiance. The peasants in their midst loosed their spears, fortunately missing all of the defenders. It soon became clear that the numbers of the invading force completely overwhelmed the number of Enth soldiers. At a nod from the captain of the armed forces, the peasants fled.

Alessandra held her position bravely, though the view through the crystal trembled with her fear. As the last spear-wielding peasant soldier passed her, she took to her heels after him. The pursuing Solognian troops looked puzzled, then triumphant. They bellowed their success, and began a chant of victory.

“The enemy comes,” Count Guillerme said, glumly. “We must prepare.”

“Indeed. Now is the time for you to conceal yourself, your serenity,” Angelo told Zoraida.

She raised her head, her chin held proudly.

“I am the regente,” she said. “I do not hide from any enemy. I must lead my people, to success or failure!”

“My dear, you are without a doubt the object of this invasion,” Angelo said. “If they succeed in capturing you, it doesn’t matter if we manage to expel them. Remain here. It is comfortable, and protected by myriad spells as well as the mystic mist. You can watch all through the crystal. It will obey your will.”

“She has magic?” Rafello asked, looking from one to the other.

“Oh, yes,” Angelo said, regarding her proudly. “She would have been a serviceable enchantress, but her destiny is to lead.”

Rafello was accustomed to accepting orders without question, but this took a good deal of swallowing. Eventually, he managed it, and went on to the next concern. “But Francour seeks her. He will not stop until he finds her.”

“And he shall find her,” Angelo said, removing his tall hat and sending it floating up to the ceiling. “This is all part of the story we are telling the Solognians, the illusion we are performing for them.” This transformation didn’t even require touching his whitstone. The magic flowed from his eyes, mouth and palms, tickling up and down his body. He knew every plane and curve of her face and bestowed it on himself. His hair darkened and flowed into elegant braids, and his fluttering robes took on the semblance of Zoraida’s best court gown. At the last minute, he made his beard and mustachios disappear, revealing smooth cheeks and jaw. He drew the rest of the power back inside himself to settle his nerves, and smiled at the ministers. “How do I look?”

The astonishment on every face proved he had succeeded. He preened and touched his cheek with a delicate forefinger. The ministers looked repulsed and intrigued at the same time.

“My disguise appears to be a success!” Angelo said. “Then, let us go meet my future consort.” He hoisted his staff in one hand and headed for the stairs.

“Yes … your serenity.” Rafello hopped to open the door for him.

Not a few of the castle denizens had wanted to throw Angelo from the walls instead of going along with his humiliating suggestions. Only the order of the condestable to follow his instructions kept him from being murdered. His maroon-clad apprentices had spread out across the vast citadel’s environs to make preparations and to find hiding places from which to work their wonders. All the visible signs of wealth that they could remove were pulled down and hidden, in the bottom of middens, the depths of sewers, underneath pig sties, and below washtubs and piles of dirty clothes.

The ministers arrayed themselves in their oldest and most disreputable garments, some borrowed from their own grooms and servants. Scarcely a jewel was to be found among their adornments.

“This is a disgrace,” Ricahembra Elisabetta snarled, swiping her hair underneath a tattered veil tied with a ribbon, without her usual tiara to anchor it.

“It is temporary,” Angelo promised her. “Rescue is coming, I swear it.”

“Hmmph!”

“The enemy comes!” a guard called from the wall above the portcullis.

“Fling open the gates!” Angelo shouted. He arranged himself with dignity, chin high and borrowed crown set straight on his hair.

Sologne’s army marched in, but the prince himself flitted in over the walls on his krilla, followed by a score of soldiers and attendants on their own steeds. His cheeks were wind-whipped until his normally pale cheeks bloomed red, and his long black hair lay in tangles. His hissing steed descended to the inlaid stones of the courtyard, folded its wings, and coiled into a loop. Francour bounded from the saddle. His brows were drawn down in fury.

“Regente Zoraida, your insult to me could not be ignored one more day,” he said. “I have defeated your incompetent and cowardly troops.” Beside Angelo, Rafello growled. Angelo kicked him with the side of his foot. The illusion he had cast on the general to imitate Zoraida’s petite, dark-skinned lady-in-waiting wouldn’t hold for long if he emitted those baritone rumbles. “I claim your realm and all the riches therein as tribute to me and my family! You are now my chattel. Bow to me!”

