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with more force, his left heel began to tap an
unsteady rhythm against the floor. Another man might have done these same
things and seemed merely preposterous. Queen Damia’s Mage had the look of a man
who would soon be strong enough to consume the very manor of the Regals.
    Slowly, he separated his
hands. Holding his arms rigid, he spread them wider and wider by small
increments. Across the gap between his hands ran a palpable crackle of power.
It was neither a clear bolt such as lightning nor a diffuse shimmer such as
beat, but rather something of both. It shot streaks of red within the reach of
his arms, then green, then red again.
    And as the colors
crackled and flared, a shape coalesced within them.
    I should have known what
was coming. I had been given hints enough; a child could have read them. But
the queen of Lodan had been too subtle for me from the first.
    The shape took on depth
and definition as it grew larger. Its lines became solid, etched upon the air,
Moment by moment, its size increased. At first, it might have been a
starling—then a pigeon—then a hawk. But it was no bird of any description.
Passion flashed in its eyes, light glared along its scales. Gouts of fire burst
from its nostrils.
    As it beat its wings and
rose above Scour’s head, it was unmistakably a Dragon. In response, cries of
alarm and astonishment rang across the ballroom. Doors were flung open and
banged shut as men and women snatched their children and fled. Some of the
guests retreated to the walls to watch or cower others cheered like Banshees.
    It was small yet. But it
continued to grow as it soared and flashed; and the stretch of Scour’s arms,
the clench of his fists, the beat of his heel showed that he could make his
Creature as large as he willed.
    The sight of it wrung my
heart with love and fear. I had risen to my feet as if in one mad instant I had
thought that I might fly with it, forsaking my human flesh for wings. It was
instantly precious to me—a thing of such beauty and necessity and passion, such
transcending Reality and importance, such glory that for me the world would be
forevermore pale without it.
    And it was my doom.
    Even as my truest nerves
sang to the flight of the Dragon, I understood what I saw. Mage Scour had gone
beyond all the known bounds of his art to make something Real—not an image but
the thing itself There was no Dragon in all the realm from which an image might
have been cast. Scour might as easily have worked magery of me as of a Dragon
which did not exist. He had created Reality, could summon or dismiss it as he
willed. And thereby he had made himself mightier than any Magic or Mage or
Regal in all the history of the Three Kingdoms.
    Or else he had simply
cast an image as any other Mage might—an image of a Dragon which had come secretly
into being in the realm.
    In a way, that was
inconceivable. Knowledge of such a Creature would not have remained hidden; one
Mage or another would have stumbled upon it, and the word of the wonder would
have spread. But in another way the thought was altogether too conceivable: if
some man or woman of [Man—or Mage Scour—or Queen Damia herself—were a Creature
such as the Regals had been? Capable of appearing human or Real at will? Then
the knowledge might well have remained hidden, especially if the Magic had been
latent until recently. That would explain all Queen Damia’s ploys—her
confidence, her choice of songs for her minstrel, Scour’s talk at the Mages’
dinner.
    Whatever its meaning,
however, the Dragon bearing itself majestically above Scour’s head and snorting
flame spelled an end for me. Any Mage capable of creating Reality was strong
enough to take the realm for himself at whim. And a Creature hidden among Queen
Damia’s adherents—no, in the queen herself, for how could she appear so certain
if one near her were stronger than herself and therefore a threat to
her?—would be similarly potent.
    Yet for that moment the
sight alone