Dragon Witch
***
Dolly Lien

She didn’t know she’d just found her destiny... 
Ahead, she could see the small clearing which surrounded 
the majestic old oak, her special tree, her sanctuary. As she neared 
the tree, she saw a figure lying on the ground, huddled close to the 
massive trunk. She paused at the edge of the clearing. She felt no 
fear, but a small resentment was building in her mind that her 
special place had been intruded upon. 
“Shoo.” She stomped her feet and waved her arms, hoping to 
scare it away. But it did not budge. Tempest screwed up her courage 
and advanced toward the tree, ready to defend her property. 
As she neared the oak tree, she could tell the figure was a 
man. He seemed to be asleep on the cold ground. Her temper flared. 
This was her tree, her sacred place. No lazy man had a right to be 
taking a nap under her tree! She picked up a large branch which 
lay near the path and advanced, staff held high, ready to run off 
the intruder. 
“Depart, Churl,” she demanded, trying to make her voice low 
and menacing, but, due to the fear beginning to overcome her 
courage, her voice came out in a squeak, which made her even 
more angry. “Shoo, I say. Go away. This is my father’s forest and 
that’s my tree. Shoo, shoo, shoo.” But still the man did not move. 
Boldly, she stepped forward. 
In that moment Tempest realized the stranger was not wearing 
red clothing, nor was he sleeping as she had previously thought. 
He was covered with blood and was either unconscious—or dead. 
Throwing caution and temper to the wind, she dropped the 
stick and ran to the wounded man. Kneeling on the hard-packed 
earth beside him, she turned him onto his back. With a sigh of 
relief, she noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. She 
checked quickly for the source of all that dark red blood and found 
several deep gashes which, for some inexplicable reason, seemed 
to be healing themselves. She could detect no healer’s work. There 
were no bandages or poultices on the wounds. 
It suddenly dawned on Tempest that she had just discovered a 
very large, very badly hurt, very naked, man lying beneath her 
oak tree, and she had no idea what to do with him. 

For the two most important men in my life: 
my son Wayne Torrence and my grandson Alex. 
May you always have dragons. 
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS 
This book could not have been written without the help of a 
great many people: 
My very special cousin, Nona Gillespie, who has always 
given me unconditional love and faith and so much more. 
Jay Lane: editor/teacher extraordinaire. 
Dawn Dunbar who convinced me to start writing and never 
let me quit. 
My critique group who have all become close friends: 
Theresa Monsey who was sometimes very harsh in her critiques 
but usually right. Chris Orcutt, who was always there with a 
kind word of encouragement, Bernice Taylor who learned it 
all along with me and Richard Champion who is a great 
proofreader and always had faith in Dragon Witch. 
Woody Watson, steadfast friend and poetry partner who 
helped me with the pharmacological information. 
Mike Johnstone and of course my son Wayne, who used 
their fantastic imaginations to help me out of a lot of tight 
spots. 
I wish to thank all those wonderful people who read this 
book and kept pushing me to keep writing and find a publisher, 
especially Ann Owens and Jacklyn Torrence. 
And last, but certainly not least—my publisher, Linda 
Kichline who was willing to take a chance on an unknown 
writer. 

Dragon Witch
***
Dolly Lien


PROLOGUE
The dragon flew high over the castle, the bright harvest 
moon gilding his scales, making them glow a deep, burnished 
gold. He had been drawn there by matters sensed, but not 
understood. Circling silently, he listened to the sounds rising 
from the tall granite tower, waiting patiently for events to 
unfold. 
Screams slashed through the air, bounced off the walls, 
and raced down the stone corridors of the castle. Lady 
Christiana was about to give birth. Her shrieks of agony, rising 
to the heavens, were followed closely by the black dragon’s 
howling challenge as he rose from the dark forest. 
The ladies-in-waiting froze at the thundering response 
issued from the golden dragon. Some ran to the narrow tower 
windows to watch the huge beasts as they clashed high in the 
moonlit sky. Several of the women cowered in the corners, 
covered their heads and sobbed in terror. 
Miriam did not leave her lady’s side, but spoke soothing 
words as she wiped Christiana’s brow with a damp, linen cloth. 
The babe would come soon, and she knew she must not be 
distracted. Not even dragon battle could draw her attention. 
Lady Christiana cursed the pain, the child, her husband, 
and the world in general as she bore down. But the babe was 
not yet ready to enter the world. 
The black dragon launched himself at the gold, intent upon 
destruction. This young dragon was his mortal enemy, his 
greatest challenge. The black knew he must be victorious. With 
the death of this last hatchling there would be no more living 
golden males and he, S’rdonne, would rule supreme over 
Dragondom as the Great Wyrm, the eldest and most powerful 

of all dragons. Revenge would be his. Hatred glowed from his 
ruby eyes as he plunged toward the smaller beast, fangs 
glistening in the glow of the moon. 
But the golden dragon read his intent and evaded the 
slashing blow. He had fought this black before and knew his 
treachery. He circled high, folded his huge leathery wings close 
to his body and dove for the black’s thick neck, intending to 
break it, to snap his enemy’s spine. 
They clashed like thunder. Sparks of light flew from their 
massive bodies when they collided, looking like bolts of 
lightning to the awestruck watchers far below. 
Christiana’s final birth shriek was a faint echo of the 
battling dragons as they raged high above the castle. The girl 
child came into the world trying to vent her fury, but there was 
a covering over her face. Her arms flailed frantically, her tiny 
hands clawed at the caul, her chest heaved in anger. 
The black dragon’s talons raked over the golden dragon’s 
chest, leaving a huge gash. Dragon blood poured freely as the 
mortally wounded gold plummeted toward the earth and certain 
death. 
The babe grew still, and Miriam reached for the caul. As 
she carefully peeled the membrane from the tiny girl’s face, 
the child took a deep breath and wailed, then howled in a fresh 
blaze of temper. 
The cries reeled into the golden dragon’s senses; instantly, 
magically, they healed his body and burrowed deep into his 
soul. At that moment, child and dragon became one, bonded 
irrevocably, eternally. 
Abruptly his descent halted. His great, golden body began 
to regenerate, to fill with newfound strength, and he soared 
upward once again. He knew now that he could finish this 
age-old battle. He knew he could finally defeat his enemy, he 
and this wondrous girl-child. 
The raging golden dragon catapulted into the black, rending 
shiny obsidian dragon scales from his opponent’s vulnerable 
underbelly. The black dragon screeched in pain and tried to 
pull back, but now it was the gold who was relentless, pursuing 
his adversary across the moonlit sky. 

The injured black dragon soared higher, trying frantically 
to escape his attacker. The pain amplified his senses a hundred 
fold and he, too, felt the joining of dragon and babe. He knew 
this was a thing too powerful for him to combat. At that moment 
he realized he must either destroy the child, or take her power. 
This night he could not defeat the gold. This night he must 
retreat if he would survive to become the Great Wyrm. This 
night there would be no revenge. His screams of defiance and 
defeat echoed across the midnight sky as he fled. 
The golden dragon did not pursue the black. He knew they 
would meet again. For the moment, he could not bring himself 
to leave the child—not even for the annihilation of his 
archenemy could he leave this incredible child. He circled the 
tower, screaming his triumph to the world below. 
Miriam peeled the last of the caul from the infant’s face 
and looked closely at her. Slanted, golden cat’s eyes stared 
back, unblinking, under a mop of thick, curly, red hair. The 
tiny newborn smiled! Miriam took an involuntary step back, 
her hand flew to her mouth, and she looked at the child’s mother. 
Christiana blanched at the sight of her child’s eyes, crossed 
herself, and wailed loudly. “The curse,” she sobbed. “’Tis my 
mother’s curse come back to haunt me.” 
The babe’s eyes slowly changed to a soft, moss-green, but 
she made no newborn cries. She shed no tears, but simply stared 
at her mother, watching, waiting. 
“Dragon Witch,” a midwife whispered as she crossed 
herself and fled the room. 
“Dragon Witch.” The words were echoed throughout the 
castle as the events of the child’s birth were repeated. “Dragon 
Witch.” 
*** 
Four-year-old Tristan clung tightly to Sarah’s neck. The 
roars of the dragon battle and the screaming from Christiana’s 
birthing chamber had frightened him badly. “Will she die, 
Mother?” he asked, his small body trembling in fear. “Will she 
die like Caroline’s mum did?” 
“Hush now, child. Never say such things lest they come to 
pass and someone sets the blame to you.” Sarah held her small 

son close to her heart. “Besides,” she whispered in his ear, 
“she is too mean to die.” They both giggled, and Tristan settled 
deeper into his mother’s arms, his blond head nodding in 
exhaustion. 
“Mother?” Tristan’s voice was barely a whisper. “If she 
dies, will Father wed you?” 
Sarah rocked him for a long moment, staring sadly into 
the huge kitchen hearth. “Nay, baby. Lord Wendall will never 
take me to wife. I am just a kitchen drudge, and he is lord of 
the manor. There can never be a marriage between us, Tristan.” 
“But he is my father and you are my mother. You are 
supposed to be wed, are you not?” 
“’Tis not always true, my darling.” She squeezed him 
tightly and gently kissed his head of unruly curls. “Not always 
true.” She rocked him slowly and stared thoughtfully into space. 
“But Mother...” 
“Hush, Tristan, and try to sleep. We have much work on 
the morrow.” 
*** 
The child, born at the height of the raging dragon storm, 
was named Tempest, not by a loving mother, but by her doting 
father. 
Christiana had wanted a son. Wendall had no sons to inherit 
his vast estates (if one discounted that bastard, Tristan, whelped 
by a kitchen drudge). She vowed privately not to concern herself 
with the screaming monster she had just birthed. She was 
mistress of the castle and would have others do that chore for 
her. Her labor had been relatively easy, but Christiana swore 
never again to suffer such pain. Wendall’s three-year-old 
daughter, Caroline, could inherit for all she cared. She hated 
the way her beautiful body had changed with her pregnancy. 
And then to give birth to that...that witch. She would never, 
ever lay her hands on the witch-child. Her mother’s dying curse 
tried to surface in her mind, but she banished it. No. She would 
not remember... 
Tempest had been born with a caul, and Miriam, Lady 
Christiana’s healing woman, knew that meant trouble. Even 
the servants were whispering. 

“She is bewitched. She will bring disaster upon herself 
and everyone around her,” whispered Mary the chambermaid. 
“Look at that red hair!” 
“Witch’s hair!”
“A caul is a witch’s veil!”
“And she was born during a dragon fight!”
They each made a sign to protect themselves against evil
and watched as Miriam wrapped the caul in a cloth and took it 
from the room. The attending women sighed in relief. 
A harsh winter’s storm gathered as Miriam carried the caul 
far from the massive old castle to the ancient forest growing 
almost up to the walls. As she walked into the deep woods, 
biting, rain-laden winds began to lash her. 
Miriam stood before an ancient oak tree. A druid’s tree, 
she thought. And a very good place to bury this precious burden. 
Picking up a small branch recently blown from the old 
oak, she began digging a shallow hole in the hard earth beneath 
the tree. As she dug she sang softly. The wind bent the limbs of 
the oak toward her as though they were listening carefully to 
the woman’s song. Beneath the tree there dwelt an eerie silence; 
the early winter storm raged everywhere except around the slim 
figure digging at its base. The hole finally deep enough, Miriam 
picked up the bundle containing the caul, lifted it as though 
she were offering it to the tree, and spoke. 
By Oak and Ash and Thorn, I give over the 
guardianship of this precious gift.
May the Goddess ever keep the child of this caul 
safe from harm.
May you, Ancient Tree of the Druids, ever be a 
refuge in times of strife.
May you offer her your love and protection 
when the need arises.
May this be a place of peace and tranquility 
always.
May you share your ancient wisdom and 
knowledge.
And may you bring her love, true

and everlasting.
If this be the will of the Gods... 
So Mote It Be!
She bent and carefully placed the small bundle into the 
earth, then turned to retrieve her digging stick. Suddenly 
lightning slashed the sky. Thunder rumbled in its wake, then 
still, sweet silence. As she turned back to the ancient oak tree, 
the driving rain ceased, the clouds lifted away and, above the 
tree, a softly glowing full moon lit the sky. Her breath caught 
in her throat as she watched a beam of silvery, white light stream 
from the moon, feeling its way through the branches, 
illuminating the cloth bundle. It glowed brightly for a moment. 
The sweet perfume of spring wildflowers drifted to Miriam on 
a gentle breeze. Dirt began to slowly drift into the hole. A warm 
wind scattered fallen oak leaves over the area until there was 
no sign of the recent disturbance. 
The moonbeam shyly withdrew—silence reigned. 
In silent rapture, Miriam gazed at the glowing moon. 
Gradually she became aware of the hushed rustle of wings. An 
immense golden dragon drifted slowly to the earth, settling 
beneath the giant oak. 
You have done well, Miriam. The gentle voice echoed 
through her mind. My son will be pleased. 
“He is her chosen mate?” Miriam asked in wonder. 
He is. The dragon gently touched the leaf-covered spot 
with the tip of one golden wing. The prophesy shall be fulfilled. 
She spread her wings and glided away as quietly as she had 
come. 
With tear-filled eyes, Miriam raised her hand in salute. 
“My thanks to you Lady of Dragonkind. You have truly blessed 
this special child. Blessed be.” 
Miriam turned to head back to the castle and was startled 
to see the storm raging fiercely beyond the borders of the oak. 
She had thought the storm had abated while she was busy 
beneath the old oak tree. She paused, just for a moment, 
watching the lightning flash, hearing the thunder boom, and 
feeling the air tingle as fierce winds whipped the trees. Still all 

remained serene under the ancient oak. 
Miriam smiled and whispered softly, “She will be a 
weather-witch for sure.” Pulling the hood of her old green cloak 
over her head, she began the long walk home. 
When Miriam arrived back at Castle Windhaven, all was 
in chaos. Lady Christiana refused to see her newborn infant. 
“She has already caused me too much pain,” she told the 
midwives. “I wanted a son. I shall have nothing to do with a 
girl child. Take her away.” She turned her face from her tiny 
new daughter and fell into an exhausted sleep. 
Wendall Sanct Joliet heard his wife’s last statement as he 
entered the room. He shook his head with sad resignation as he 
took his daughter from the midwife. Cradling her lovingly in 
his arms, he gazed into her beautiful green eyes. 
She looked back as if to say, “’Tis all right, Father. I have 
you. ’Tis all I need.” 
“Tempest,” he murmured, tears filling his eyes. He touched 
her dainty, perfect hand, and her tiny fingers closed around 
his. “Child of my heart you are, and so shall you be always.” 
She listened solemnly, as if understanding his every word, 
then a sweet, tiny smile twitched at the edges of her mouth. 
*** 
The two figures sat on huge, ornate chairs. They were as 
unmoving as statues, their faces hidden in the shadows. A silver 
and onyx chessboard lay between them, the game not yet 
begun. Over the center of the board hovered a glowing crystal 
ball, its soft light giving life to the room. 
Each figure stared intently into the crystal . 
“’Tis begun.” The voice was soft and breathless with 
anticipation. 
Thunder roared through the air, shaking the heavy chairs. 
The crystal ball flashed brilliantly for a moment, then calmed 
to a steady, throbbing, azure glow. 
“The prophesy has begun.” 