Angelo held out his skirts and curtseyed. This was as much playacting as the appearance of dignity he maintained every day. Rafello and the other ministers and servants gasped to see “her” kneel on Francour’s demand.

“I yield, Prince Francour,” Angelo said, humbly. The Solognian grinned and grasped one of his hands to yank her upright.

“I can be merciful and gracious. We shall be married soon. But I will not be your consort. As your conqueror, you shall be mine, as is all you once ruled. You are regente no longer. And don’t you dare bite me again!”

“I won’t. In truth, we welcome you to our realm—your realm, your grace,” Angelo said, careful to maintain Zoraida’s fluting tones. “I did not want to insult you, sir, but I could not let you see the truth of our situation. If your messenger didn’t tell you of what he could not possibly fail to have seen, it was only postponing the terrible day for a little while. We were too ashamed to admit it.”

Francour’s brows flew upward.

“Admit what?”

Angelo wrung his hands together. “The depths of our embarrassment! The shame of our destitution. The terrible situation in which my entire realm has found itself. The gleam of our former glory has faded away, sire! Thank you, oh, thank you for coming to our rescue!”

Then, Francour saw for the first time the careful desolation of the courtyard. All of Angelo’s apprentices, under Mistress Drucella’s iron hand, had cast illusions everywhere: broken windows, cracked stonework, missing slates on the roof. Maintaining them would take all of their concentration and not a little of the precious whitstone in Angelo’s staff, yet he had to admit how effective the semblance was. Horses and cattle he knew to be well-fed looked skinny and ill-kept, and the people of the castle had rubbed dirt into their clothing and faces.

“I am afraid,” Angelo said, “that we are not able to give you the welcome that you deserve.”

How long can you maintain this subterfuge?” Drucella asked Angelo. His journeywoman served as his tiring-woman, giving her the excuse to come and go from his quarters. She brushed and braided the wizard’s long hair, just in case Francour or any of his soldiers burst into the regente’s private chambers, as they had more than once over the previous three days. From the artfully crooked window frame, the magician peered down at the scene in the courtyard. Francour led his troops into one building after another, searching for the riches that he assumed were there. So far, their quest had been in vain.

The Solognian quartermaster, a stout man of four or five decades, peered over the pathetic cattle and fowl presented for his inspection, looking for suitable animals for his master’s feasting. The castle’s cooks had been given free rein to adulterate any meal as they chose, and their efforts had been magnificently horrible. A few cunningly placed rats’ heads and a very spoiled potato had caused one of the cook’s boys to be beaten and tossed out of the feast hall the previous night. The servers had quite rightly congratulated themselves.

“As long as I need to,” Angelo said. He touched the whitstone in his staff. It showed signs of erosion under the constant drain he had to put on it. His apprentices were too inexperienced to mete out the very minimum of whits needed. Angelo could feel every fragment of stone burst away from it. He worried that the stone would not last until he managed to horrify Francour into leaving. If it failed, all would be revealed, all but the presence of Zoraida in the tower. Thankfully, she was safe, no matter what happened. “The dragon must come soon.”

He peered out across the mountains, scanning the skies. To the north, he saw the blue cone of light, the beacon as yet unanswered. Francisco faithfully maintained his vigil, to no avail. Curse it, had Andoria gone off with another one of her lovers? She must come. She must!

Yet, by day ten of the terrible occupation, Andoria had still not appeared. Even Angelo, who had to show the bravest face of all, began to tire of the taste of moldy cheese and stale bread. Not even illusion could disguise the dusty odor and rancid taste. Many of the visitors had gone down sick because of the spoiled food.

Once in a while, the servants tried to make themselves some decent food in the lower chambers of the castle, but if the invaders smelled good cooking, they fell on it like a pack of hungry dogs, kicking and punching others out of the way to find something edible.

The Solognians had raided the town at the bottom of the hill, but the mayor and guildmasters had been forewarned, too. Drucella herself had ridden down in secret to explain the situation and convince them to cooperate. The quartermaster and a hundred troops returned, looking shamefaced at the meager and downright dangerous bounty that they had obtained. Angelo marveled at the number of rotten apples and ill-cured meats that emerged from cellars. Even he began to wonder if Enth was as well-off as it had once seemed.

