With a roar that outdid the thunder, great chunks of masonry came loose to crash downward upon the Lord of Rondoval, crushing and burying him in an instant.

Mor straightened. The wheel slowed, becoming a staff again. He leaned heavily upon it.

As the echoes died within the hall the remaining sounds of battle came to a halt without. The storm, too, was drifting on its way, its lightnings abated, its thunders stilled in that instant.

One of Jared's lieutenants, Ardel, moved forward slowly and stood regarding the heap of rubble.

"It is over," he said, after a time. "We've won...."

"So it would seem," Mor said.

"There are still some of his men about--to be dealt with."

Mor nodded.

"...And the dragons? And his other unnatural servants?"

"Disorganized now," Mor said softly. "I will deal with them."

"Good. We--what is that noise?"

They listened for several moments.

"It could be a trick," said one of the sergeants, Marakas by name.

"Choose a detail. Go and find out. Report back immediately. "

Mouseglove crouched behind the arras, near to the stairwell that led to the dark places below. His plan was to return to his cell and secure himself within it. A prisoner of Det's would be about the only person on the premises likely to receive sympathetic treatment, he had reasoned. He had succeeded in making it this for on his journey back to duress when the gate had given way, the invaders entered and the sorcerous duel taken place. He had witnessed all of these things through a frayed place in the tapestry.

Now, while everyone's attention was elsewhere, would be the ideal time for him to slip out and head back down. Only... His curiosity, too, had been aroused. He waited.

The detail soon returned with the noisy bundle. Sergeant Marakas wore a tense expression, held the baby stiffly.

"Doubtless Det planned to sacrifice it in some nefarious rite, to assure his victory!" he volunteered.

Ardel leaned forward and inspected. He raised the tiny right hand and turned it palm upwards.

"No. It bears the family's dragon-mark of power inside the right wrist," he stated. "This is Det's own offspring."

"Oh."

Ardel looked at Mor. But the old man was staring at the baby, oblivious to all else.

"What should I do with it, sir?" Marakas asked.

Ardel chewed his lip.

"That mark," he said, "means that it is destined to become a sorcerer. It is also a certain means of identification. No matter what the child might be told while it was growing up, sooner or later it would learn the truth. If that came to pass, would you like to meet a sorcerer who knew you had had a part in the death of his father and the destruction of his home?"

"I see what you are getting at..." said Marakas.

"So you had best--dispose of--the baby."

The sergeant looked away. Then, "Suppose we sent it to some distant land where no one has ever heard of the House of Rondoval?" he asked.

"... Where one day there might come a traveler who knows this story? No. The uncertainty would, in many ways, be worse than a sureness of doom. I see no way out for the little thing. Be quick and merciful."

"Sir, could we not just cut off the arm? It is better than dying."

Ardel sighed.

"The power would still be there," he said,"arm or no arm. And there are too many witnesses here today. The story would be told, and it would but add another grievance. No. If you've no stomach for it yourself, there must be someone in the ranks who--"

"Wait!"

Old Mor had spoken. He shook himself as one just awakening and moved forward.

"There may be a way," he said, "a way to let the child live and to assure that your fears will never be realized."

He reached out and touched the tiny hand.

"What do you propose?" Ardel asked him.

"Thousands of years ago," Mor began, "we possessed great cities and mighty machines as well as high magics--"

"I've heard the stories," Ardel said. "How does that help us now?"

"They are more than just stories. The Cataclysm really occurred. Afterwards, we kept the magic and threw much of the rest away. It all seems so much legend now, but to this day we are biased against the unnatural tech-things."

"Of course. That is--"

"Let me finish! When a major decision such as that is made, the symmetry of the universe demands that it go both ways. There is another world, much like our own, where they threw away the magic and kept the other. In that place, we and our ways are the stuff of legend."

"Where is this world?"

Mor smiled.

"It is counterpoint to the music of our sphere," he said, "a single beat away. It it just around the corner no one turns. It is another forking of the shining road."

"Wizards' riddles! How will this serve us? Can one travel to that other place?"

"I can."

"Oh. Then ..."

"Yes. Growing up in such a place, the child would have its life, but its power would mean little. It would be dismissed, rationalized, explained away. The child would find a different place in life than any it might have known here, and it would never understand, never suspect what had occurred."

"Fine. Do it then, if mercy can be had so cheaply."

"There is a price."

"What do you mean?"

"That law of symmetry, of which I spoke--it must be satisfied if the exchange is to be a permanent one: a stone for a stone, a tree for a tree ..."

"A baby? Are you trying to say that if you take this one there, you must bring one of theirs back?"

"Yes."

"What would we do with that one?"

Sergeant Marakas cleared his throat.

"My Mel and I just lost one," he said. "Perhaps..."

Ardel smiled briefly and nodded.

"Then it is cheap. Let it be done."

With the toe of his boot and a nod, Ardel then indicated Det's fallen scepter.

"What of the magician's rod? Is it not dangerous?" he asked.

Mor nodded, bent slowly and retrieved it from where it had fallen. He began to twist and tug at it, muttering the while.

"Yes," he finally said, succeeding in separating it into three sections. "It cannot be destroyed, but if I were to banish each segment to a point of the great Magical Triangle of Int, it may be that it will never be reclaimed. It would certainly be difficult."

"You will do this, then?"

"Yes."

At that moment, Mouseglove slipped from behind the arras and down the stairwell. Then he paused, held his breath and listened for an outcry. There was none. He hurried on.

When he reached the dimness of the great stair's bottom, he turned right, took several paces and paused. They were not corridors, but rather natural tunnels that faced him. Had it been the one directly to the right from which he had emerged earlier? Or the other which angled off nearby? He had not realized that there were two in that vicinity....

There came a noise from above. He chose the opening on the extreme right and plunged ahead. It was as dark as the route he had traversed earlier, but after twenty paces it took a sharp turn to the right which he did not recall.

Still, he could not afford to go back now, if someone were indeed coming. Besides, there was a small light ahead....

A brazier of charcoal glowed and smoked within an alcove. A bundle of faggots lay upon the floor nearby. He fed tinder into the brazier, blew upon it, coaxed it to flame. Shortly thereafter, a torch blazed in his hand. He took up several other sticks and continued on along the tunnel.

He came to a branching. The lefthand way looked slightly larger, more inviting. He followed it. Shortly, it branched again. This time, he bore to the right.

He gradually became aware of a downward sloping, thought that he felt a faint draft. There followed three more branchings and a honeycombed chamber. He had begun marking his choices with charcoal from the body of the torch, near to the righthand wall. The incline steepened, the tunnel twisted, widening. It came to bear less and less resemblance to a corridor.