ONE
Today was her fifth birthday, and her party would begin 
soon, but Tempest could not find her tabby cat anywhere. She 
had searched all over Windhaven and was beginning to get 
worried. Honey was quite pregnant, and Tempest wanted to be 
with her when the kittens were born. 
“Honey,” she called as she made her way up the narrow 
tower steps. “Where are you?” But there was no answering 
meow. When the child reached the top of the stairs she paused. 
She closed her eyes and visualized Honey in her mind’s eye. It 
was a technique she had used often in the past to find lost 
items. Mayhap ’twould work with her pet. Miriam had scolded 
her when she used her powers in front of people, but there was 
no one around and she really needed to find Honey; nobody 
would know. 
Honey, her mind reached out. 
There she was, curled up under a bed, fast asleep. But 
where? Which room was she in? Surely not her mother’s room. 
Christiana hated cats and Honey knew it. No, ’twas the guest 
room, she recognized the quilt on the bed. 
Tempest listened at the huge oak door but could hear 
nothing. Mayhap the room was empty. Father had invited the 
visiting knights to hunt boar early this morn, but she did not 
know if they had yet returned. 
She really needed to find Honey. Furtively, Tempest turned 
the door handle and peered into the room. She did not see 
anyone, so she slipped in, closing the door quietly after her. 
Mother would be very angry if she knew what Tempest was up 
to. 
“Five-year-old girls do not bother the guests,” Christiana 

had said. 
In fact she had said it so often that Tempest had learned to 
ignore her. It seemed like the only time her mother ever noticed 
her was when she had done something wrong. 
Well, this time she would not be caught. Mother would 
never know. She scurried to the bed and peeked under. There 
was Honey, just as Tempest had envisioned, curled in a furry 
ball, sound asleep. 
She tried to coax the sleepy animal from under the bed, 
but each time she reached for the cat it inched farther from her 
questing fingers. She crawled halfway under the bed, but still 
Honey eluded her. 
The tall, gaunt man listened, his ear against the heavy 
wooden door. He had followed the witchling’s meandering trail 
through the castle for quite some time, and now she was finally 
in a place where he would not be disturbed. He felt her questing 
thoughts, like tiny shocks in his mind—a rather pleasant 
sensation. His red eyes glowed in the dim hall light. He had 
waited five years to see if she would develop her powers and 
was eager to test her. 
He touched the silver and opal ring on his long, thin finger 
and closed his eyes. The ring glowed, throbbed, hummed as he 
concentrated. His body began to change; slowly his face filled 
out; his hair grew longer and changed from black to dirty blond; 
his arms and legs grew thick and muscular. He ran his beringed 
hand over the coarse, black wool of his robe. He opened his 
eyes and inspected the changes to his body and clothing. He 
now looked like the knight he had watched from the shadows. 
Well satisfied, the sorcerer reached for the door handle. 
Tempest was so occupied with her struggles that she did 
not hear the door open. 
“Well, what have we here?” The deep basso voice boomed 
out, making her scurry out from under the bed and jump guiltily 
to her feet. “Have ye come to help with me bath?” 
“Nay...I...” Tempest stammered. “I was looking for my cat.” 
“Cat is it? I hate cats. Damn things are only good fer stew 
meat,” he growled. “Come ‘ere.” 
His words were slurred, and she could smell the wine on 

his breath and another odor she could not quite define. 
“I will just get my cat and leave.” She did not want to get 
close to this man. He was very tall and hairy looking, not at all 
like her father. 
“I said come here,” the man enunciated each word carefully. 
Tempest decided to ignore him. “Honey,” she called. 
“Honey?” mimicked the man, weaving his way toward her. 
“I need a little `honey’ and you’ll do jus’ fine.” 
Tempest did not understand what he meant, but she was 
beginning to be a little concerned. She took a step toward the 
open doorway then another, but he was too fast. With three 
giant steps he reached the door and slammed it shut, then turned 
in her direction. 
Honey, finally responding to her name, came out from under 
the bed, stretched languorously, and headed for Tempest. 
“I hate cats,” the huge man growled as he aimed a swift 
kick at Honey. 
But Honey was faster. She jumped out of his way and onto 
the narrow window ledge. She sat there, insolently watching 
him and casually grooming herself. 
“You are a nasty man,” said Tempest, her earlier fear 
quickly replaced by anger. 
“Aye,” the man replied as he roughly grabbed her arm. 
“An’ I will show you jus’ how nasty I c’n be.” 
“Let me go!” 
“Nay. Not ‘till you give me a little `honey’.” 
“Ugh. You stink.” Tempest struggled to get away, but he 
held her fast as his hands began groping her. His musty, moldy 
odor made her gag, and she struggled harder, but to no avail. 
He just held her tighter, his breath coming in quick pants as he 
touched her again and again. 
Tempest had never been treated this way before, and her 
temper flared to match her flame-red hair. Her green eyes blazed 
as she bit the man’s hand. 
He howled as he put his hand to his mouth, then slapped 
her. Hard. She was knocked to the floor, but he immediately 
yanked her up and began shaking her and yelling obscenities. 
Then fear hit her. Mind-numbing, bone-shaking fear. She 

screamed, but he quickly covered her mouth. Tempest tried to 
bite him again but found no purchase for her teeth. She 
struggled, but he was too strong. She could not escape the wet, 
slobbering kisses he was suddenly smearing all over her face. 
“Little wildcat,” he muttered, his voice thick and rough. “I 
like that.” He threw her on the bed, unhooking his girdle as he 
lurched forward. 
Tempest was terrified. She had to get away from this ugly, 
smelly giant. She tried to scramble from the bed but he pinioned 
her, held her fast. 
She no longer tried to control herself, as terror, anger, and 
pain grew within her. Air began moving around them, coiling, 
growing, whirling, until it had become a maelstrom of wind 
and power. It buffeted and pulled at the man until he was forced 
to release her. 
Her emerald eyes narrowed as she sat in the calm center of 
the storm. She reached upward, her gaze never leaving his face 
as she drew something from the whirlwind. Her anger continued 
to grow as it fed the magic she held so tightly in her small 
hand. 
She opened her hand, extending it toward him. A tiny spark 
danced on her palm. She blew on the spark, and it flitted from 
her hand, growing larger and more jagged until it was a 
shimmering, golden spear of lightning. The man screamed as 
the bolt hit him and threw him violently against the cold stone 
wall. Blood trickled from his head and he lay unmoving upon 
the rush-covered floor. 
The door burst open, and Lord Wendall rushed into the 
room, with Christiana hard on his heels. 
“Tempest.” Wendall could say no more as he surveyed the 
damage—to the room and to the knight lying unconscious in 
the corner. 
“Tempest, you stupid child, what have you done now?” 
Christiana had no difficulty speaking—or rather screaming— 
as she took in the scene. 
“Mother, I...” Tempest began. 
“SILENCE,” Christiana yelled. “I will have none of your 
lies.” She advanced slowly upon her frightened daughter. “You 

did this. ’Tis all your fault.” 
“Christiana, stop!” Wendall ordered, suddenly finding his 
voice. “I will first hear what our daughter has to say. See to the 
knight.” 
Christiana said nothing as she knelt beside the moaning 
knight. 
The sorcerer was uninjured, but he did not wish the lord 
and lady of the castle to realize this. He had tested the witchling 
and was pleasantly surprised to find that she had developed 
more rapidly than he had expected. He would wait for her power 
to reach its apex, then take it and use it to augment his own. 
Becoming William Mirabelle’s priest had been another of his 
brilliant schemes. William resided only a few days’ easy ride 
from Windhaven, and it would be a simple task to check the 
witchling’s progress. Then, when she was ready....He feigned 
unconsciousness and listened, intently, to Lord Wendall. 
“Tempest,” Wendall began gently as he sat beside her on 
the narrow wooden bed. “Tell me what happened.” 
“He tried to kick Honey,” Tempest said, looking directly 
into her father’s eyes. “And he...he touched me. Father, it made 
me feel bad inside when he touched me. He said awful things. 
I...” She swallowed hard and hung her head, unable to continue. 
Wendall drew her into his arms, his throat tight with pain. 
Words failed him at that moment. 
“I did not mean to hurt him, Father,” she said, her lips 
trembling. “I just got angry, and things happened. I am sorry. 
Please say you forgive me. I really did not want to hurt him.” 
“Witch,” Christiana hissed from the corner. “I told you 
she was an evil creature, Wendall. We must send her away. She 
will be the end of us.” 
“Christiana, hold...your...tongue,” said Wendall tiredly. 
“Tempest is our daughter and I will not send her away. You 
have already sent Caroline to live with your uncle. I will not 
lose another daughter to your petty jealousy.” 
“Father?” 
“Hush, baby.” Wendall rocked her for a moment as he tried 
to sort things out in his mind. 
Christiana glared at her husband but heeded his 

admonishment to be silent. 
“Tempest,” Wendall began as he held her so he could look 
into her eyes as he spoke. “Sir Gavin was wrong in what he 
tried to do to you, and he will be punished. But...” He cleared 
his throat and hesitated, trying to find just the right words. 
“What you did...The way you did it...I mean. Well, you used 
powers that are frowned upon by many people. If others knew 
what happened here today, you would be accused of witchcraft. 
’Tis a very serious charge, sweeting. ’Tis so serious that you 
would be burned for it. Do you understand what I am saying?” 
“Father, I do understand. But...” 
“Nay, Tempest. You must never, never use those powers 
again. Promise me you will never do a thing like this again. 
Promise me Tempest.” 
“I promise,” she said solemnly. 
He sighed. “Miriam will teach you. I will have her teach 
you how to control this power you have. She will teach you 
how to channel it into healing. But remember, sweeting, you 
must never let this happen again. Never. No matter the 
circumstances. I will protect you. ’Tis a promise I make to 
you, here and now.” 
“Thank you, Father,” she said, as she threw her small arms 
around his neck, hugging him tightly. “I love you,” she 
whispered. 
“Go now and find Miriam,” he said, releasing her and 
giving her a gentle pat. “I must deal with the knight.” 
*** 
“She has the power,” observed the man as he gazed into 
the glowing crystal ball. “She will make a fitting mate for the 
gold.” 
“Aye,” the woman agreed. “But not if they stifle her power. 
She must learn, and learn well. Is the serving woman a fit 
teacher, I wonder.” 
“She is young yet, and the serving woman is well taught,” 
said the man, leaning back in his golden chair. “The power is 
there, and she will use it when the time comes.” 
“I hope so,” said the woman. “I believe ’tis your move.” 
She watched as he moved his bishop across the board. 