In desperation, the krilla were sent home again and again to the borders of Sologne to bring victuals. Risking a revolt by his own troops, Francour kept those for himself and his inner circle.

“Ah, my bride!” the Solognian prince chortled, as Angelo made a timid entrance into the feasting hall, clad in demure pink and white. Not one of the nobility of Enth was present, only Francour’s cronies and their krilla.

They had not been entirely unsuccessful in their search for valuable goods. In the corners of the room, priceless tapestries and silk carpets lay rolled up. On top of those were scattered silver ewers and bowls, golden platters, jeweled goblets, tiaras, jewelry and chains of office ripped from the necks of the ministers. Angelo smiled to himself. The hoard did not represent a tenth of what had been on display up until the day before the Solognians arrived.

In the giant fireplace, a whole pig and two fat geese imported from Sologne turned on a spit, dripping grease into the hissing flames. The smell of roasting meat made the wizard’s mouth water. Francour tore off a hunk of meat from the haunch of rabbit in his hand with his teeth.

“Join us!” He beckoned for Angelo to sit close, but the wizard kept a distance. “No, here! Beside me!” He wrapped an arm around the wizard and hauled him to his side. He held the haunch of coney under his nose. “Here! Have a bite.”

Angelo hated to show any signs of weakness, but the meat smelled so good. It had been days since his last decent meal. He leaned forward to take the morsel, but Francour yanked it away at the last second, and shoved his grinning face at him instead.

“Kiss me, Zoraida!” he shouted, as the others laughed.

Angelo was grateful that the regente was hidden away in the tower. If Francour had tried that on her, she would have bitten right through his lip. Angelo raised his hands in mock horror and pushed the prince back with all his strength. Francour went flying backward. Angelo sprang up, out of the prince’s reach.

“Oh, no, my liege! Not until the wedding!”

“By heaven, you’re a fierce one.” Francour said, scrambling to his feet. He threw the joint of meat into the fireplace. One of the snakes pursued it, then lay on the stones hissing in fury as the flames exploded, depriving it of its prize. “Yes, the wedding! Let’s get that over with as soon as we can! At least, I will get some decent wedding presents out of this pathetic country.”

Francour ordered Condestable Inez and Count Guillerme to accompany him, Angelo and his minions down to the city at the base of the citadel’s peak, Rainbow Gate. When they flew in, Angelo was delighted at the seeming devastation and dire poverty he surveyed from above. Drucella and the apprentices had done well in the city. Rainbow Gate looked as if it was haunted, not a living town. Rats scurried from shadow to shadow, chittering. Angelo recognized the fine hand of Dayeed, his youngest apprentice, who showed marked talent for enchanting vermin. One day he would be able to control even the largest of animals. The boy had to be hidden somewhere close by.

As the Solognian herald had demanded of them, the lord mayor and the head of each of the guilds were present in the town square. They regarded the Solognians and their reptilian mounts with equal dread.

“Why, no, my lord,” the mayor said. Ordinarily, he looked plump and prosperous, and his wife dressed in the height of fashion. Instead, his clothes appeared to have been fashioned from scratchy, noisome gunny sacks belted with rope. Angelo applauded their initiative. “We have nothing better than what we send up to the citadel.”

“It’s the best place in the realm,” the master of the millers’ guild said. “We’re proud of that.”

“We send them our very best work,” the master goldsmith added, smiling nervously. He had to wear his chain of office, despite it drawing the greedy eye of their visitor. “It is to honor our lady regente.” He bowed to Angelo, who dipped his head slightly in return.

Francour looked as though he wanted to snatch the ornate chain. He balled up his fist instead and held it under the merchant’s chin.

“I marry your regente tomorrow. Bring all of your gold and silver to me as gifts for that happy celebration! Go back and bring it all forth, now! I demand it, as your new lord and master!”

The master smith hesitated. He cleared his throat, and nervously stroked the necklace.

“But, your grace,” he said, with an oily bow. “By the laws of our land, as my new liege I owe you every copper of my taxes, but my merchandise is my property. Surely you don’t mean to confiscate that which I own.” He spread out his hands. “There are some who would say the same might happen to your own merchants’ representatives, if they cross the border into Enth, to trade with us, should such a thing become known. The practice might even spread to other lands, and anarchy would ensue.”

