Cyril was busy questioning the locals, but Sarella had eyes only for the mountain. Looming white above the town, Mount Basal stood out pale against the blue sky. Last night’s snow was fast melting off the roofs and yards of this miserable little town. She idly ran her finger around the rim of her wine glass, not bothering to even attempt to drink what passed for wine here at the end of the world. She wanted to be off. Amon had told her of the cave on the mountain, and she was determined to find it. She would have words with Cyril when he returned; he had no right to delay her like this.

  Rising, she swept her blue cloak about her shoulders. Wool. She hated wool. Curse this cold weather. She summoned Bull and Boar and left the inn, pausing only to leave a brief message for Cyril with the oafish innkeeper. He could catch up to her on the road.

  Waiting impatiently while Boar saddled her horse, she stared up at the mountain. Could there really be a dragon at its heart? The villagers thought so. Oh, few would speak of it, but they feared the mountain. They had tried to secure a guide after Amon fled, but none of these flea-bitten mountain folk would go up the mountain. They claimed it was bad luck to go above Paren Meadow, that the place was cursed. Superstitious nonsense.

  It was Amon’s fault. If he had only been more agreeable to her offer, they could well be on their way to finding her dragon. It was so strange, seeing him again after so many decades. He had not changed much at all, though his face now bore a certain maturity now, the boyish contours smoothed and hardened. He had always been recalcitrant and difficult, and time had only made him worse. She had hoped to have another go at him today, but he had fled in the night with those two children. She had considered following him, if only to see him squirm, but the lure of dragons drew her away.

  When Boar led her horse out, she climbed easily into the saddle and kicked her mount into a hard trot at once. She didn’t bother to spare a glance back to see if Bull and Boar were mounted. They knew better than to fall behind. She had watched Amon and his two ducklings ride north out of town, heading for what the locals called Basal Pass. She might catch him on the road. She wasn’t about to let him slip away again.

  The road out of Farshire climbed quickly toward the pass. The town behind and the mountain ahead were soon lost to sight in the thick timber. The innkeeper had warned her of wolves and bears and catamounts on the road, and griffins in the sky, but Sarella had no misgivings. Bull and Boar were good strong brutes, and she was no stranger to a blade, either. They rode two paces behind her at all times.

  New hoofbeats on the road behind heralded a rider coming up fast. Cyril, she knew. She didn’t bother turning to look. He soon rode up beside her, his hair disheveled from the wind and his green coat askew, as though he had galloped all the way from Farshire. He had. He had never been a strong rider, and he sat his saddle uneasily.

  “You will be interested to know that I spoke to a wheelwright today who claims he saw a dragon on Mount Basal not five years ago,” Cyril said breathlessly.

  Sarella turned in her saddle.

  “Really? A sighting? Is he credible?”

  “If I’d had more time to interview him...” Cyril began. He broke off, knowing better than to go down that road again. “Possibly. He is known for drinking, but Master Alvar said he is honest when he is sober.”

  Sarella sulked. Yet another drunken fool thinking he’d seen a dragon. There had been far too many of those of late. “He probably mistook one of these mountain griffins we’ve heard so much about for a dragon,” she said bitterly.

  “Indeed,” Cyril said, oblivious to the glare Sarella fixed on him. He knew better than to bring her such rumors. She wanted to slap him. “These griffins are quite common around here, it seems. They pay a hefty bounty on them, but few are brave enough to come up here and hunt them. A pity they’re so rare elsewhere...” Sarella ignored him as he prattled on. He was want to do that.

  The road summit stabbed up above the tree line on the southwestern shoulder of Mount Basal. Above, the mountain was a pyramid of bare rock and snow, the slopes all loose talus, too treacherous to climb. If there was a path to the summit, she couldn’t see it. The small shapes of griffins circled above. A crystal-blue lake lay just off the road, the edges still icy. Deep patches of old snow clogged sheltered dells and shaded spots. Up here, winter still held sway.

  The rock outcrop Amon had called the Dragon’s Eye stood out dark against the snow on the side of the mountain. He had been right, it was unmistakable, a big upthrust basalt plug, the folds of the rock forming what looked like a great eye. The cave would be just below, at the tree line. The road curved away west and down. That was the path Amon had taken.

  There would be a cave. Amon was no liar. Any such tendencies he might have had in that department had been well and thoroughly beaten out of him as a boy. He simply wasn’t subtle enough for spinning lies and stories. Anyone else, she would have suspected of trying to divert her.