TWO
Castle Windhaven was buzzing with the news. A witch 
had been found living in The Great Forest. Was a witch burning 
due? The witch was, even now, with Lord Wendall in the castle, 
being questioned. 
Tempest Sanct Joliet listened to the whisperings, fear 
knotting her stomach. She had spent the morning gathering 
herbs for Miriam and daydreaming under the towering old oak 
deep in the forest. Her serenity evaporated when she entered 
the courtyard and heard the news. As the young woman walked 
slowly toward the keep, voices faded then ceased, and serving 
women and soldiers turned quietly back to their duties. A few 
cast sidelong glances at their lord’s daughter as they left the 
courtyard. 
Tempest knew what they were thinking. She had heard the 
whispers all her life, and she was still deeply hurt whenever 
she overheard servants speculating about her. Her memory 
turned back to an incident that had occurred two years before, 
only a few days before her thirteenth birthday. It had been a 
beautiful fall day, and she had gone with Miriam to visit one of 
the serfs who was soon to give birth. 
She skipped along beside Miriam, happy and excited 
because she had been studying for three years and would finally 
be able to help the healer. She could barely contain her 
enthusiasm. Kindly Miriam listened to her chatter with an 
understanding smile. 
They soon reached the small cottage and entered, both eager 
to help the woman deliver her child. That was the day, Tempest 
remembered sadly, that she left her childhood behind. 
Miriam entered the cottage first, telling Tempest to go to 

the well and draw a bucket of clean water. She did as she was 
told and quickly returned to the cottage with the fresh water, 
emptied it into the huge cauldron hanging over the fire and, 
hearing a moan coming from the curtained off area of the room, 
went to see if she could help Miriam. 
On the bed lay a middle-aged woman in the final stages of 
labor. The distended mound of her abdomen writhed with the 
child’s effort to be born. Sweat streamed from her face and 
body, although it was a cool day. Her eyes had a fearful, wild 
look. She glared up at Tempest, hatred radiating from her in 
waves as she raised her hand to make the ancient sign of 
protection from evil. 
Tempest stepped back, turning pale. 
“Nay!” screamed the woman. “I will not have her here 
when my babe comes into the world.” She strained mightily 
and shrieked as the pain tore through her body. 
“Check the water,” muttered Miriam, motioning Tempest 
to leave. “I will call you when the babe is come.” 
“I will not have that demon spawn here,” the woman 
screamed. “She is a witch. She will steal my child’s soul.” 
“I would never harm your baby,” Tempest retorted. “If I 
were truly a witch, I would turn you into a toad as ugly as your 
words. And besides—” 
“Tempest Sanct Joliet!” Miriam was angrier than Tempest 
had ever seen her. “Leave! This instant!” 
As Tempest hurried from the room, the woman screamed 
and screamed again. Then there was silence. Finally there came 
the sound of flesh slapping flesh and the tiny wail of a newborn 
infant. 
Tempest wanted to see the new baby but was afraid of 
what Miriam would do to her if she disobeyed her orders. As 
she walked to the door, she heard the two women talking softly. 
“You have a son, Luene, and he looks perfect. 
Congratulations, Jon will be proud. I know how long you have 
waited for this child. May I call Tempest in to see him and 
share in your joy? She is, after all, our Lord’s daughter.” She 
spoke quietly but with firmness. 
Tempest knew well her father’s irate reaction to the 

treatment she had received from some of his tenants. If word 
of this incident were to reach his ears, Lord Wendall would, 
very likely, evict these poor farmers from his lands. He had 
done so in the past. Tempest could not bear the thought of the 
tiny babe being homeless and called out to the two women, 
hoping to forestall any more trouble. 
“I will tell Jon about his new son. I am hot and tired from 
the walk here, so I will wait for you by the creek,” she called 
back as she went out the door. 
*** 
For a long time, Tempest waited for Miriam beside the 
creek . She wanted to dangle her feet in the inviting water, but 
knew it would be too cold at this time of year, so she tucked 
her knees under her long skirt, pulled them up under her chin 
and waited patiently. She heard footsteps behind her and spoke 
quickly. 
“I am sorry, Miriam,” she said, staring into the water as 
she spoke. “I should not have said what I did. I have always 
known about their fear of witches. My red hair only adds to 
their superstitions. All I wanted to do was help. I am sorry I 
lost my temper again. I try so hard to be good! I do...I truly 
do...” Agitated, she pounded her knee with her tiny fist. 
“Be not upset, child. You can be no more and no less than 
the gods wish.” The voice was low and musical. 
It was a voice Tempest had never heard before, and she 
stiffened, then leapt to her feet. As she rose, her foot turned 
against a stone, and she started to fall toward the icy creek. 
Soft, strong hands steadied her as she turned to face her rescuer. 
The woman standing before her was exquisite. She was 
tall and slim, with long, curling, golden-blonde hair. Her eyes 
were pale, winter-sky blue, set in a face of soft curves and 
gentle planes. Her skin was golden brown, kissed softly by the 
summer sun. Hers was a beauty to outlive mortality. She was 
dressed simply, in a gown of pale green wool, a dark brown, 
well-patched shawl curled around her shoulders. “I mean you 
no harm, Tempest.” A gentle smile curved her lips. “You looked 
so lost and alone.” 
“Who are you?” Tempest asked softly. “What do you want 

from me? How do you know my name?” 
“My name is Lysira.” The voice was like velvet. “I live, at 
times, in the Great Forest. I too, am a healer. You must never 
relinquish your God-given abilities, Tempest. You must accept 
who, and what, you are. Learn whatever you can now because 
there will come a time when you will need all your knowledge 
and courage to survive. Follow your destiny.” She looked off 
into the distance, listening intently. “Your companion will arrive 
soon. I must be on my way. We shall meet again. Take care, 
Tempest. Our futures are well bound.” She hurried off into the 
forest and soon disappeared from sight. 
For reasons unknown even to herself, Tempest had never 
spoken to anyone of the meeting with the beautiful Lysira. 
Instead she held it closely to her heart and called upon the 
memory whenever she was lonely or disheartened. She always 
wondered how the woman had known her name. 
The sound of a barking dog brought Tempest quickly back 
to the present. She hurried into the castle keep, intent upon 
finding her father, and seeing the accused witch. Hoping, 
wondering if perhaps this woman would understand, would 
somehow have answers. 
*** 
Wendall Sanct Joliet was easily found, seated in the Hall 
of Judgment where the tenants came with their problems when 
they could not reach an agreement among themselves. He held 
court weekly, and his was always the final word on any subject 
from unfaithful wives or feuds between neighbors, to the more 
serious crimes committed on his lands. 
Tempest’s mother, Christiana, was seated beside him, her 
face grim and unyielding. Castle guards stood stiffly at 
attention, constantly monitoring the proceedings and the 
onlookers simultaneously. 
Tempest could almost taste the tension in the air. The stink 
of fear was everywhere, emanating not from the pathetic bundle 
of rags standing before the lord of the manor, but from the 
common folk watching the proceedings, taut with anticipation. 
No one in the room looked directly at the old woman except 
Lord Wendall. Even Christiana diverted her eyes. 

Tempest knew why they would not look at the crone. They 
could not meet her gaze. To make eye contact with a witch 
meant she could gain control over a person’s soul and could 
even cause death. Most of the people who worked in the castle 
had never looked directly at Tempest, her own family and 
Miriam being the exceptions. Tempest had grown accustomed 
to this treatment over the years but had always resented it. Her 
heart went out to the old woman as she pushed her way through 
the guards to reach her father’s side. 
“Father,” she began softly and reached out to him. 
“This does not concern you, my daughter,” he replied 
quietly. “She is an accused witch.” 
“Were I not the daughter of the castle, could it not be me 
standing before you?” 
Wendall looked at Tempest for a long moment, “Nay, 
Tempest,” he whispered. “I cannot allow it. They are in a surly 
mood. They could accuse you also, and I would not be able to 
stop them. I cannot lose you, dearling. You must trust me.” 
“I do trust you, Father, but...” Tempest thought for a long 
moment. Aye, she did trust him. She would wait but, if he 
condemned the old woman, she would have to interfere. She 
could not allow a helpless woman to be burned as a witch, not 
if it was within her power to stop it. “Aye, Father,” she finally 
spoke. “I will do as you say.” 
Relieved by her answer, Wendall glanced around the great 
hall, hoping no one had overheard them, and was relieved to 
see all eyes upon the accused witch. 
But another heard their whispered conversation. The 
sorcerer, in his guise as the accused, listened intently. He had 
met the crone on her way to Windhaven, strangled her, then 
taken her appearance. He had not tested the witchling for several 
years and was anxious to check her progress. He rubbed the 
opal ring on his dirty hand to reinforce the spell he had cast to 
make him look like the crone and watched as the witchling 
meekly bowed to her father’s wishes. 
She is too weak, he thought. ‘Twould be too easy. He 
wanted a challenge. He wanted to enjoy taking her powers. 
She had grown into a passable looking woman. Mayhap he 

would not kill her. Mayhap he would wed her, take her power 
and keep her to bear his children. Mayhap. 
“Woman,” Wendall spoke loudly so all could hear. “You 
have been accused of being a witch. Speak you truly before all 
who are assembled here so we may pass judgment fairly. Are 
you a witch?” 
“I am but an old woman, milord.” The sorcerer spoke in a 
quivering voice. “I live in the woods and mean no harm. I do 
not understand this. Please do not hurt me.” 
“We shall not hurt you,” said Wendall gently, “if you speak 
the truth. Are you a witch, as these good people say?” 
The sorcerer glanced at the watchers as if in fear. He was 
looking for Lysira. The bitch always seemed to be around 
whenever he tried to get close to the witchling. But this time 
his luck held; she was not here to interfere. He straightened 
visibly and spoke in a firm, quiet voice. “I live in the deep 
forest. I collect herbs for healing. I keep to myself and do 
healings for others if they come to me. Sometimes I fail in 
what I try to do and, when that happens, I am accused of 
witchcraft. I have had to move from my home many times in 
the past because of ignorance. If I am to be called witch because 
of this, then so be it. I speak the truth, milord.” 
Tempest leaned forward, listening intently to the woman’s 
words, but recoiled when an appalling odor hit her. Goddess, 
she smelled terrible—musty, like a pit of deadly adders. 
Nevertheless, she did not think the crone to be a witch. She 
was simply an old woman, wrongfully accused. 
The murmuring of the crowd grew louder as Lord Wendall 
contemplated his decision. 
He raised his hand for silence. “There will be no witch-
burning this day. ‘Tis my judgment that this woman is as she 
says, nothing more. She shall leave here free and unharmed. 
Anyone who disobeys shall be hanged from the turrets as a 
warning to all who would not heed the words of their lord. 
Woman, step forward.” 
The sorcerer stepped closer to the dais where Lord Wendall 
and Lady Christiana were seated. He watched with interest 
through the witch’s filmy eyes, but was not afraid. His power 

over these paltry mortal beings was absolute. They could do 
him no harm. 
“Woman, you have heard my edict,” Wendall said loudly. 
“I do not believe you to be a witch, but many of my people do. 
We have very few good healers here, and ’tis a sad thing when 
I have to banish one from my lands. However, for your own 
safety, I must have you taken away from here. You will be 
escorted to our boundaries and left. You will not be allowed to 
return to my kingdom. Is that understood?” 
“I hear your words, my lord. Thank you. You are a wise 
and compassionate ruler. May you be blessed always.” She 
turned and walked slowly toward the waiting escort. 
“Father, I wish to speak to her before she leaves,” said 
Tempest. 
“Nay. ’Tis finished. Go to the solar. I shall speak to you 
later.” 
*** 
The chess game was in progress. The two figures were 
both staring intently at the pieces. The man looked up and 
spoke quietly to the woman seated opposite him. “I believe 
’tis your move, my dear.” 
“I know. I am thinking.” The woman looked up from her 
musing. “Mayhap ’tis time to look into the crystal?” 
“Nay,” he answered after some thought. “It has only been 
a few years. She is still a child. Perhaps when she is sixteen.” 

THREE
Tempest’s birthday dawned bright and clear, but cool. 
Autumn had finally arrived, and she looked forward to the long-
awaited celebration. Eighteen years old and finally a woman. 
A soft smile crossed her face. There would be a huge party this 
eve, with all the neighboring lords and ladies in attendance. 
Tempest knew all the eligible males from near and far would 
be present to look her over, and they would be curious to know 
if she would be worthy of the bride price. 
She removed her sleeping robe and stood in front of her 
full-length mirror. It had been a gift from her father for her 
birthday last year. Christiana had complained bitterly about 
the cost, and Wendall had been forced to buy her an even bigger 
mirror to keep peace in the family. Tempest loved her gift— 
except not today. 
She looked herself over critically. Her dark auburn hair 
hung in gentle curls to her waist. “Witch-red.” The word came 
unbidden to her mind. What sane man would want a woman 
with witch’s hair? And if he did want her, would he be a man 
she could love with all her heart? Tempest had warned her 
father she would not marry a man she did not love. She had 
told him she would rather spend her life alone in a shack in the 
woods than submit to a loveless marriage. He had agreed with 
her at the time, but would things change when the time actually 
arrived? Would he choose her a husband who could make his 
position stronger? After all, her older sister had already made 
an advantageous marriage. Caroline had been happily wed to a 
rich powerful duke just last year so her father could keep his 
word. Wendall had never broken a promise to her, and Tempest 
hoped with all her heart this would not be the exception. 