Francour gaped like a fish, his mouth opening and closing.

“That is true, your grace,” Angelo said, trying to look demure. “The rule of law is important. To suspend that would prove … difficult.”

“No, we wouldn’t want to set a precedent, would we?” the condestable said, cocking her head at the prince. “What would your esteemed father say, your grace, if you were to suspend the rule of law?”

Francour grumbled. He balled up his fists, but his lackeys prevented him from lunging forward to use them on the guildmasters. These days his complexion never seemed to dim from red fury.

“You will show honor to me as your new liege! I expect wedding presents! And send me some decent food for the feast!”

“Of course, your grace. Those will come from our very hearts, I assure you, your grace!” The guildmasters shot Zoraida sympathetic glances as they departed, with Angelo riding pillion behind Francour on his krilla.

Ha-ha! Angelo thought. Time to make it worse yet.

As he and Francour landed in the courtyard, he rubbed his hand over the whitstone in his staff. The mystic stone had shrunk by a third already, but he had no choice. Instead of just seeing, they must feel this one.

Screaming erupted from the kitchens at the rear of the castle. The frantic noise spread, followed by hissing and clattering. Servants erupted from the door and fled past them.

“What now?” Francour demanded, then gasped. “By all that is sacred!”

Out of the door came a wave of black, shiny-shelled cockroaches the size of hen’s eggs. The flood of insects poured out onto the stone paving. A host of them made for Francour’s mount. They crested over it, making the winged snake leap about, biting at its own tail. It took off into the sky, followed by the other krilla.

“Come back here!” Francour yelled, then batted at the ones that started to climb his boots. The other Solognians batted at the gigantic insects, shrieking in fear. Even though it ate away at his stone further, he made the roaches nip at their victims. The newcomers fled, batting and stamping on their small attackers. They scrambled over one another to reach higher ground, as if to escape the insects.

Crack! The whitstone in Angelo’s staff split with an audible report. Angelo stared, horrified. He had to stop, lest it crumble away entirely. Hastily, he gathered what energy he could, and let it flow out through his hands. The wave of roaches receded and seemed to melt away, down into the cracks between the paving stones of the courtyard.

“Fire and lightning!” Francour swore, as the last insect disappeared. “Does that happen often?”

Angelo stood demurely on the steps, the only one left in the courtyard, letting the waves of roaches bump up against the skirts of his robe as if they were of no moment. “Only once a day, my lord. Usually there are more of them, you know.”

“Once a day?” Francour repeated, eyes wide with disbelief. “This place is insane! The wedding will take place tomorrow! Then, I can leave this place under a governor. You will return with me to Sologne.”

“As you wish, my liege,” Angelo said. “May I return to my quarters to prepare?”

“Anything!” Francour shouted.

Angelo curtseyed, and retreated to the regente’s private quarters.

So he was to be carried off to Sologne, he thought as he stumped up the stairs. Well, if nothing else, then Francour still would not have captured Zoraida. He glanced out of the arched window of the regente’s chamber toward his tower, to reassure himself that the protective blue cloud was in place. To his horror, it was gone.

“Well, what’s been happening?” Zoraida asked.

Angelo spun. The young regente sat in her dressing table chair, one knee up on the arm.

“My lady, you can’t be here!” Angelo sputtered.

“I have to know what is happening to my people!” Zoraida said. “I have been watching, but I have to do something! I cannot believe how terrible everything looks, everywhere. What is with all these spider webs?” She kicked at the nearest, a huge, wispy octagon clinging between her bed and the wall. Her foot passed right through. “Oh! They’re not real.”

“My lady, I must protest,” Angelo said, lowering his voice. “The tower was the safest place in the realm for you. You must return there immediately.” He took her arm and urged her toward the door.

Zoraida shook loose from his grasp. “I am not afraid of that donkey. You will save me and all of my people. You have the power to defeat this monstrous brat! Call up a windstorm! Flood the castle and wash them away! Strike him dead with lightning!”

“I cannot!” Angelo exclaimed, wringing his hands around his half-ruined staff. “I’m not a real wizard, regente!”

The words were out before he could stop them.

She eyed him as if she had never seen him before. Angelo felt his heart sink into his borrowed boots. Her voice dropped to a dangerously quiet tone.

“What do you mean by that, Angelo?”