  Sarella turned her horse from the road and rode out along the shore of the sapphire lake. The footing was slippery, but her horse was surefooted. Cyril and her bodyguards followed along behind. The sun had begun to melt the snow off the rocks. A faint whiff of sulfur lingered on the breeze as she neared the base of the mountain, a reminder that this was indeed a volcano that merely slept. No wonder the ancient pilgrims to this land feared these mountains as gods.

  The Dragon’s Eye jutted out of the mountain halfway between the summit and the lake. If she had to, Sarella would climb up there to search for the cave, climb all the way to the summit if she had to. Rounding the head of the lake, she entered a small grove of mountain hemlocks, twisted and windblown, that grew right up to the flank of the mountains. The location was right.

  Dismounting, Sarella tossed her mare’s reins to Cyril and stalked through the trees. Bull and Boar secured the horses and hurried to accompany her. Cyril kept close to her side, his green cloak pulled tight around him in a vain attempt to ward off the cutting wind. “Find the cave and we can get out of here,” she said by way of motivation.

  “If there is a cave,” Cyril said bitterly. “I wouldn’t trust a word that came out of that demon’s mouth. They’re all liars, every one. I wish you had killed him.” His hand went to his scar again.

  “I needed information,” Sarella said. “And besides, it seems he is known, if not well-liked, in that town. A murder would draw unnecessary attention, even if it is him. Don’t fear, I will put a dagger in his heart yet. I know where he is now.” She spied something ahead through the trees. “There. Is that a cave?” She pointed to a dark cleft in the rock.

  It took Bull and Boar the better part of the afternoon to clear away the fallen timber, rocks, snow and ice that blocked most of the cave mouth. Sarella waited while they worked, pacing in the snow, stamping her feet to keep the circulation going to her toes, her hands jammed firmly under her arms, trying in vain to keep her fingers warm, despite the fur lining her gloves and boots alike. It was supposed to be summer, dammit! Cyril squatted in the snow, tending a small fire and boiling a kettle of water for tea. His face was red from the cold, making that pale scar stand out even more against his skin.

  Finally, enough winter deadfall had been cleared to admit them passage. Striking flint over oilcloth, Bull lit torches for them while Boar probed the cave lightly, cudgel in hand, to make sure no wild animals had taken up residence. Caves in the mountains were seldom unoccupied, though it was the wrong time of year to stumble upon a hibernating bear, at least.

  The torches cast sullen orange light on the dark stone walls of the cave. The roof was low, almost brushing the top of Sarella’s head. She led the way, torch in hand. The narrow passage did seem to lead down into the mountain. The passage twisted and turned, in places so narrow that she had to turn sideways so as to avoid snagging her garments on the jagged basalt. Cyril lost a button off his coat. Bull and Boar, being the big hulks that they were, simply had to squeeze through and suffer the scratches and tears in their roughspun. In other places, the walls widened suddenly. More than once, the ceiling dropped so low that they were all obliged to crawl. Bats took wing overhead, roused by the light and smoke from the torches.

  The torches started to burn low. Bull and Boar carried extras in their pack. They lit new torches from the old and continued on, leaving the guttering torches behind to mark the way out. An hour later, as they turned down a narrow tunnel Sarella came to an abrupt drop-off. One more step and she would have tumbled headlong down a slope of jagged lava rock. For the first time, she began to question the wisdom of this endeavor.

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  Cyril may as well have read her mind. Clutching her arm, he stared ahead into the darkness. “Perhaps this was unwise,” he said. “Perhaps we should go back.”

  Sarella almost agreed. Almost. She shook off Cyril and pushed her torch into the darkness ahead. She spied something shiny down below. Ignoring Cyril’s protests, she started down the jagged slope. The sleeve of her coat snagged on a piece of lava rock and ripped. “Oh, for fuck’s sake!” she growled, inspecting the tear. That had been a good coat. Yes, Amon deserved a dagger in the heart for this. Up above, she heard Cyril cough. His face turned red as a ruby whenever she swore. Well, she had never held the same elven sensibilities that Cyril did. The coat was no matter. She knelt to inspect the mark that had caught her eye. Four marks, actually, graven into the stone, not quite parallel to one another, each one wide enough to fit a finger. She ran her hand over the marks. Claws?