“Well,” she sighed, “I must live with this face and body.” 
She stared into the mirror analytically. She saw deep, moss-
green eyes with long, silky lashes. “They look like the north 
side of a big old dead tree.” She bent closer to the mirror and 
touched her turned-up nose. “And freckles on my nose. What 
really beautiful lady has freckles?” She groaned. “And my lips 
are fat! I look like I am pouting all the time. Goddess, no man 
will want me. I am too tall and still have baby fat. My breasts 
are too big. Oh, I am sooo ugly!” she cried softly as the door to 
her room opened. 
Miriam heard Tempest’s lament as she entered the room. 
“No, sweet baby. You are the most beautiful young lady in the 
Kingdom, and I will not hear you say otherwise.” 
“Oh Miriam, you just say that because you love me. I am 
too tall, and I am fat! Just look. I wish I was as beautiful as my 
mother. At least she does not have all these ugly freckles! And 
my hair curls every which way. I can never get it to stay in 
place. I still look like a child even when I wear it up. What 
man will want me?” she wailed. 
Miriam went to the distraught girl and took her into loving 
arms, crooning softly. “There will be a man for you, Tempest. 
A very special man who will see you as I do. He will see a 
wonderful, loving woman, and you will be the most important 
person in his life. Like you, he will be tall and strong, and you 
will be his equal. Do not ever settle for a mate who is weak 
and cannot see the great beauty of your soul. ‘Twill happen, 
my dear, ‘twill happen. Now ’tis time for you to be dressed. I 
think your father is getting impatient. Look out your window. 
They are opening the fair. Make haste.” 
“The fair!” Tempest ran to look out her narrow tower 
window. “I had forgotten all about the fair! Oh, hurry! Help 
me dress; I am all thumbs this day. Miriam, I love you so much. 
What would I ever do without you?” 
With Miriam’s help, Tempest dressed in record time and 
was soon fairly flying down the tower steps to the great hall. 
*** 
The fair was all any girl could hope for, and Tempest was 
enjoying herself thoroughly. The aroma of freshly baked bread 

and meat pies wafted from the various booths as she passed. 
There were ribbons of every color displayed on tables, and at 
the jeweler’s booth her mother was trying to decide which gems 
would suit her newest ball gown. Tempest did not stop to admire 
the jewelry with her mother and the other ladies; she had never 
been interested in decorating herself. She was more interested 
in herbs and healing. 
A small, drab tent set a short distance from the rest caught 
her attention and she walked toward it. There were no people 
near and nothing to disclose what it contained. Tempest lifted 
the flap and peered into the small tent. As she stepped into the 
doorway, she seemed to enter an entirely new world. The sounds 
of the venders hawking their wares faded into the distance; the 
luscious smells of baking bread and meat pies seemed to 
dissolve like snow hitting a sun-warmed stone. Instead, she 
became aware of a soft silence, a gentle breeze and the sweet 
smell of spring violets which enveloped her, lulling her into an 
almost hypnotic trance. 
The tent’s interior was as bright as daylight, although she 
could see no candles burning. The walls, so different from those 
of the outside, were soft, muted pastels and seemed to glow 
with a life of their own. There was a small, round table in the 
center of the room covered with an indigo cloth. A woman sat 
beside the table, holding a large deck of cards in her hands. 
She looked up at Tempest and smiled. 
The woman seemed familiar, and Tempest tried to recall 
where they had met. Then memories returned in a flood. She 
remembered sitting by the creek the day of her thirteenth 
birthday. The woman, Lysira, had come to her at a time when 
she needed comfort, and she had never forgotten what she had 
been told: “You can be no more and no less than the gods 
wish.” Words upon which she had come to base her life. 
“Lysira?” 
“Aye, Tempest. How swiftly time has passed; now you are 
a woman of eighteen years. You have become as beautiful as I 
expected. Have you come to me to have your future told? Sit, 
please.” She motioned to the chair in front of Tempest. 
“I have no coins with which to pay.” Tempest turned to 

leave. “But I can find my father and get some—” 
“Tempest. This is the day of your birth. This will be my 
gift to you. Coins are not important, but you must know what 
you will soon face so you can prepare yourself. Please sit.” 
“I have never done this before. I do not know what to do. 
Is this witchery?” Tempest was nervous as she sat on the hard 
wooden chair. “I am not afraid, but I would not want you to get 
into trouble. The people here are against anything that seems 
to be witchcraft. Just recently my father had to banish an old 
woman because—” 
“Tempest. Do not babble.” Lysira laid the cards in front of 
her. “Take the cards and shuffle them three times. Next, cut 
them three times to the left, with your left hand. There will be 
no trouble for me from reading the cards for you. Calmly now, 
sweet child, calmly.” She spoke soothingly, and Tempest felt 
her heart slow and her blood calm as she picked up the cards 
and did as she had been instructed. 
Lysira had held back one card from the deck. This she laid 
in the center of the table. Tempest saw a picture of a young 
man in a bright blue coat and red pants. He held his hat in one 
hand and carried a large goblet in the other. 
“This card is the significator,” Lysira told her. “It shows 
your youth and innocence.” Taking up the shuffled deck, she 
laid another card over it, a card showing eight swords curved 
around one large, central sword. 
“There has been much talk about your strangeness. It has 
not been good talk, and you fear it.” Lysira laid the next five 
cards down quickly, placing them in a circle around the two 
central cards with the first card lying across the nine of swords. 
One card seemed to draw Tempest. On it was pictured a 
tower. A bolt of lightning shot from the dark sky, striking the 
tower, making stones fly into the air. There were people falling, 
others lying dead upon the ground. She could almost hear the 
chaos in this picture, smell death in the air, taste the terror of 
the falling people. 
“That card...” Tempest pointed a trembling finger at it. “Is 
there going to be a war? Will our castle be destroyed? My 
family... Are we all going to die? I do not...” she rose to leave 

the tent. 
“Tempest!” Lysira’s sharp voice stopped her. “The pictures 
of the Tarot have much deeper meanings than what you see. 
Sit. Let us finish what we have begun.” 
Tempest sat. She could not have moved if a sword had 
been swinging at her head. “Tell me,” she whispered, her voice 
trembling. 
“This card describes the chaos in your life. It tells of being 
forced into something abhorrent, something you must resist 
with all your being or you will be destroyed like this tower. Do 
not resist the wisdom of your heart, Tempest. You will know 
what is right for you. 
“See this card?” She pointed to the topmost card. “This is 
the Lovers. Love will soon come into your life. You must accept 
no other but the one destined for you. Your heart will tell you 
true.” 
“They look so happy. So much in love. She looks a little 
like me, except she does not have my ugly red hair.” Tempest 
felt calmer. 
Lysira laid three more cards to the right side of the others. 
“You will feel pulled in every direction, and with good reason. 
What you face will not be easy, for there is much evil to combat, 
but you are a strong woman and you must not shrink from 
what you will encounter. Your strength will see you through.” 
Lysira touched the next card on the tarot deck. “This card 
is the end result. This card will tell your future.” She laid the 
card face up on the table. 
An icy wind pervaded the tent. The air became stale and 
heavy, stifling. Tempest saw the card as if from a great distance. 
On the card was a figure dressed in a dark robe, a bloody scythe 
in his hand, the land around him was desolate. A skeleton lay 
at his feet. It was a card of death. 
An unearthly scream rent the air, jerking Tempest to her 
feet like a marionette. She turned and fled the tent, running 
into the adjacent field. A crowd of people stood nearby, their 
heads raised, staring into the pale autumn sky. An old woman 
pointed into the air, screaming wordlessly. 
*** 

The man and woman stared into the crystal ball. 
“Why is Lysira there?” the woman demanded, her low 
voice filled with anger. “Was this your doing?” 
“Nay,” the man replied quietly. “I wonder...” 
“Well, do not wonder. Do something. She cannot be 
allowed to interfere. The child must not know the future.” 
“What is done is done.” He sighed, leaned back in his 
ornate chair and put his feet up on the chess board, scattering 
the pieces. “This changes things considerably. Plans must be 
made. Cover the crystal, m’dear. We must talk.” 

FOUR
The huge, golden dragon circled the field, the curve of his 
flight narrowing as he flew. When he was directly over Tempest, 
he slowly began his descent. Fear assailed her as she watched 
the beautiful dragon gliding ever nearer—then a feeling of 
wonder, then peace, as she stood rooted to the ground. All noise 
faded into the background as, transfixed, she watched the silent 
dragon spiral toward her. 
Mist-blue dragon eyes met moss-green human eyes 
and locked. 
A dragon-scream ripped through the air. The dragon’s eyes 
flashed gold and seemed to blaze brighter than the sun overhead. 
A roar came from the huge beast as his eyes turned skyward. 
High above circled another dragon, this one a deep claret. 
Hovering, the challenger bellowed a cry to battle. The golden 
dragon catapulted upward to meet his foe, an answering cry 
ringing out as he flew to meet the challenge. 
Tempest watched in horror as the two mighty opponents 
clashed in midair, their claws and teeth ripping at each 
other with deadly force. Screams of hatred, then of pain as 
they collided—then grim silence as they fought their deadly 
battle. 
The red dragon was the larger of the two and, at first, 
seemed to be winning, but the gold was younger and more 
nimble. He hit the red with sudden slashes from his talons and 
tore out chunks of flesh with his teeth. Blood and dragon scales 
showered the earth around Tempest in a crimson rain of death. 
The red fought mightily but was rapidly losing ground as 
the two dragons neared the earth, each growing weaker from 
the other’s powerful blows. Suddenly the gold pulled back from 

the red and loosed a great burst of flame. The red shrieked in 
agony, his death cry growing more shrill and discordant, until 
the people watching from below could stand no more, and they 
covered their ears, fleeing in terror from the scene of battle. 
Tempest alone remained paralyzed in her fear for the 
beautiful golden dragon, as the two beasts plummeted toward 
her. The red dragon was quickly becoming a massive ball of 
flame and would soon fall upon her, but still she was frozen. 
Suddenly the golden dragon grasped her in his huge claws and 
carefully lifted her into the air. He flew, with the girl clutched 
gently in immense, wicked talons, to the edge of the nearby 
woods and set her lightly upon the ground. He alit 
uneasily beside her. 
Tempest, unafraid, reached out and touched the 
wounded beast. She had never seen a dragon before, but 
somehow she knew this one would never harm her. She felt 
inexplicably drawn to him. She had just witnessed a battle to 
the death between two of the most dreaded creatures on earth, 
but still she had no fear. The dragon watched her silently. 
“You are wounded,” she stated, touching one of his 
huge claws. “Let me help. I am a healer.” She reached for the 
bag of herbs she always carried. 
You cannot help me, little witch. The words, deep 
and melodious, rumbled in her head. Only dragon magic can 
heal a dragon. 
“You speak,” Tempest blurted with surprise. “I did not 
realize dragons could talk. How do you do it? I am not a witch,” 
she quickly added. “And my name is Tempest. What may I 
call you?” 
Aye, little Tempest, our kind speaks with mindspeak, and 
you are most certainly a witch. You may call me Adrian, which 
is not my dragon name. ’Tis what my father calls me. You 
certainly do talk a lot. 
“I talk a lot when I am nervous,” she retorted. 
Do you fear me? 
“Nay.” 
Then tell me why you are nervous. 
“You said I talk too much.” 

Is that why you are nervous? 
“How would you feel if you had just met a dragon for the 
first time?” Tempest was defensive. “You are ten times bigger 
than me. You have these gigantic claws which could rip me to 
shreds. You just killed another dragon even bigger than you, 
and you are hurt and will not even let me help you. So, just you 
tell me how would you feel, Sir Dragon? Would you not be 
nervous? And do not call me a witch! Do you want to have me 
burned at the stake?” She sputtered, her face growing red, 
making her freckles stand out vividly. 
The dragon watched, fascinated. Your anger brings 
out those little red dots across your nose, he observed. I like 
them. They are cute on that tiny, turned-up nose. Would you 
like to come home with me? Her red hair reminded him of a 
warm fire on a cold winter’s night, and he suddenly felt 
protective toward the tiny human standing bravely before him. 
Being a fairly young dragon, he had experienced very 
little discourse with humans and the ones he had met had all 
run from him in fear. 
“Nay. I have a home. I would not go with you if you were 
the last dragon on Earth.” Tempest was beginning to enjoy this 
majestic creature and wanted this particular discussion to 
continue. She had never had an experience like this before, 
and the huge beast fascinated her. 
I am not, you know. The voice was in her head again. She 
did not know if dragons could smile, but she could sense the 
laughter behind his words. 
“You are not what?” 
The last dragon on Earth. 
There definitely was laughter this time, very strange dragon 
laughter as his delight grew with her nonsensical badinage. 
“I did not mean that you were.” Tempest was not sure how 
to explain to this huge beast the strange absurdities of the human 
language. 
Abruptly, the world intruded upon them. Loud voices 
calling her name came from the road. ’Twas her father 
and Tristan. 
I must leave, the dragon told her reluctantly. People 

fear dragons—unless they are brave little witches with dots 
on their noses. As he spread his translucent wings, droplets of 
blood landed on Tempest’s hand. 
“Nay, you must let me try to help you. You are injured. I 
will not let them hurt you. Please,” she pleaded, but to no avail. 
The dragon rose slowly and painfully into the air. 
Farewell, little Tempest. I shall not soon forget you. Where 
he had rested was a large pool of blood. Tempest knew he was 
badly injured and wondered how he had managed to stay by 
her for so long...How he had managed to lift his huge body 
into the sky...If she would ever see him again. 
“Farewell, my beautiful golden dragon. Be well.” A large 
lump formed in her throat as she watched the dragon soar slowly 
into the heavens. “Be safe,” she whispered in his wake. 
*** 
“They will be greatly disturbed at the destruction of the 
red,” the woman commented as she moved her queen over the 
board, taking the man’s bishop. 
“They will soon forget this small battle,” the 
man predicted, frowning at the chessboard. “Besides, that red 
was completely mad and would have caused too much trouble. 
Never could stand red dragons anyway.” 
“Will he live?” she wondered as she gazed intently into the 
crystal. 
“’Tis the plan, is it not?” He looked up from the board. 
“You took my bishop!” 

