Teri McLaren
slipped through the silvery gates into the vacant courtyard.
The mist had thinned and the light from the moons and the three sisters sparkled over hundreds of intricate ice sculptures, making the courtyard seem alive with strange animals, flowers, and trees. The half-ore stood transfixed, forgetting the cold, forgetting the guards and the coin in his hand, forgetting his mission and Riolla.
For there in the midst of the cavorting ice sculptures, occupying a massive block of ice, complete with carved waves and the surge of the cauldron, reared the shining, glossy shape of a sea dragon.
"Chelydrus!" breathed Rotapan.
"Amazing, isn't it, Wyrvil? These were carved when her people ruled most of the continent, before the great Thaw. Some say all of them really roamed the world at that time." Saelin's voice came drifting past Rotapan's ear.
"Bow your knee to the god of the waters!" Rotapan snapped, irritated that anyone else would be sharing his audience with Chelydrus. "And just where were you when I was dragged and bloodied and mauled by those wolves?"
Saelin gestured mockingly at the ice sculpture. "Right behind you. Conserving my strength. You didn't seem to need any help. Let's go. The Rimscalla guards won't be long with that slave. I'd rather not have to wait on them."
Before Rotapan could move, Saelin threw a blindfold over his head and jerked the knot tight, setting his dagger's edge at the half-ore's scrawny throat.
"Nobody sees the way in, Wyrvil."
And you won't see the way out, either, he chortled to himself, pointing Rotapan in the direction of Drufalden's castle.