  Raising her torch high, Sarella surveyed the tunnel she had entered. To the left and right, the walls and ceiling ran away into the darkness. This tunnel was large, much larger than the ones they had been crawling through. Large enough, perhaps, to allow the passage of a large beast. The tunnel was vaulted, the walls and ceiling smooth and blending into one, the floor almost flat. Sweeping her torch along the floor, she found several more of the same strange marks, all seeming to march away in the same direction.

  “My lady?” Cyril called, still up on the ledge with Bull and Bear.

  “Get down here!” she snapped.

  With a suffering glance at the uneven slope, Cyril started down. Picking his way gingerly, he tried to go carefully, but slipped when he was halfway down. He came up in a cloud of dust, cursing just as foully as she had, holding one arm as a dark stain spread on the sleeve of his coat.

  “Watch yourself!” Sarella snapped. “Come on!” Without waiting for the others, she started off down the corridor, following the strange marks. She held her torch out before her. Cyril hastened to catch up.

  “This structure is fascinating,” he said, craning his head to study the ceiling as they walked. “It’s a lava tube. I’ve read about geologic features like this, but I’d never thought I would get the chance to study one. Did you know, these tunnels are formed in the cooling process of the lava as it was...”

  “Quiet!”

  Cyril obediently fell silent. He had such a tendency to prattle on about the most boring subjects. They followed the subtly snaking corridor in silence. The faint smell of sulfur grew stronger. The air seemed to grow warmer as well. Those were good signs, Sarella thought. She had spent decades researching dragons. Now it was coming to fruition. Everything she had ever read concerning the biology of dragons suggested that the odor of sulfur was strongly associated with them. Their claws, made of black horn stronger than iron, could leave such marks on rock. The tunnel, three paces tall and five wide, was large enough to allow the passage, albeit cramped passage, of an adult dragon.

  A warm glow filled a cavern ahead. The smell of sulfur grew stronger in the air until it was nearly unbearable. Sarella pulled a handkerchief from her sleeve and tied it about the lower half of her face. It helped. She set her torch on the stone floor and motioned for Cyril and the other two to wait. She crept forward. The tunnel opened up into a large cavern. The walls were rounded and smooth, too smooth and shiny, as though the rock itself had been melted and frozen again and again. The ceiling vanished in darkness far overhead.

  The ruddy glow was coming from a pit of hellfire in the center of the floor. No, not hellfire, but bubbling, molten rock glowing a sullen, dangerous red. The sulfur stinging her eyes, she struggled to make out the rest of the chamber. It was at least ten lengths wide, circular. The pit of bubbling magma was ringed by a shelf of cooled, broken lava wide enough to walk along. Tumbled rocks and lava lay piled against the far wall, but otherwise, it seemed empty.

  “Gods be good,” Cyril swore quietly, coming up beside Sarella in the tunnel mouth. They stood a pace above the broken shelf. “This is incredible.”

  “There is no dragon,” Sarella said irritably. All her work, all that miserable crawling through tunnels of sharp lava rock, all for naught.

  “A shame,” Cyril said. Gingerly, he started to climb down into the chamber. “If you don’t mind, I would like to take a few moments to study this. We may be the first people ever to enter the magma chamber of an active volcano.”

  Sarella seethed. All that work, and tracking down that miserable demon on top of it, all for nothing! “Just be quick about it!” she snapped. Her voice echoed off the walls of the cavern. The atmosphere was stifling. Sweat beaded on her brow.

  A large tumble of rocks on the far side of the cavern shifted. It might have been Sarella’s imagination, but for the dust rising and the pebbles tumbling down, falling like rain into the magma below.

  “Cyril, get out of there,” Sarella snapped.

  Cyril looked up. The rocks shifted again. Sarella could only stare. A leathern wing stretched out from beneath the rocks and flexed, dust and pebbles raining off. A horned head perched on a serpentine neck poked up. That head was nearly as large as a whole sheep. The muzzle was long, ending in large nostrils. A series of black horns rose in double crests along the head from above the eyes to well past the ear frills, dulled by dust. Spines marched down the sinuous neck. The large amber eyes blinked as it shook off pebbles. The scales were an earthy mix of golds, browns and bronzes.