FIVE 
“Tempest, stop daydreaming and help me with this dress.” 
Miriam was exasperated. “I swear you are getting younger 
instead of older. Your guests are waiting for you. Can you not 
at least pretend to look forward to this party. Your mother 
has planned a big surprise tonight. I heard her mention it to 
Lady Junia today. Tempest. ..” 
“I am sorry, Miriam. My mind was elsewhere. I will hurry. 
I would not want to keep Mother waiting.” She looked at the 
beautiful clothes lying on her bed. 
Tempest did not want to go to her mother’s fancy party. 
She hated getting dressed for these special occasions but, as 
she looked at the lovely dress lying on her bed, she found her 
reluctance diminishing. 
“Today is an important day in your life,” Miriam reminded 
her. ”I made this for you to wear. I hope you like it.” She 
handed Tempest a bundle wrapped in a dark green scarf, tied 
with a pale green satin ribbon. 
“You did not have to give me anything, Miriam. All I ever 
need from you is your love and guidance.” Her eyes twinkled, 
and she gave Miriam a saucy little grin. “But I will take a 
present any time if ’tis something you made.” 
“You always have my love,” answered Miriam gruffly. 
“Now open it so we can start getting you ready.” 
Tempest carefully untied the ribbon. “’Tis a pretty ribbon,” 
she commented. “I can wear it in my hair tonight.” She carefully 
unfolded the scarf. Inside she found a soft, white chemise. There 
was a delicate edging of lace around the low neckline, and tiny 
pink rosebuds with green leaves were embroidered around the 
neck and hem. It was shorter than her other chemises and there 

was a wide band of lace around the bottom. Tempest ran her 
hand lovingly over the soft, filmy material. 
“’Tis not cotton or linen.” she said. “I have never felt 
material like this before. What is it? ’Tis like a floating cloud.” 
“They call it silk,” answered Miriam. “I got it at a fair 
several years ago, but it just was not something I wanted to 
wear. You are a woman now and need to feel like one. Even 
Lady Christiana does not have a chemise made of this 
material.” 
“I will wear it tonight under my new clothes. Help me, 
Miriam.” She removed her old worn chemise, and Miriam 
helped her into the new one. It seemed to glide over her skin 
like a soft summer breeze as it slid over her body. 
“It feels delicious.” Tempest could not resist running her 
hands over her new garment. “This must be what sin feels like.” 
“You are too young to know what sin feels like,” grumbled 
Miriam. “Lift up your arms now and help me with this dress.” 
She lifted the new dress carefully from the bed and slipped it 
over her head and down Tempest’s curvy body. 
Miriam examined her critically. Her long undertunic was 
a light green cotton with sleeves that draped loosely to just 
below her elbows, then fitted her arms tightly to the wrist where 
they ended in a point which reached almost to her fingers. Her 
soft, velvet surcoat fitted loosely and fell to the tips of her dark 
green slippers. Embroidered with tiny leaves and rosebuds 
around the square neckline and the hem, it was the deep, rich 
green of a summer forest. The leaves were sewn with silver 
thread, and each tiny rosebud was a splash of gold. She handed 
Tempest a girdle of silver links with tiny silver bells on each 
end. The young woman draped it loosely around her waist, 
then sat on a small wooden bench so Miriam could arrange her 
hair. 
“I think ’tis time for you to wear your hair up,” commented 
Miriam. “Today you have reached adulthood, and we must make 
sure everyone can see that.” She piled Tempest’s hair on her 
head, arranged it in loose curls and wound the green ribbon 
artfully through the curls. 
Spellbound, Tempest watched her and was amazed to see 

a beautiful young woman emerge where there had once been a 
young girl. 
“I cannot believe ’tis me, Miriam,” said Tempest softly. “I 
almost look beautiful. Thank you for knowing what to do.” 
Before Miriam could comment, there was a rap on the door. 
Tristan peeked his head around the door and asked, “May I 
enter, little sister?” 
“Of course, Tris,” Tempest called out, watching him in her 
mirror. “You know you are always welcome.” 
Tristan sauntered into the room. “Tempest, I...” He stopped 
and stared, his jaw agape, as she turned toward him. “Great 
gods, Tempest,” he said softly. “You have changed into a woman 
overnight.” His voice was gruff with emotion. 
“So sudden...Yesterday you were a little girl...Now I do not 
seem to know you.” He thrust a small package into her hands, 
turned and fled before she could speak. 
Tempest looked at the small wooden box she held. It had 
tiny ivy vines carved about the edges, each vine covered with 
perfectly formed leaves. In the center of the lid the vines curled 
to form a heart, and her name was carved into its center. Tempest 
knew it had taken Tristan many hours to make the box for her 
birthday, and it touched her heart as no other gift could have. 
“’Tis beautiful,” breathed Miriam. “Is there anything 
inside?” 
Tempest opened the box. Inside was a deep red velvet 
lining. Nestled in the velvet lay a pair of silver earrings. Each 
earring was a perfect tiny lightning bolt with a black enameled 
thundercloud behind it. 
Lovingly, she lifted them from the box and held them to 
the light to see them more clearly. The enamel had been poured 
into silver wires shaped like clouds. There was no metal behind 
the fired enamel, and the light from the candle danced behind 
each tiny cloud, appearing to make it come alive. The wires 
around the clouds gave them a slight silver lining which also 
gave power to the lightning bolt. 
“Pretty,” observed Miriam. 
“They are a tempest. Miriam, they are my name.” Tempest 
swallowed to relieve the sudden lump in her throat. “The box 

would have been enough. These earrings must have cost him 
dearly. Miriam, I love him so much. Why did he not stay so I 
could tell him how much I love his gift?” 
“Your brother needs no thanks, Tempest. He knows how 
much you love him, for he loves you the same.” Miriam wiped 
her stinging eyes with her sleeve. Tempest had few people in 
her life who truly loved her, and Miriam daily thanked the gods 
for Tristan’s unconditional love for his sister. 
“Now you must get yourself ready. Your guests are waiting 
and your mother will be angry if you delay longer, mooning 
over a pair of earrings,” she growled to cover a sudden 
overpowering love for the young woman who meant more to 
her than anyone else in her life. “Put them on and let us go.” 
As they made their way down the narrow, winding, stone 
steps to the dining room, they could hear the soft babble of 
voices. 
“Too many people, Miriam,” said Tempest softly. “I do 
not want to go. I feel ill. I must return to my room. They are my 
mother’s friends, not mine.” She turned to retreat back up the 
stairs, but Miriam blocked her path. 
“This gathering is for you, Tempest, to introduce you to 
the unmarried knights and nobles so you may find yourself a 
husband. You are eighteen years old this day, and you must 
make choices to ensure your future and that of your family. 
’Tis very important for you to attend this dinner, and you must 
be on your best behavior.” Her voice softened with love. “I 
realize you are frightened. You are not accustomed to this. But 
’tis a fact of life and must be faced with courage. Just remember 
that all we do is done for love of you. Go dearling, I will be 
with you.” 
Tempest took a deep breath, straightened her back, turned 
and descended the last few steps to the noise-filled room. 
Courage was one thing she knew she had in plenty. Had not 
she just spent the afternoon conversing with a dragon? She 
smiled at the thought and entered the room. 
The dining room was filled with people. By the richness 
of their clothing, Tempest knew they were all nobles and that 
Lady Christiana had outdone herself in the invitations she had 

sent. Only the wealthiest suitors would be given consideration 
for the favorite daughter of Wendall Sanct Joliet. 
Unfortunately for the young woman, most of the men 
invited to the celebration seemed to be well past their prime. 
There were very few unmarried men close to Tempest’s age 
residing in he vicinity of Windhaven. 
Tempest faltered for a moment, but she quickly remembered 
the beautiful golden dragon and her smile returned. As she made 
her way to the head table where her family awaited she was 
determined to get through this evening with as little difficulty 
as possible. 
“Tempest,” said Wendall, rising to his feet. “You are 
positively beautiful tonight. You rival every woman in the 
kingdom.” He took her small hand in his and turned to the 
assembled nobility. 
“Gentlemen...Ladies.” The room grew quiet. “May I present 
to you my daughter, Tempest? We have come together to 
celebrate her coming of age.” 
A man Tempest had never seen before rose to his feet and 
spoke. “May I be the first to toast the lovely daughter of the 
castle on this, the day of her birth?” He raised his goblet in 
salute. “To Tempest, may your life be long, your children many 
and your husband rich, strong and brave enough to weather 
any storm.” 
The guests, as one, rose to their feet and joined the man in 
his toast. Tempest blushed in embarrassment, unhappy to be 
the center of so much attention. 
Wendall, realizing how she felt, took her hand, raised it to 
his lips, kissed it and looked out over his assembled guests. 
“My daughter is a modest young woman and is not accustomed 
to this much attention. Please, continue with your meal. There 
will be entertainment anon.” 
Tempest sank gratefully into the chair by her father and 
busied herself with the stew in her trencher, hoping to escape 
further notice. She wished this celebration would soon be over 
so she could go to her room and reminisce about her 
conversation with the dragon. She could not seem to banish 
the afternoon’s adventure from her thoughts. 

She toyed with her food for long moments but soon became 
curious about the people who had attended her party. Shyly, 
she glanced up. No one in the huge dining hall seemed to be 
giving her any notice, so she was able to observe the guests 
with ease. As she looked around the great dining hall, she 
begin to notice that most of the guests were men of middle age 
or older—some she regarded as positively ancient. For a 
time she was panicked but then recalled a conversation with 
her father only days before. 
“Tempest,” he had said when she had confided her hopes 
and fears concerning her future. “You will be offered a great 
many suitors to choose from. I want only your happiness and 
would never force you into a marriage which does not suit 
you. Fear not, sweeting, you have plenty of time to choose, 
and I shall help you to find only the very best man with whom 
to spend the rest of your life. Caroline married for love, and so 
shall you.” 
As she glanced from guest to guest, Tempest began to form 
idle speculations as to their lives and wealth. She began to put 
silly names to each face, trying to match the names to their 
actions at the table. But she soon became bored with her game 
and again looked, this time in earnest, for Tristan. She had 
always been able to share funny, secret little jokes with him 
and wondered why he was not present on this, the most 
important night of her life. 
She began to feel uncomfortable, as if someone was trying 
to draw her attention. “Tristan?” she wondered. But this was 
not the sort of feeling she shared with Tristan. This feeling 
was one tinged with fear and something else she could put no 
name to. This was a feeling of cold, dank earth, contaminated 
with foul, rotten, decayed things. She closed her eyes, dizzy 
for a moment, then looked across the room to a far table. There 
she found the source of her discomfort. 
He sat below the salt, where only the poorest people sat. 
The table at that end was dimly lit and he was partially in the 
shadows. She could not see his face, but Tempest could feel 
the pull of his magnetically intense stare. Red eyes glowed 
from deep within the darkness of the cowl which covered his 

head. She felt drawn unwillingly to a place from which she 
knew she would never return, a place of unhappiness, of chains 
and pain, a place where she would lose all that meant life and 
order, a place of death. 
Panic-stricken, she tried to detach her gaze from those 
crimson, glowing orbs, but he was too powerful. She could not 
even close her eyes. No one else in the room seemed to even 
notice the man. Were her witch’s powers showing what none 
else could see? 
Unbidden, a face came between her and the man. It was 
Lysira as she had been when she had spoken so gently to 
Tempest at the creek. Then the image changed to the time when 
she had told Tempest her future in the cards. Calmness came 
over the girl. She drew in a deep breath and raised her hand, 
first and last fingers raised in the ancient sign to ward off the 
Evil Eye. The spell was broken. The man’s focus was averted. 
She no longer felt the pull of his stare, no longer felt threatened. 
She could now see him in a true light. 
He was dressed differently from the other people in the 
room. Their finery was crafted from bright colors in satin, velvet 
and precious silk, whereas, his raiment was black, made of 
coarse wool. His dirty black robe was tied at the waist with a 
sisal cord, rough and unsightly. The hood was pulled up to 
conceal his face, but she could still feel the power of his eyes 
which had drawn her toward bone-chilling darkness. She 
shuddered and quickly looked away, determined not to let the 
incident mar the happiness of the evening. 
“Where is Tristan?” Tempest asked her father. “I thought 
he would be here to share my night. Surely he would not miss 
this party. He is not ill is he? I saw him earlier, and he seemed 
fine.” 
“Tristan did not attend this banquet by my orders,” 
Christiana interceded. “I will not have a bastard in this hall 
when I dine.” 
“Mother!” Tempest exclaimed angrily. “Tristan is just as 
much my brother as Caroline is my sister. Just because my 
father was not wed to his mother does not make him any less a 
true Sanct Joliet. You know that Father would acknowledge 

him as a son if you would not be so set against it. ’Tis my 
night, and I want him here!” 
“It will not happen, Tempest. I have discussed this with 
your father, and he is in full agreement with my decision. We 
shall not speak further of this.” Christiana spoke softly and 
without discernible emotion, but there was steel behind her 
words, and Tempest knew well what would follow further 
argument with her strong-willed mother. She had been punished 
severely in the past for standing up for her beloved Tristan and 
had good reason to fear her mother’s anger. 
“Tristan understands, Tempest,” Wendall interrupted before 
the argument could grow even more heated. “There are many 
guests attending here tonight and his duties lie in the 
stables. You know he takes his responsibilities very seriously. 
Besides, ’tis my opinion that your brother would much prefer 
the company of horses to seeing his sister put on display for all 
the nobles to evaluate.” Wendall took Tempest’s small hand 
tenderly in his own and whispered so none but she could hear. 
“Please do not anger her further, sweetness. I hate it so when 
she rails against Tristan. I love him too, and I do acknowledge 
him, just not officially—not yet anyway, but soon, Tempest, 
soon. 
“Now,” he said loudly, raising his head to look out over 
his guests. ”I believe ’tis time for some entertainment. Let the 
revelry begin.” 
A minstrel entered the room and an expectant hush fell 
over the audience. A good minstrel was rare and everyone 
looked forward to a well-sung tale. The men would relish a 
story of battles well fought, full of glory and legend. The women 
hoped for a tale of love and betrayal, but with a happy ending, 
although many would be just as happy to shed copious tears at 
a tragic ending. 
The room was quiet when the young man began. Tempest 
recognized his voice immediately. Tristan had donned a well-
thought-out disguise and was here at her party, risking the wrath 
of Lady Christiana should he be discovered. But the latter had 
no inkling of the deception by the bastard she so loathed. She 
had rarely spoken to him over the years and did not recognize 

his voice. 
Tempest smiled with relief and satisfaction, knowing that 
her brother would once again escape punishment for one of his 
little escapades. 
She sat back, ready to enjoy the entertainment, more 
because of Tristan’s little wickedness than because of the tale 
itself. 
“This is a tale for our Tempest, in honor of her little 
adventure this afternoon. A dragon tale for a dragon lady.” There 
were several gasps from the listeners at this minstrel’s boldness, 
but Tristan ignored them and began to sing. 
From darkling depths, the Terrors came,
Dragons one and all.
Dread conquerors descend to Earth,
Screamed their fighting call.
First iridescent R’iadan
Laid waste with fearful art,
Rained flaming death on hapless man,
With hatred in her heart.
Next descended crimson Sk’aal,
Destruction in his soul.
His breath flamed Earth, man and beast,
Death his accursed goal.
Last came ice-proud A’ngraved,
Earth’s master he would be.
A cruel and mighty overlord
Of mountain, man and sea
But dragons do not all destroy nor
Steal the lives of men.
Some are good and kind and wise,
There’s much to learn from them.
T’bor, with topaz wings held high,
The mightiest of all,
Vanquished evil R’iadan,
Then turned his eye to Sk’aal.
Then A’ngraved, the battle joined