He bowed his head. The truth had at last come out, as he knew one day it would.

“I am but a humble illusionist, my liege. Your father was satisfied with my skills. So far they have been adequate to my position. Unfortunately, I can’t call down the lightning or cause a chasm to open in the earth, as dearly as I would love to do that for you. I would work any wonder you wished, if only I could!”

“But, all those things you do? The pixies? The grand fireworks?”

“What I do, I do very well,” he admitted. “But they’re not great workings of magic. I can fool the eye, the ear, even the hand. I change the seeming, not the substance.”

“Oh.” That small syllable cut through to his heart.

“You must hide, my lady,” Angelo said. “He means to marry you tomorrow! I mean, me. Go back, now, before …”

“Before what?”

To Angelo’s horror, the Solognian prince was at the door. Francour looked gleeful. Angelo longed to have the power of the lightning, if only to strike the expression from his face. The invader stalked into the room and circled the two.

“Well, two delectable treasures! I don’t know which one to kiss first. Which of you is the real Zoraida?”

“Me, of course, my lord!” Angelo said, at once. Francour grabbed him by the arm. Angelo began to create a physical illusion to hide his mustachios, but Francour cast aside his staff before he could complete the illusion. He pressed his lips to Angelo’s. As the wizard feared, the Solognian got a mouthful of beard. Francour shoved him away, sputtering.

“A hairy face! That is disgusting! So, this must be my promised bride!” He seized Zoraida and bent his mouth to hers. She promptly chomped down on his lower lip. He punched her in the side of the head, so she let go and fell dazed to the floor. Francour hauled her up by one arm. “Yes, that is the Zoraida I remember. We will be married now, and you shall return with me to my father’s kingdom. As for you,” he said, kicking Angelo in the side as the wizard’s disguise failed, “to the dungeons with you! To the most remote cell, to await your execution! Impersonating the sacred person of the heir to the throne, humiliating me and my people and,” he added, shuddering, “making me kiss you!”

“No, your grace!” Angelo begged, falling to his knees. “I am a creature of the light! Do not shut me in the darkness!”

Francour let out a bark of cruel laughter. His men seized Angelo and dragged him along the corridor. The prince led the way down the three flights of dank stone stairs to the dungeon.

“They told me there was treasure here,” he said, signing to the shamefaced jailor to open the banded wooden door at the very end of the cavern. “Just like all the other lies here, there was nothing. Now, you can have all the treasure to yourself.”

Francour’s men threw him into the cell, then slammed the door on him before he could spring up and escape. Angelo heard the key turn in the lock. He peered through the pinhole-sized opening in the door. The prince grinned at him.

“Never let him out,” the prince told the jailor. “In fact—” He snatched the key and snipped it in half with a metal pincer. “There. No more interference. No more illusions. Now, I shall claim my bride!”

Angelo turned away as the light receded. All preparations had been made for the next day, so there was no reason to delay. Zoraida would no doubt be thrust into a gown and cloak, decked with flowers and tied up by Francour’s minions so she could not escape. She would be married against her will.

Fortunately, the court wizard mused, feeling his way toward the rear wall of the cell, Francour is oh, so predictable. Yes, the notch in the brick was exactly where he had made it. A little digging in the clay helped to dislodge it. Carefully, now, he admonished himself. Wrapped in a tiny scrap of silk was a fragment he had chipped from his whitstone, to be left here in case of need. He let it rest in his hand, letting it absorb what energy he had in him. Sitting on a hank of decaying straw scattered on the cold stone floor in the dark, he drew from his imagination, the storybooks he had read, and songs he had heard from the troubadours—the dark stories, the ones that had always frightened him as a child.

Drucella wore a pendant upon which he had once used the Law of Contagion so he could see what she saw. He reached out to that.

As he had surmised, everyone in the castle had been forced at swordpoint to the chapel. Drucella stood close to the altar. Zoraida kept turning toward her, her eyes desperate. Francour held her arm firmly. He had tied her hands behind her back.

The royal chaplains, the Priest and Priestess of Life, protested the haste.

“This is not a willing union,” the priestess said. “The woman must accept the man.”

Francour drew his side dagger and held it to Zoraida’s throat. “She accepts me. Say it, woman, or your servants will die one by one.”

“No, your serenity,” Rafello said. “We will die for you.”

