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the kingdom. Fearchar, their loss would be a terrible blow to Argonia under ANY reign."
"Calm yourself, pet. Nothing has to be done until I've gathered sufficient forces. And you'll be happy to
hear that our valiant Sally has recruited another whole band of patriots to our cause. I'm keeping them
here at the castle until they're fully indoctrinated. They can join the others who serve us and help guard
the beasts."
"Fearchar, I'm frightened of those robbers you call patriots. They may accept your pay for now, but
they're ruthless, dangerous men. And-and you're so often gone." She looked down at her ravaged hands
for a moment then turned back to him resolutely. "Not a one of them is worth a hair off a unicorn's hide.
You mustn't sacrifice-"
"My dear girl," her lover said, drawing away and looking down his long, hawklike nose at her. "While I
have always found your merciful disposition to be one of your more charming characteristics, I must insist
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that you allow me to handle this without interference. You have no need to be alarmed by our own
revolutionaries. They are each and every one, like their brothers in the woods, under my personal spell.
The very essence of that spell is that you are, like myself, completely sacred. They are instructed to die
for either of us. Not one of them will ever touch the hem of your skirt except for your own protection and
I, naturally, determine how and from what you are to be protected. So you see, you have nothing to
fear."
A coldness not caused by the room's icy drafts penetrated Pegeen's gown and heavy woollen shawl,
raising goosebumps on her arms.
"As for slaughtering the beasts, do you know, my wise darling, you've given me food for thought. It may
be, if we are very careful, we shall be able to remove the horns, necessary hide, and hooves, and, by
virtue of the beasts' healing powers, have them regenerate in one another the missing parts, so that our
supply of medicinal charms will be virtually limitless!" He patted her arm and seemed not to notice that
she flinched from him. "Why don't you forget all of this and draw some nice pictures, darling? Perhaps
prepare our coronation address."
But as he strode for the tapestry-covered door, Pegeen called to him once more. "Fearchar?"
"Yes?"
"You aren't going to harm those beasts now, are you?"
He stroked his chin, considering. "Helsinora's research specifies that the ingredients of the elixir must all
be fresh to be most effective, as I've mentioned. But I'd still like to experiment with that idea of yours a
little in advance of when we'll actually be needing the potions and charms. But, no, I'll tell you what,
darling. Since you're concerned that I might wipe them all out, I'll wait until I have a couple of extra
beasts in reserve, in case something untoward happens to the one I want to use to heal the
first-er-subject. You see? I am moved by your gentle sympathies."
Two tears rolled down Pegeen's cheeks, and she mopped them away with the fringe of her shawl. What
a fool she was! She ought to have known from her training as a princess that someone as ambitious as
Fearchar would stop at no crime, no matter how heinous, to gain his ends. And she was powerless, at
the mercy of his "protective" spell. She'd heard her ladies speak of being a prisoner of love before, but
she'd never fancied she'd personally experience the phenomenon implied by the term in such an
appallingly literal fashion.
She had to think, to plan. To that end, she gathered her inks and parchment and stuck them into her
dress pockets. Then, taking an unlit torch from her chamber wall, she stepped behind one of three old,
worn tapestries she'd been allowed to keep when Fearchar sold her finer furnishings. She was outlined
against the threadbare fabric for only a moment by a faint, warm glow. Then the hanging flattened back
against the wall, and the glow faded, leaving the ice-walled room once more in darkness.
Sir Cyril was brought to his senses by three occurrences, the first of which was the frigid sea water
pouring over the splintering deck and into his boot tops. The second occurrence, which allowed him to
become aware of the first, was the cessation of the enthralling song. And the third occurrence was that he
suddenly heard the rippling of girlish laughter, and realized the cause of song and laughter and that the
Bane was most certainly doomed, even as the laughter rose above the crunching and cracking of the
ship's timbers, and above the pulsing sound emanating from the awesome beast that slowly strangled the
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vessel.
The dragons were nowhere to be seen. Nevertheless, Sir Cyril called out. His voice was frail against the
sundering decks, throbbing beast, and malicious giggles. He hollered until his throat was raw, while
waves washed over him from a hole in the center of the ship-a hole that yawned where once the
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