With passion did he fight.
T’bor o’ercame their wickedness.
He put them both to flight.
But he a mortal wound did bear,
Death hovered at his side
He called his mate, sweet Angeline,
To hold him as he died.
Her grieving heart cried for T’bor
And healed his wounds, they say.
Human tears met dragon blood;
Love changed their lives that day.
From mortal maid to dragon bold
Turned his Sweet Angeline,
She joined T’bor in dragon flight,
The earth restored to green.
In dragon lore, the legends speak
Of times still yet unseen
Of golden dragon like T’bor,
Of maid like Angeline
Death defeating their pure hearts,
But Virtue sets them free
Their love shall live forevermore,
For all eternity.
Quiet reigned over the great hall when Tristan finished his 
song. This was a new song for all, and there were many different 
reactions. The men were always happy to hear a new tale but 
for some unknown reason were disquieted by this song of 
dragon-battle. The women saw it only as a tale of love and 
many wiped tears from their eyes. 
Wendall knew the identity of the bard and could think only 
of removing him from his wife’s vicinity before she discovered 
the ruse. He rose to his feet and nodded. 
“Thank you, Minstrel, for your entertaining tale. You have 
a vivid imagination and shall be rewarded as you deserve for 
your performance here this night. You may go.” 
Tristan and Tempest both knew what kind of reward their 

father had in mind, and they knew that it would be much easier 
to take than a similar “reward” from Lady Christiana, should 
she ever get wind of this latest prank. 
Tristan bowed deeply to Tempest. “My lady, may I offer 
my congratulations upon this day of your coming of age? I do 
hope you enjoyed my tale.” He looked up into her eyes and 
gave her an exaggerated wink. 
Tempest could barely restrain her laughter at Tristan’s 
boldness. “Aye, Sir Bard, we enjoyed your performance very 
much. Perhaps someday you will tell me where that lovely 
tale came from? You may go now. I am sure there is a good, 
hot meal waiting for you in our kitchens.” 
Before Tristan could reply, a troop of acrobats entered the 
hall and chaos, noise and laughter reigned supreme for the rest 
of the evening. 
*** 
“I love parties,” the woman said, gazing into the huge 
crystal. “We should have gone.” 
“Humph,” growled the man lounging across the table from 
her. “I hate parties, as you well know. Sitting here watching 
this one is as close as I shall ever come to one again, so get 
that thought out of your mind right now.” 
“I wonder how that young man found the legend? It has 
always been strictly for dragonkind and could be quite 
dangerous if it fell into the wrong hands,” she said thoughtfully. 
“I wonder if Lysira...” 
“Nay,” he replied, taking a long drink from his gem-
studded goblet. “She would never dare such a thing.” 
“Aye,” she agreed. “The Tribunal can be terrible in 
its punishments for meddling with humankind.” 
“So can He,” the man whispered, glancing fearfully over 
his shoulder. “If He finds out what we are doing...” 

SIX
The dragons battled across the sky. Enraged screams filled 
the air as they dove at each other, slashing and tearing. Dragon 
scales fell onto the sterile earth below. Hot, steaming blood 
spattered the cold, rocky ground beneath the frenzied beasts. 
The few stunted trees growing upon the slopes of the snow-
covered mountains dripped red gore. 
The golden dragon plunged through the sunlit skies toward 
the black dragon but, at the last moment, the smaller beast 
thrust himself aside, and the golden dragon plummeted toward 
the earth, managing to pull out of his fatal dive by strength of 
will alone. He struggled valiantly back into the heavens to 
continue the battle. 
Flames flashed from both dragons but neither beast 
faltered as the battle raged. The black dragon lunged repeatedly, 
leaving huge gashes between golden dragon scales. Talons 
raked, tore, gouged. Teeth slashed into dragon flesh as each 
huge beast became weaker and slower, falling impotently onto 
the rocky ground below. They slammed to the ground with a 
mighty thud and silence ensued. Neither beast moved. 
A thick, luminous, green mist rose from the ground, slowly 
enveloping both creatures. Suddenly a triumphant cry wound 
its way toward the heavens, and the mist slowly dissipated. 
The golden dragon now lay under a towering oak tree, deep 
in an ancient forest. The black dragon was nowhere to be seen. 
In his place stood a hooded figure dressed in a black robe. He 
held a long, black staff in his right hand, his silver and opal 
ring an iridescent glint in the morning light. His left hand, tightly 
clenched, was raised towards the heavens, a dark, sinister figure, 
defying the gods. His laughter rang, high-pitched, yet filled 

with a wickedness born from the memories of the ancients. 
The golden dragon lay in a spreading pool of his own blood, 
life slowly ebbing from his body. His eyes were open, and he 
was conscious but unable to move as he stared with impotent 
hatred at the defiant figure, despair peeking from the edges of 
his soul. 
The man in black stood near the huge beast’s head; a heavy 
feeling of death radiated from him. The air filled with a miasma 
of rotting flesh and poisonous swamp gases. He raised his staff 
towards the heavens for a long moment, then lowered it. Its 
silver tip circled a glowing red ball and was pointed at the 
dragon’s head. The opal ring began to sparkle, then to glow, as 
his words skittered through the helpless golden dragon’s mind. 
”You fought well, dragon.” His deep, hollow voice seemed 
to come from the Abyss. “But I have prevailed, and I condemn 
you to suffer and die, here, where none shall ever know of your 
passing. You will be forgotten by all, dragon, while I shall rule 
supreme. I take your life, and all you have ever known or desired 
now belongs to me.” Blood-red flames shot from both the end 
of the staff and the opal ring, engulfing the helpless dragon. 
Wild, maniacal laughter rang through the forest as the mage 
slowly faded from sight. 
Silence flooded over the dying golden dragon. 
Then a soft, cooling breeze lulled him into oblivion and 
the beautiful golden beast lay still. Tempest awoke with a 
start, her body shaking with terror from the blood-freezing 
dream. It had all seemed too real, as if she had been a silent 
observer of arcane things not to be witnessed by mere mortals. 
She rose from her bed and went to her window, still shaken 
by the vivid dream. It was too much like the dragon-battle she 
had witnessed the day before, but with a far different outcome. 
She wondered again about the beautiful golden dragon. Would 
she ever see him again? 
A soft tapping at the door pulled Tempest from her dark 
thoughts. 
“You may enter, Jolie,” She called out softly, wondering 
why her serving maid had risen so early. After all, she had stayed 
late to help Tempest get ready for bed. 

Tristan peeked around the door, a big grin on his face. 
“Good morn, little sister. How was your party last night? 
Did you enjoy the wandering minstrel?” He sat on her big four-
poster bed, grinning over at her, still standing by the window. 
“I thought you would be sleeping after being up so late.” 
“I had a dream, Tris. It was so horrible I had to wake myself 
to get away from it.” Her voice shook with emotion. 
Tristan quickly stepped to her side to take her into his 
loving arms and give her the comfort only a brother could give. 
“Tell me about it. If you can talk about bad dreams, they 
will be sent back to the other side, never to return again.” 
She looked up from the protective circle of his arms. “’Tis 
a childhood fantasy. This was no child’s dream to be so easily 
banished.” 
“Do not fear so, little one. I have always been here to don 
my armor and dash into battle to protect you. Remember when 
the village children were teasing you about your red hair, and I 
came to your rescue? Why, I beat them all severely. You know 
how good I am at saving you!” 
“I seem to remember that little incident differently, sweet 
brother.” Tempest gave him a tremulous smile at the memory. 
“I seem to recall you being bruised and battered. You had to be 
carried to your room in the stables and have your broken arm 
set by the village healer.” 
“We paid the debt in full later, though.” Tristan chuckled 
at the memory. “You convinced them they were frogs and even 
had them eating bugs for a whole afternoon. How did you do 
that, by the way? I never did figure that one out.” 
“Just something I learned by an old oak tree,” Tempest 
said with a saucy grin. “Old secrets, you know.” 
“Sometimes you almost scare me with the things you can 
do. Anyway, ’tis all in the past, and I really want to spend 
some time with you before everyone else claims your attention. 
We have been together far too little these past few days. Get 
dressed and meet me in the stables.” He swatted her playfully 
on the bottom as he steered her toward the wardrobe. 
“Our guests came with some beautiful horses. There is one 
in particular that I want you to see. ’Tis coal black, but its eyes 

are blue. ’Tis the meanest animal I have ever met, even meaner 
than Daemon. I cannot get near it without its owner being there, 
and he is as weird as his horse...mayhap more so.” He threw 
the last statement over his shoulder as he went out the door. 
Tempest pulled an old dress from her wardrobe. She had 
never been concerned about clothes, and her mode of dress 
showed it. The dress she chose was an old, brown woolen 
one. It was worn and faded, and she knew her mother would be 
very angry if she saw her only child dressed in clothing fit only 
for the scullery maids. But she preferred it because it was loose 
and comfortable and would not be ruined if she got dirty 
from the stables. 
Lady Christiana loathed Tempest’s love of horses and the 
stables and did her best to thwart her recalcitrant daughter’s 
attempts to spend time with Tristan in his domain. But Tempest 
knew her mother was a late riser and would not be around to 
detect this visit. 
This time Tempest was wrong. 
Lady Christiana met her at the foot of the stairs. As usual, 
she began berating her daughter for everything from what she 
was wearing to how her hair was combed. 
“Mother...” Tempest tried to stop the lecture. “Mother...I 
have to go to the stable to see to one of Father’s favorite horses. 
I will change my clothes as soon as I get back.” 
“Nay.” Christiana’s face reddened and her voice rose. 
”Your father has plenty of people to take care of those nags, 
and I have plans for you this day. Turn yourself around and get 
back up those stairs. I want you dressed in your best blue wool 
frock. I want you to be washed, combed and on your best 
behavior. This is very important to me and your father, and I 
want you to do as I say for once.” She pushed Tempest up the 
steps. 
“Mother I promised Tris...” 
“I know what that bastard did last night, and I will have 
him horsewhipped if you don’t do exactly what I say. NOW!” 
She pushed again and Tempest almost fell upon the steep, 
curved stairway. 
She knew her mother was quite capable of having Tristan 

whipped. Christiana had done so in the past and Tempest would 
protect her brother in any way she could. 
“I will do as you wish, Mother,” she said, her voice icy. 
“But in return, I do not want Tristan punished in any way for 
being at my party last night. If I hear one word of any of your 
spiteful actions against my brother, I shall retaliate in ways 
that you will never forget. Do you understand me?” 
Christiana paled. Tempest had never spoken so coldly 
before. Suddenly there was no doubt in her mind that her 
daughter was capable of doing her harm. This young woman 
standing before her was different from her usually malleable 
daughter, and it frightened her. Mayhap Tempest had developed 
more backbone than she had previously imagined. The gods 
knew what Miriam had been teaching her of the arcane arts. 
She was beginning to regret having left her now willful daughter 
in the hands of that strange, secretive healing woman. 
Christiana had heard the rumors of Tempest’s powers in 
the arcane arts, and she had always respected Miriam’s anger. 
If she was witnessing the results of the woman’s handiwork, 
she did not want to test either woman at the moment. There 
would be time later to punish Tempest’s disobedience, a time 
and place Miriam would not know about. And punish her I 
shall, she thought with determination. 
“Tempest, dear.” Christiana backed away a step, her tone 
now placating. “I only want what is best for you. I will not 
hurt...him. We have important guests who will arrive at any 
moment, and I want you to make a good impression. Your 
blue wool looks so nice on you. Will you get ready...please?” 
“Aye, Mother.” Tempest was so surprised at her mother’s 
turnabout she could think of no other thing to do except obey 
her. She turned and headed up the stairs to her room like any 
well-mannered daughter. 
*** 
The man and woman stood before the golden dragon 
watching him in his sleep of death and damnation. 
“Well,” said the woman. “Are you going to just let him 
die?” 
“Of course not,” answered the man. “That would end 

everything, and I will not allow it.” 
“You cannot cancel or reverse the sorcerer’s spell, you 
know. He is very powerful and would know if we interfere. I 
do not want him to notice what we do. You must be 
very careful.” 
“Do not push me, dear. I am an inveterate chess player 
and ’tis my move. Watch carefully and mayhap you will learn 
a thing or two.” The man lifted his fingers and moved them in 
intricate patterns in the air. They seemed, just for a moment, 
to leave silver trails of light behind them. And then the patterns 
were no more, the trails of light gone from view. The man 
snapped his fingers and the couple disappeared. 
*** 
The golden dragon slept on. His wounds began to close. 
His life’s blood no longer flowed, but trickled slower and slower 
from his battered body. The dragon dreamed, but did not wake.... 