“No,” Zoraida said. She tossed her head. “I consent. I brought us to this pass.”

Francour pointed the knife at the priest. “Begin. Get it over with.”

The priest looked angry, but he had no choice.

“May all who wish to celebrate gather here now!” he intoned, holding his arms high.

Angelo let power flow from his eyes, his ears, and his heart, filling the room with ghostly figures, their faces drawn from the catafalques and paintings that lined the chapel.

“By the light, that is the eleventh regente, Milagra!” the priestess gasped, pointing at a small figure with long braids that brushed the ground. Her hand flew toward a towering figure with shoulders twice the width of his waist and a massive jaw. “And the thirtieth, Octavio the third, and …” She paled, swayed and fell to the ground. Her acolytes rushed to her aid, but half the guests fled the hall, screaming in horror.

“Spirits?” Francour demanded, lowering the point of his knife. “This castle is haunted?”

“My ancestors,” Zoraida said, her eyes flashing, though she looked frightened. “They come to protect me.”

“From me?” Francour’s voice squeezed down to a stripling’s squeak.

But that was only the beginning of Angelo’s imaginings. He touched the back of Francour’s neck with cold and clammy fingers that made the prince jump. The memorial plaques on the walls seemed to sway, and ghostly music rose from the choir stalls, even though no singers or musicians sat there.

“Continue!” Francour bellowed.

Then, spiders the size of dogs dropped from the ceiling on webs like silver rope, reaching for the Solognian nobles. They quailed, hunching their backs to avoid the monsters. Shapeless ghosts swooped through the room, passing through the humans and leaving behind only a cold touch. Bats flew, shrieking, to chivvy out those with any courage left.

“I’m going home, my liege!” one of the Solognian nobles shouted.

“I, too!” echoed another. They ran for the door.

“Cowards!” Francour shouted, his face as red as a beet. He snarled at the priests. “Continue!”

By then, only Drucella and Rafello remained. Still, Francour held his would-be bride at the altar. The priest and priestess fought to make themselves heard over the wailing and ghostly music.

Angelo cudgeled his brain for more and more horrifying images and sensations. Go away, curse you! he thought.

He felt burning in the palm of his hand as the stone gave up spark after spark. With a cautious forefinger, he prodded the tiny fragment of whitstone. It had dissolved into powdery sand. The illusions in the chapel began to fade.

No, not yet! he pleaded with it. He channeled all the energy in his body into the stone, feeding it. All the horrors must continue.

He hung rotting faces in every corner of the chapel. He made the stones beneath Francour’s feet shake. He loved Zoraida as if she was his own child. She counted upon him. All he had he owed to her and her father. If it cost him his life, he would drive away this menace. He painted the complexion of one long dead over Zoraida’s beautiful face, eyes hollow, skin dripping from her bones.

At last, Francour broke, dropping her arm. “I cannot stand this place a moment longer!” he shrieked.

That is all I needed to hear, Angelo thought. The blackness of the cell moved in and overwhelmed his vision.

Angelo? Grandee Wizard, wake up!” a child’s voice demanded. “Master? Master!”

“Oh, for pity’s sake, put this in his hand,” Drucella’s voice insisted.

The only sensation Angelo felt was in his right palm, a smooth—stone?—shaped like half an egg. His whitstone! Greedily, he drew from it, drinking its power, feeling the warmth flow, until he had an arm, a body, feet, another arm, and a head, all of them aching. He fed on the stone’s energy, though the egg shrank in his grasp. The burst of magic flowing from it jolted him back from the very edge of death.

With a gasp, Angelo opened his eyes. He was propped on the stinking, cold stone steps of the dungeon, surrounded by his apprentices, all wide-eyed with worry. The top of the silverwood staff rested in the palm of his hand. He drew it up to look at it, puzzled as to the gap at the top. Then, his muddled brain puzzled out what he was looking at. The great whitstone that he had had for decades was reduced to a mere grain of sand. Ah, well, he would have to find another. He found his voice at last.

“Is Zoraida all right?”

Drucella nodded. Her usually perfect hair was scattered over her shoulders, and she had tears in her eyes.

“It’s over,” she said. “They’re leaving. Can you stand?”

Angelo felt as weak as a wilted leaf, but he chuckled. “To watch them leave? I can fly!”