  The dragon lazily surveyed the cavern and yawned widely, revealing rows of narrow, sharp teeth. Sarella had frozen in place. Realizing she had been holding her breath, she let it out slowly. A dragon! A century of work and research, and it had finally paid off! This was the ancient symbol of House Istarion, her father’s royal House, here in the flesh. The dragon on the Istarion banner was gold, just like this one. Once, the Istarions had been dragonriders, and the dragonknights, with their flying steeds and dragon-forged swords, had dominated every battlefield, forging the greatest dynasty ever to rule.

  Sarella regarded the dragon, now just shaking off the last of the rocks and dust, reclining on its stony bed. She had a dilemma now. She had been so focused on actually finding one of the beasts that she had put little thought into actually subduing it. This was no tame riding drake, trained to bridle and saddle. Every account said that wild dragons were extremely dangerous.

  Slowly, Sarella began to climb down from the tunnel. Moving gingerly, trying not to place a foot wrong, she eased her way down into the chamber. The ground beneath her feet was loose pumice and lava rock. One rock turned and rolled down in a cloud of dust, clattering against others in a miniature avalanche.

  The dragon’s head snapped around. Those amber eyes were clear now, full of fire. Sarella felt that gaze pierce her soul. Cyril hurried to her side. She clung to his arm, her nails digging in even through his sleeve.

  The dragon gave mighty shake, sending up a cloud of dust that swirled in the heat of the cavern, unwilling to settle. It drew itself up to its full height, stretching like some massive cat with another massive yawn. A puff of steam rose from its jaws. It stood tall as a draft horse at its shoulder, where the massive wings, most of its bulk, connected to the body in a muscular joint. Now that it had risen, Sarella saw that the dragon was really all neck, wing and tail. Its body was thin and compact, the waist narrow, the chest deep. The legs were thin and delicate, almost bird-like, ending in wicked black claws. The wings unfolded, stretching, pale, nearly translucent membrane stretched tight between finger-like bones. Then the wings folded down, obscuring most of the body. Darker stripes, brown and bronze against gold and cream, banded the neck, legs and tail.

  Forcing herself to release her grip on Cyril, Sarella took a step forward. The pit of magma separated her from the dragon. The ledge running around the outside of the chamber looked solid. She could reach it. She didn’t know what madness possessed her, but she wanted nothing more than to run to this creature, this god-thing, and fling herself down before it in supplication. She knew now why the goddess of the elves took the form of a dragon.

  Cyril grabbed her arm. “Sarella, stop!”

  Sarella turned to glare at him. Couldn’t he see? This was her once chance to...to...tame a dragon! She tugged her arm, but he held her fast. “Let go!” Her voice echoed off the walls.

  A roar enveloped the fading echoes of her voice. Spinning around and tearing free of Cyril, she saw the dragon unfold its wings and launch itself into the air, straight at her. She saw a maw filled with razor-sharp teeth opened wide, a ruddy glow down the throat, eyes burning with murderous intent. Cyril grabbed her and threw her down. Sarella managed to turn enough to see the dragon, golden wings outstretched, sweep over her. She heard a shout and a crossbow click. The dragon screamed and twisted up into the air, a bolt sticking out of its neck. Whichever one of them shot that bolt would get the rough side of her tongue when this was done! They were here to find a dragon, not kill it!

  The dragon was an indistinct form flapping in the gloom of the cavern ceiling. Chunks of rock began to rain down into the magma pit below. The mountain itself gave a shudder. A gout of fire lit the top of the chamber. For a moment, the dragon was silhouetted against its own flame. She spied a crevice in the ceiling. Another gout of flame, and the dragon scrabbled wildly on the ceiling, rock raining down. Finally, it tore a hole wide enough to admit its body and crawled inside, long sinuous tail snaking after it, and vanished. The mountain shuddered again, harder. Rocks began to rain down harder, bigger chunks splashing down into the magma pit, resting on the surface of a moment before sinking.

  Sarella stared at the dark crevice where the dragon had been. It must lead to the outside. Cyril dragged her back toward the tunnel. He was shouting, but she couldn’t hear his words over the rumble of the mountain. Sweat poured down her face, plastering her hair to her head. The chamber had grown hotter.

  Cyril all but dragged her up the slope and into the tunnel. The mountain continued to shudder. A glance back at the chamber showed the magma slowly rising, slipping out of the pit. Gods, the mountain was erupting!

  Choking on the hot, dusty, sulfuric air, Sarella let Cyril drag her away from the cavern. She couldn’t see for the tears streaming down her face. A dragon! A living, breathing dragon! It must have escaped the mountain. It must have. She would find it, wherever it went.