SEVEN 
Tempest had felt uneasy since her skirmish with her 
mother. Something dark and dangerous lurked at the edge of 
her consciousness. Something was not quite right in her world 
but, try as she might, she could not bring the problem forward 
to examine it more closely. It was like a skittish colt, dancing 
away as soon as she tried to reach out to it. She dressed slowly, 
her mind occupied with the battle of her subconscious. 
The sound of horses in the courtyard drew her attention, 
and she went to her window to see what was causing the 
commotion. 
From the looks of things, another noble had arrived. There 
were huge war horses, men-at-arms and at least four mounted 
knights, their armor shining in the morning sun. The noble was 
richly dressed, and his standard-bearer carried a flag which 
boasted a griffin locked in combat with a dragon. 
A coldness seemed to grip Tempest as she looked at the 
family crest on the flag and she drew back from the window, 
taking a deep breath to calm herself 
“Tempest,” her mother said as she entered the room without 
any thought to her daughter’s privacy. “They have finally 
arrived, and I wanted to check to make sure you are dressed 
properly.” She looked Tempest over critically but could find 
no fault. 
“Well then. I guess you will have to do. That frock is simple 
enough to proclaim your innocence. Here.” She reached into 
her pocket and withdrew a gold pendant cast in the form of a 
Celtic cross. “You may wear this for today only, then it must 
be returned to me. I do not want Count Mirabelle to think you 
have nothing except a few clothes. He is very wealthy and would 

not desire a poverty-stricken wife.” 
“Then he would not want me, Mother, for I am as near to 
poverty as any poor serf. I own no jewels. I have only what 
Father has given me, and the beautiful birthday gift Tristan 
gave me last night. You would have me lie to your friend?” 
Tempest realized she had just put Christiana in an 
uncomfortable position and waited to see how she squirmed 
out of it this time. She was beginning to enjoy this new power 
that seemed to coincide with her coming of age. In past times 
she had quietly deferred to her mother’s wishes in order to 
avoid conflict. 
Christiana looked at Tempest for a long moment, then spoke 
thoughtfully. “You have found a sharp tongue, child. If you are 
not careful, you will become a shrew, and no man treats such a 
wife with kindness. 
“Speak no more to me of your poverty,” she continued. 
“Soon you will be gone from here, and you can complain to 
your husband if you are not given everything you think you 
need. You will be on your best behavior this day, or I shall see 
you flogged for your indiscretions. In truth,” she said with a 
tight, malicious smile, “I will administer the punishment 
myself. Quite happily, I might add.” 
“Aye, Mother,” Tempest responded grimly. “You have 
always enjoyed punishing me, have you not? Especially with 
that riding crop you love to carry. I have felt its sting many 
times in the past, and I look forward to the day when I no 
longer have to call you Mother or bow to your impossible 
demands.” She turned to leave the room. 
Lady Christiana grabbed Tempest’s arm with steely fingers 
and spun her around. They were standing nose to nose and 
Tempest looked her squarely in the eyes, neither moving nor 
blinking. 
“Do not turn your back on me.” Christiana hissed. “I am 
not finished with you.” 
“You have made your threat, Mother, and I have listened 
to you. Now let me go to greet your guests. Or would you 
rather beat me now so I will not have to see them at all?” Her 
voice dripped venom. “I am sure Father will not be any more 

angry with you this time than he has been in the past.” 
Abruptly Christiana let go of Tempest’s arm. She well 
remembered the last time she had beaten her willful daughter. 
’Twas not a fond memory. 
“If you ever lay your riding crop to my daughter again, I 
shall lock you in the north tower for the rest of your life,” 
Wendall had said, anger making his voice low and menacing. 
“You will never see or hear another human voice or look upon 
my face again. And I will make sure you live a long, long time 
in your solitude. You will have many years to reflect upon your 
cruelty.” 
Lady Christiana had realized too late that the punishment 
she had inflicted had been much too severe. Tempest had been 
abed for many days recovering from the beating and still carried 
scars on her back from where the riding crop had broken the 
skin. 
Christiana admitted freely that she had allowed her temper 
to control her and had nursed her daughter diligently until she 
was able to be up and about again. She had hated every minute 
of the nursing chore, but shook visibly every time she saw the 
condemnation in her husband’s eyes. 
Tempest did not know of her father’s promise to her mother 
and Christiana fervently hoped she would never find out. 
She knew if Tempest realized that Christiana could no longer 
use the riding crop, she would lose all control over her obstinate 
daughter. 
“Be in the great hall before our guests have stabled their 
horses.” Christiana pushed Tempest from her. “We will discuss 
this later,” she said between clenched teeth as she left the room, 
a false smile already pasted upon her cold, beautiful face. 
*** 
As Tempest approached the great hall, she heard the sound 
of deep male voices and the brittle tinkle of her mother’s 
laughter. The sound was false to her ears. She knew from past 
experience how the Lady Christiana could charm anyone if she 
put her mind to the task. 
“I really do hate the way she laughs,” Tempest muttered, 
as she neared the stone archway leading into the great hall. “I 

sincerely hope I never get to a point in my life when I need to 
be so deceptive.” She paused at the entrance. “What new 
tortures does she have in mind for me now?” 
Wendall smiled at his daughter as she reluctantly entered 
the room. He was standing with a richly appointed man of 
middle age. With them stood a smiling, petite, flaxen-haired 
young woman. 
“Tempest,” Wendall called to her. “Come meet Count 
Mirabelle and his lovely daughter Marisa.” 
“My Lady.” Count Mirabelle bowed deeply. “You are as 
beautiful as I have heard. ’Tis my pleasure to finally make your 
acquaintance.” 
“You flatter me unjustly, my lord, but I thank you for your 
compliment. Have you come to visit my father or are you just 
stopping here on your way to other faraway places?” Tempest 
was not sure about Count Mirabelle and wanted to tread this 
ground carefully. Was this a friend of her father’s or another 
suitor? 
“I have traveled many days to meet you, beautiful lady and 
it has been well worth the long trip. You are even lovelier than 
I had imagined.” As he spoke, his eyes slid over her body to 
linger uncomfortably long on her breasts. 
“Look at my face, Sirrah, when you speak to me,” Tempest 
snapped. “I do not speak with my breasts!” 
“Tempest!” Lord Wendall was thunderstruck at his 
daughter’s words. She had always been a well-mannered, quiet 
child, and he had never heard her speak harshly to anyone 
before. “Count Mirabelle is here as a guest, and you will treat 
him accordingly.” 
“Forgive me, Father,” Tempest said, suddenly weary. “I do 
not feel well today. May I please be excused?” She turned to 
leave but felt the heavy grip of Christiana’s fingers cutting 
deeply into the flesh of her arm. 
“Nay, you may not leave.” Christiana was furious, 
and Tempest knew she would pay dearly for this unprecedented 
breach of etiquette. “Count Mirabelle has traveled far. You will 
pay him the respect a Count deserves.” 
“Lady Christiana, please do not be angry with the poor 

girl. Tempest is young and has led a sheltered life. Besides, I 
admire a woman with spirit.” He looked into Tempest’s eyes 
and smiled. “’Tis hard not to admire such a beautiful woman. 
If I have offended you, please forgive me.” He made a courtly 
bow, drew her hand to his lips and kissed it softly. 
“Thank you, sir,” she replied. “I was rude.” 
A commotion from the entrance drew their attention, and 
Tempest was relieved of the burden of further apologies as all 
eyes turned to see who had entered. 
It was the dark, sinister man from her dream. Tempest 
shuddered and drew in a shaky breath. He was still dressed in 
the black robe with the hood drawn over his head. In his hand 
he carried the long black staff with the red crystal on the end. 
As the man approached, Tempest’s eyes were drawn to the 
staff. Her heart beat faster, then seemed to slow almost to a 
standstill as she stared, spellbound, at the softly glowing crystal. 
She felt as if she were being smothered, dragged unwillingly 
into the depths of fear and depravity, absorbed by that cold, 
evil, red orb. Voices came to her as though from a great distance. 
She tried frantically to pull her gaze from the ruby crystal, but 
it held her tightly in its dark embrace. Would no one help her? 
Could they not see this man as she saw him? 
“Tempest.” The voice was weak, seeming to come from a 
great distance yet demanding her attention, helping her to break 
the spell which held her enthralled. 
“Beware.” A soft golden haze enveloped her mind, and 
she fled gratefully to its protection, crumpling to the floor in a 
swoon. 
*** 
“Tempest, please wake.” Wendall patted her hand gently, 
his voice filled with concern. 
She opened her eyes and looked at his worried face. 
“I am all right, Father.” She smiled up at him. “Why are 
you here in my room? I am not ill....” 
“You swooned, Tempest, and frightened me nearly to death. 
You have never done such a thing before.” 
“She told you she is all right.” Christiana’s voice 
came gratingly from behind Wendall. “I would not be surprised 

if it was just one of her tricks to get your sympathy. Get up 
girl, you still owe Lord Mirabelle an apology.” 
“Nay.” Wendall looked up at his wife, anger flashing from 
his green eyes. “Tempest is ill and shall be excused from further 
engagements with our guests today. The apology was given 
and accepted. There will be nothing more said. Do I make 
myself clear, Christiana?” 
Their eyes clashed, but Wendall was still lord of his domain. 
Christiana was wise enough to defer to her husband’s wishes. 
She turned without a word and stalked from the room, leaving 
blessed silence behind. 
“I am sorry, Father,” Tempest said quietly. “I really was 
not trying to cause trouble. I know I was rude, but the man 
infuriated me.” 
Wendall took his daughter gently in his arms, patted her 
softly on the back and spoke. “I love you more than anyone 
upon this earth, Tempest. I wish you only a life of love and 
happiness. William Mirabelle is a wealthy man with a lovely 
castle overlooking the sea. He has many servants, and from all 
reports is not a cruel master. He is generous with his daughter, 
from the looks of her wardrobe and the jewels she wears. She 
holds no fear of him. I know he is older but seems fit and sits a 
horse well. Please, dearest, will you give this arrangement a 
chance? I would never force you into a marriage against your 
will.” 
“But Father, he is so old. His daughter is my age. Surely 
there are younger prospects from which I may choose. There 
are more important things to consider than whether or not a man 
sits his horse well, you know.” Her smile was weak. 
“You have seen the best this country has to offer, Tempest. 
Were there any who interested you at your birthday celebration? 
If so, I will send Count Mirabelle on his way. Just tell me what 
you desire.” 
Tempest read the truth in his eyes, but could find no answer. 
“Nay, they were all so...so...” Her voice trailed off. ”I will 
do as you say, Father. But...” She hesitated. 
“What is it? What do you wish?” 
“May Tristan come with me? He is unhappy here, and I 

need him with me. Mother is so cruel to him. How would he 
survive without me?” Tempest was as afraid for herself as she 
was for Tristan. 
“Aye. If ’tis Tristan’s wish to go with you he has my 
blessing. I shall speak to Lord William to insure he is given a 
decent life at his castle. Mayhap William will take him as his 
squire and help him to attain knighthood.” He answered her 
thoughtfully, relieved by so simple a request from his precious 
daughter. “You rest now; I have guests to attend.” 
Tempest closed her eyes as he patted her hand and arose to 
leave. Suddenly a figure flashed across her closed eyelids. The 
man in black. A feeling overtook her, a feeling of dread and of 
being mired helplessly in the red fog of that staff. 
“Father!” Panic sharpened her cry. 
“What is it, sweeting?” He turned quickly, worry etched 
across his face. “Are you ill again?” 
“That man. The one in black. The one with the staff...” 
“Sardon di Mercia? He is William’s priest and trusted 
advisor. Why do you ask?” 
“’Tis just...” Tempest did not know how to continue. Could 
she explain her fears to her father? Would he understand? What 
did he see when he looked at Sardon di Mercia? Had her witch’s 
powers shown her what others could not see? 
“He frightens me, Father. There is something evil about 
him.” Her lips quivered. 
“Be at ease, dearest. He is a simple priest, not an evil man. 
You will probably never come in contact with him after you 
and William are wed. He may look rough and unseemly, but 
there is no reason for you to fear him. William will be a good 
protector. Rest easy now. Do not worry.” Wendall turned to the 
door, his daughter’s fears set aside as he thought of the many 
preparations he must make for the up coming nuptials. 
“Aye, Father.” Tempest answered meekly, but somehow 
she knew there would be no easy rest for her. 
*** 
Under the huge old oak, the golden dragon dreamed. His 
wounds continued to heal, but still, he did not wake. His form 
shimmered and faded, then slowly changed.... 

***
Sardon di Mercia felt a pain deep in his belly, then a 
pounding began behind his glowing black eyes. As he gazed 
into the blood-red crystal, he saw tiny golden flakes coruscating 
through the sphere.... 
*** 
The two figures gazed intently into the cloudy crystal ball. 
Three forms seemed to dance within the misty confines of the 
sphere. 
“If we are caught....” The woman spoke softly. 
“We will not be caught,” the man replied absently. “There 
has been no great ripple in the time continuum. Who ever 
pays attention to us anyway....” 

