To the left, the hallway expanded, then turned a corner. Dan caught a glimpse of long tapestries hanging down from the top of the lofty walls, and he remembered Kelryn mentioning works of art that he had commissioned to display the glories of Fistandantilus. The brightest lights he had seen came from that direction, so Danyal decided, logically enough, to go the other way. He reasoned that the dungeon would be remote from the main gathering halls and dwelling rooms of the manor.

He passed several doors that were smaller than the kitchen door, fitted with brass hinges that had been polished to golden brightness. Continuing his process of deduction, he concluded that these, too, would be unlikely to lead to the dingy underground chambers he was imagining. After a dozen steps, the corridor curled around a curving stone wall; here he found a sturdy iron-strapped door.

"This is the base of the tower," Foryth whispered, gesturing to the rounded wall. "The door probably leads to a stairway that goes up."

"How do you know that?" wondered Dan, incredulous.

"I merely marked the location when we were outside," the historian said modestly.

"Such a mass of stone has to have a foundation on the ground. And this is it."

Realizing that the historian was probably right, Danyal continued on, finding flagstones under his feet now instead of the carpet. Shortly he found still another door, this one also banded with iron, and when he put his face to the frame, he caught the scent of mold and dampness.

His heart quickening, he turned to tell Foryth of his observation, but he saw no sign of the historian! Near panic, Dan padded back along their tracks.

The door that was in the base of the manor tower was open a crack, though the lad knew it had been closed when they first passed it. He could only assume that Foryth Teel had entered here and was perhaps even now climbing toward the upper reaches of the stone spire.

For the first time tonight, Dan felt a twinge of despair. He didn't dare waste time going after his wandering companion, nor could he risik calling out to him. With a soft groan, he hurried back to the door he had suspected led to a downward stairway. There was a heavy iron latch securing the door against being opened from the other side, and this served to confirm the lad's suspicions.

As carefully as possible, he lifted the hasp, then pulled on the door. In the dim light, he saw a stairway descending into utter shadows. Anxiously he looked around, seeing several unlit candles in sconces similar to the mounts holding the burning tapers. He took one and touched it to the wick of a burning candle. Thus armed, he went back to the door.

Just before he started down the damp, stone stairs, he heard a clatter from outside the walls. Men shouted, and Dan deduced that Emilo had begun his diversion. Hoping it was effective, he turned his attentions to the darkness before and below him.

The air was chill with a penetrating miasma that seemed to seep right into his bones. Tiptoeing carefully, clutching the knife in one hand and the candle in the other, he crept down a long flight of stairs.

At the bottom, a dingy corridor forked to the right and left, and he felt a return of his momentary panic as he wondered which way to go. Finally he guessed at random, starting along one branch, holding the candle up as he passed several small cells. The metal doors of these enclosures stood open, and with a quick pass of the candle, Danyal saw that each was unoccupied.

When he reached a door that was closed, he lifted the candle toward the grate at the top of the barrier and tried to peer within.

"Who's there?" demanded a stern feminine, familiar voice, and Dan's heart did handstands in his chest.

"Mirabeth! It's me, Danyal!" he whispered, drawing a gasp of surprise and hope from within.

"Can you get me out of here?" she asked, rushing to the door, coming into the light of his flickering candle. He was relieved to see that she appeared unharmed. One of her ears retained its wax pointed tip, and she had combed one of her twin topknots down to cover the other, undisguised ear.

In another moment Danyal had pried open the catch, which was a very crude lock. Mirabeth gave him a big hug, and he wrapped his arms around her as best as he could while still retaining the grip on his knife and candle.

"Come on!" he urged. "We've got to get you out of here!"

"And just where do you think you'll go?" barked a sneering voice out of the darkness-a voice that Danyal clearly recognized.

It belonged to Kelryn Darewind.

Second Palast, Reapember 374 AC

Flayzeranyx stared at the skull, sensing the desire there. For long years, he had felt the glare of those dead eyes, heard the hushed voice whispering into his mind, insinuating ideas, suggestions, wishes. He knew that the skull tried to use him, that it wanted to employ the dragon to slake its hideous hunger.

But the red dragon's belly rumbled with a hunger of his own.

The eyes in the fleshless skull gaped, unblinking, as they had stared for so many decades. They looked upon the fiery inferno that was the lair of Flayzeranyx, and they watched, and they waited.

For a long time, there was only the smoke, the bubbling of lava and the hissing of steam. Clouds of soot billowed, churning in angry clouds, and tongues of flame licked into the air. Nothing seemed alive here, until finally crimson scales coiled in the darkness and leathery wings expanded to fan the air, sending gusts of wind swirling through the cavern.

Bursts of yellow fire exploded upward, as if exulting in their master's arousal when the mighty serpent raised his head and neck far above the smooth, hardened lava of his perch.

The dragon studied the skull and sensed the need. He saw a pale green image and detected the sparks of crimson fire that burned there. The hunger, the lust, in the skull was an almost palpable force.

"And where is the talisman?" asked the wyrm in a silken voice. He probed, staring with his great yellow eyes, penetrating the depths within the skull.

Abruptly the serpent saw the image change, and he sensed the truth as he beheld the human lair in the mountains. "Your heart of blood and stone is there!"

The skull remained as ever, but did Flayze now detect a mocking leer in the eternally grinning teeth?

"I know the place," he whispered. "The mountaintop stronghold… I have seen it, tolerated it, for these many years."

The skull was silent, still. But the shadowy stare of those dead eyes seemed to penetrate the dragon's very being.

Instinctively Flayze hated that place, hated the powerful allure that drew the attentions of his artifact. The skull wanted the stone with a desperate, powerful longing. The red dragon, on the other hand, had many treasures. He could afford to scorn the chance to add another bauble to his collection.

Wings spreading, the dragon turned toward the world, ready to fly.

Behind him, the skull watched, silent and motionless as ever, its white teeth locked in an eternal grimace.