This whole nation is a madhouse!” Francour kicked his steed in its scaly flanks. The shrieking krilla rose into the air, and the rest of his minions’ beasts with it. “I leave it to decay under its own rot!”

The castle staff cheered as the Solognians flew eastward in the overcast sky.

“They will come back,” Zoraida whispered. She trembled in Angelo’s arm. “I don’t want to see him again. He is insane.”

“I think that will be highly unlikely,” Angelo said. He had looked to the north the moment he had found a window to look out of. The cone of blue light in the distance was gone. He clutched the last minute fragment of whitstone in his palm. It would hold together for one more message, and one final great illusion.

I am no warrior, Angelo thought, guiltily. I have no stomach for this. But Zoraida must be safe.

He sent his will toward the north, pointing toward the rising Solognian force. Those, my dear friend. They threaten my nest. Will you take them?

The thought came back with a hearty chuckle. Krilla are my favorite food.

In his hands, Angelo sculpted the semblance of a plump white dove, and threw it into the air. It rose up among the circling winged snakes and their riders.

“A dove of peace!” Francour sneered down at the people in the courtyard. “My father will make war against them until the mountains crumble!”

The Solognians laughed. One of them drew his sword, making as if to chop the bird in half in midair, as a final insult to Enth.

But, something over a trimeter from the shining dove, an obstruction in the air caused it to rebound back, almost out of the swordsman’s hand. The others, all of the armed krilla cavalry of the Solognian army and Francour’s minions, flew close to see what the problem was. Angelo clapped his hands, and the semblance fell away. In the place of the tiny bird flew a full-grown, silver-scaled dragon. It smiled, showing rows of sharp, white teeth. The krilla screamed in panic, scattered and streaked away over the horizon.

“Stop!” Francour bellowed, as his steed raced away, wings frantically flapping, no longer under his control. His voice receded into the distance. “It’s only an illusion! Halt!”

Andoria wheeled lazily on the air, and flew after them at her leisure. She liked to play with her prey a while. Angelo was glad he did not have to watch. Francour might survive, or he might not. The wizard turned to bow to the regente.

“They will not return, your serenity,” he said.

The interrupted wedding feast became a celebration for all the defenders. Musicians suddenly remembered how to tune their instruments, and everyone donned their long-neglected finery. Somehow, sweetmeats, good fruit, and cheeses sprang up from the very earth. To their astonishment and pleasure, Angelo’s apprentices were praised and toasted with good wine that almost magically appeared from cellars, sheds, and haystacks.

“Don’t let it go to your heads,” the court wizard admonished their glowing faces. “You’ll be back learning basic skills tomorrow morning, without fail.”

His stern words didn’t diminish his pupils’ joy in the slightest. Nor should it, he thought, expansively. Ah, he was proud of them.

The dancing and gaiety went on until the shadow of the dragon overspread the courtyard. The merrymakers screamed and huddled together in terror. The music died away.

“She will not harm you!” Angelo called. “Do not fear!”

Andoria circled the castle until Angelo pointed down the curving pathway toward the inlaid circle at the top of the road from the valley. The dragon flew to it and backwinged the air, waiting.

“I must go to her,” he told Zoraida.

“I will come with you,” she said.

“Not without me, your serenity!” Rafello said, horrified. “That’s a dragon!”

“She is our savior,” Zoraida said, taking Angelo’s arm. “I owe her the gratitude of all my realm.”

Andoria dropped a glowing blue egg into Angelo’s hand. The dragonstone.

“Your apprentice gave me this,” she said. “He makes his way back. A faithful boy.”

“I thank you, great one,” Angelo said, bowing. He held the sphere up to her. “Take this back, my friend. Your debt is more than paid.”

“Keep it,” said the dragon, a glint in her ruby eyes. “That was fun. I must return to my eggs. The imp I left caring for them will be … impatient.”

“That is their nature,” the wizard said, gravely. He bowed deeply. “Farewell, my friend.”

“We will see one another soon,” Andoria said. “Bring a sheep. In fact, bring two.”

“I shall!” Angelo laughed, feeling at ease for the first time in more than ten days.

“Not a real magician, eh?” the regente asked, leading them back along the winding white path to the castle. Rafello fell in behind them, his big shoulders at ease for once.

Angelo smiled.

“I … give the illusion of one, in any case.”