EIGHT 
Tempest woke early the next morning. She had spent a 
restless night and felt an ache deep in her chest. For some 
inexplicable reason, she suffered a profound melancholy, as if 
her world had overnight been changed from a bright summer’s 
day to stygian darkness. 
Dreams had come in flashes throughout the night. She could 
not remember what she had dreamt but knew she had heard a 
voice calling her name, a strong voice, somehow made weak 
by unbearable pain. In that voice had been a warning, a plea. 
Frustrated, she rose from her bed and walked to the window. 
The sun was just peeking over the treetops in a golden 
morning greeting, and she watched the spectacle until day 
arrived. 
The promise of a warm fall day did not quiet her mental 
agitation; as always, she thought of her brother, Tristan. His 
love and concern would brighten her day and wash away the 
night fears; she hurriedly dressed and headed for the stables. 
An early riser, he would be busy caring for his beloved horses. 
She moved quietly through the cavernous dining hall, out 
the tall oak double doors, and was soon in the stables calling 
to him. 
“Tris, I am so frightened,” she cried as soon as she saw 
him come out of a nearby stall. 
“Tempest? What is it? Is it Christiana again? What has 
she done this time?” He hurried to her. 
“They want me to marry that knight who came to our castle 
yesterday. He is old, Tris and he has a daughter my age.” She 
flung herself into his strong arms and hugged him tightly. “I 
know not what to do,” she continued. “I wanted it to be a 

marriage for love, not for reasons of state.” 
“But you must wed eventually,” said Tristan quietly. “I 
have heard that William Mirabelle is a godly man, Tempest. 
He may be old, but he will be a gentle husband.” 
“I do not desire a ‘godly man’ Tris. They call me Dragon 
Witch. Remember?” 
“Aye, there is that.” Tristan smiled broadly. “Somehow I 
cannot picture you wed to a godly man.” 
She giggled. “I could run away, but Father would find me 
and I do not even want to imagine how Mother would react.” 
She paused a moment, thinking. “I could go to a convent and 
take vows.” 
“Little sister,” Tristan laughed loudly, “you just said they 
call you Dragon Witch. Do you think they would ever let you 
in a convent? Mayhap together we can change Father’s mind 
about this marriage. We can tell him you are not yet ready to 
wed.” 
“Nay, I have tried that. You know how Father can be when 
he has set his mind. He likes William Mirabelle and thinks he 
is doing what is best for me. ’Tis just...” A shudder ran through 
her. 
Tristan still held his sister in his arms and became 
concerned when he felt her shudder. He knew Tempest better 
than anyone and knew she was deeply frightened. 
“Is there more that you have not told me? Has this man 
hurt you or threatened you in any way?” He put a finger under 
her chin and lifted her face so he could look into her eyes. He 
could read fear there and deep unhappiness. “I will kill him!” 
The words exploded from him and hung in the air between 
them. ”Tell me what this man has done to you. I shall make 
him pay with his miserable life.” 
He released her abruptly and turned to the open stable doors, 
intent upon redeeming his beloved sister’s honor. 
“Nay, Tris. Wait.” Tempest grabbed his arm. “He has done 
nothing wrong. He is a knight, Tris. You just told me he is a 
godly man.” 
“Then why do I see fear in your eyes?” 
“I...” Tempest could not tell him the true reason for her 

fear. 
Sardon di Mercia. 
Even now, with the man nowhere in sight, she could feel 
his dark spirit pulling her, could feel his repulsive gaze as his 
soulless eyes burned into hers. She swallowed hard and tried 
to speak. “I...” But she could not even say the man’s name as 
her stomach knotted. She sensed the evilness in Sardon di 
Mercia and feared for her brother’s life were he to try to oppose 
the vile man just to protect her. 
“Tempest,” urged Tristan, looking at her pale face, “tell 
me what you fear so.” 
“Nay,” she whispered. “I cannot.” 
“Tristan?” Wendall called from outside the stable doors. 
“Father!” exclaimed Tempest. “I do not want to see him. 
Do not tell him I am here. Please, Tris.” She ran to hide in the 
nearest stall which housed Daemon, her father’s favorite, a 
huge, coal-black stallion with a temper to match his name. 
Tristan smiled as he went to see what his father wanted. 
Daemon was a handful for everyone and mean as a snake, but 
was always gentle with the diminutive Tempest. He knew his 
sister would be safe in her hiding spot. Mayhap, he thought, she 
will get comfort from the brute. She and the stallion were alike 
in many ways. Both trusted few people; both gave their love 
sparingly but unconditionally and neither ever forgot cruel 
treatment. If handled with love and gentleness, both the petite 
maiden and the mighty stallion were forever friends. 
Tempest soon grew impatient with waiting for Tristan. She 
gave Daemon a loving farewell pat on his silky black neck, 
then quietly slipped from the stall and out of the stable. The 
huge old oak was her destination. But, as she tried to slip out 
the postern door, Christiana caught her. 
“Curse you, girl,” she hissed at Tempest. “I knew you would 
try to sneak off today. Well, you are fairly caught now, and you 
will meet with your intended. The wedding date will be set, 
and I will be free of you once and for all.” 
She grasped Tempest’s arm and hauled her roughly across 
the courtyard and up the back stairs to her chambers. 
“Now dress.” Christiana pointed to a pale blue tunic laying 

on Tempest’s bed beside a darker blue surcoat. “I had those 
made especially for today. I want you to wear your hair down 
to show your youth and innocence.” She shoved her daughter 
toward the bed. 
“I shall wear my new chemise today.” Tempest sighed, 
knowing it would be useless to fight her mother’s wishes. 
Tempest opened the lid to her clothing chest at the foot of 
her bed and looked inside, but could not find the lovely gift 
Miriam had given her. 
“Will you stop dawdling?” Christiana tapped her foot 
impatiently. “Get a chemise and get dressed. Time is passing, 
and I want to make a good impression on Count Mirabelle. 
Being late is not acceptable. Now hurry!” 
“The beautiful chemise that Miriam made for my birthday 
is gone,” wailed Tempest unhappily. “I put it in here for 
safekeeping.” 
“I am wearing it.” Christiana smirked. “’Tis much too good 
for a child like you. I had to have it redone in several places. 
You are much too fat, Tempest. Besides, what makes you think 
you deserve something so elegant?” 
“’Twas a gift, Mother, a special gift from Miriam who loves 
me, which is more than I can say for you.” Tempest was beyond 
anger as she advanced slowly upon her mother. “I want it back.” 
“Never,” spat Christiana. “Beautiful clothes do not belong 
on fat, ugly women.” 
“You are a wicked, selfish woman, Mother, and I 
despise you.” 
“Not half as much as I despise you!” Christiana slapped 
Tempest hard across the cheek. The blow echoed into the quiet 
of the room, shocking them both. 
Tempest looked at Christiana for a long, tense moment. She 
wanted to strike. Oh, how she wished she could just one time 
return some of Christiana’s wickedness. It would feel so good. 
But she knew the action would probably send Christiana into 
one of her black rages. Tempest simply did not want to have to 
see such violence yet another time. She turned and began 
dressing. 
Neither woman spoke, and Tempest still carried a faint red 

mark on her cheek as she entered the huge dining hall to meet 
her betrothed. 
Fortunately for Christiana, Wendall Sanct Joliet never 
noticed the condition of his beloved daughter’s face. If William 
Mirabelle noticed, he did not remark upon it. 
The morning meal went smoothly. Tempest did not speak 
a word to her mother but was on her best behavior for her 
father’s sake. She found William Mirabelle’s daughter, Marisa, 
to be a sweet and charming young lady with whom she could 
probably become friends. They spoke at great length about 
herbs and healing techniques, and Tempest discovered Marisa’s 
great love for horses. 
“Meet me later this afternoon at the stables,” Tempest said, 
envisioning a meeting between Marisa and Tristan. “We have 
a new Arabian mare that Father just purchased. I think you 
will like her.” 
“I am afraid my daughter is terribly spoiled,” William said 
as he joined the conversation. “She owns so many horses that 
we have had to enlarge our stables just this spring for the third 
time in as many years. But then, if it makes her happy I cannot 
complain...too much,” he added with a laugh. 
In that moment, Tempest decided to try harder to get to 
appreciate William Mirabelle. Mayhap, she decided, life at his 
castle would not be so terrible after all. She would miss her 
father, but Tristan would be there, and she would be far away 
from Christiana. She turned to speak to William, and her eyes 
were instantly drawn to the man standing behind him. 
Sardon di Mercia. 
Cold chills raced up and down her spine as she looked into 
the man’s dead black eyes. The icy, twin pools seemed to pull 
her into their depths, and she began to see tiny red flames 
flickering toward her. 
“Little witch.” The weak whisper again seemed to slip into 
her mind. “Dream a golden dragon...” The whisper faded and 
was gone. 
Tempest quickly closed her eyes. Her mind filled with the 
image of the huge gold dragon as she had last seen him, spiraling 
towards the heavens, the sunlight turning his scales to molten 

rivers of gold, a chiaroscuro ballet of gentle strength and 
majestic power. 
When she again opened her eyes, they glowed 
with newfound strength. Deep within her eyes, tiny flecks of 
gold glittered like the sun hitting new-fallen snow on a cold 
winter’s day. 
Sardon di Mercia gave her a quick nod of his head, 
acknowledging what had just passed between them, turned, and 
left the huge dining hall 
I have won this round, thought Tempest. But what am I 
battling, and why? 
*** 
“Excellent!” the man exclaimed as he clapped his 
hands gleefully. “’Tis there, and they have found it.” 
“Did you doubt it?” the woman questioned. “She is only 
a mortal after all. You gave me this task, and you know I never 
fail once I set my mind.” 
“I bow to your powers, my dear.” He smiled tenderly at 
her. “Did I not tell you this would be much more interesting 
than chess?” 

NINE 
Life at Castle Windhaven had settled back to normal during 
the past month. As Tempest hurried out through the tall, wooden 
castle gates, she breathed a sigh of relief. William and his party 
had left for Far Reaches and life could return to normal. 
“I am finally free,” she exclaimed as she looked around, 
enjoying the crisp autumn air. Drawing her heavy woolen cloak 
closer, she walked into the ancient forest. She gazed at the 
slate-gray skies. A winter storm was coming. There would be 
snow on the ground before Winter Solstice. 
Ahead, she could see the small clearing which surrounded 
the majestic old oak, her special tree, her sanctuary. As she 
neared the tree, she saw a figure lying on the ground, huddled 
close to the massive trunk. She paused at the edge of the 
clearing. She felt no fear, but a small resentment was building 
in her mind that her special place had been intruded upon. 
“Shoo.” She stomped her feet and waved her arms, hoping 
to scare it away. But it did not budge. Tempest screwed up her 
courage and advanced toward the tree, ready to defend her 
property. 
As she neared the oak tree, She could tell the figure was a 
man. He seemed to be curled up, asleep on the cold ground. 
Her temper flared. This was her tree, her sacred place. No lazy 
man had a right to be taking a nap under her tree! She picked 
up a large branch which lay near the path and advanced, staff 
held high, ready to run off the intruder. 
“Depart, Churl,” she demanded, trying to make her voice 
low and menacing but, due to the fear beginning to overcome 
her courage, her voice came out in a squeak, which made her 
even more angry. “Shoo, I say. Go away. This is my father’s 

forest and that’s my tree. Shoo, shoo, shoo.” But still the man 
did not move. Boldly, she stepped forward. 
In that moment Tempest realized the stranger was not 
wearing red clothing, nor was he sleeping as she had previously 
thought. He was covered with blood and was either 
unconscious—or dead. 
Throwing caution and temper to the wind, she dropped the 
stick and ran to the wounded man. Kneeling on the hard-packed 
earth beside him, she turned him onto his back. With a sigh of 
relief, she noticed the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest. She 
checked quickly for the source of all that dark red blood and 
found several deep gashes which, for some inexplicable reason, 
seemed to be healing themselves. She could detect no healer’s 
work. There were no bandages or poultices on the wounds. 
It suddenly dawned on Tempest that she had just discovered 
a very large, very badly hurt, very naked, man lying beneath 
her oak tree, and she had no idea what to do with him. 
She had lived a protected life. When male visitors came to 
Castle Windhaven the job of helping them with their bath was 
usually left to Christiana, who thoroughly enjoyed the task— 
if they were nobles—or to a serving maid if they were of lower 
rank. When she and Miriam had gone out to do their healing 
duties, Miriam had taken great care to keep the men’s nakedness 
covered to maintain Tempest’s innocence. 
She had, of late, been curious to see what was being 
concealed, and here was her opportunity. The man was 
unconscious. No one would ever know. After all, as a proper 
healer, she needed to make sure there were no more serious 
wounds. 
She sat back on her heels to enjoy her first sight of this 
forbidden fruit. The man’s legs were long and muscular, his 
skin a deep golden brown. Her eyes traveled up those long legs 
to encounter one of the great mysteries of her life. His manhood 
lay in a nest of curly blond hair, and she blushed as she started 
to reach out, but she could not bring herself to touch a thing so 
private. She withdrew her hand and continued her examination 
His flat stomach was concave, well-toned, his chest 
muscular and tanned, with wisps of golden curls growing in 

the center. Just over his heart was a tiny birthmark. Tempest 
looked closer. Yea, the birthmark resembled a tiny dragon. Her 
roving gaze wandered on. His arms looked long and well able 
to uphold a maiden’s honor. Her stare traveled slowly to his 
face. He had a strong square jaw with no facial hair. His lips 
were full and sensuous and his eyes were...open, looking at 
her. 
“Did you enjoy the view, little witch?” His misty blue eyes 
sparkled with golden flecks, and soft laughter rumbled deep in 
his chest. “I must admit, I have never had such a close 
examination before. I found it rather pleasant.” 
“I am not a witch.” Tempest was mortified to the tips of 
her toes. “I am a healer, and I was checking you for wounds. 
You are bleeding, you know.” 
“I seem to be cold, also,” was his amused reply. “Would 
you happen to have a spare cloak with you?” 
She quickly removed her cloak and covered him with it. 
“Who are you?” she asked. “How came you to be here? Why 
have you been so wounded? Can you sit? We need to get you 
someplace warm or you will die. Can you...” 
The stranger put his hand gently over her lips to silence 
her many questions. “I can answer only one question, little one.” 
He groaned softly as he tentatively sat up. “Yes, I can sit. 
However, I do not know if I can stand without your assistance. 
I feel a bit lightheaded at the moment.” 
“Lean against the tree and rest. You have been badly 
wounded, sir.” Tempest helped him to a more comfortable 
position. “As to my other questions—may I know your name?” 
“I would gladly give you my name if I could remember it,” 
he answered, running his large hand through his long, wavy 
blond hair in agitation. “I do not remember anything before 
opening my eyes to see a beautiful little redheaded witch 
devouring me with hot green eyes.” 
“I did not devour you. I am not beautiful, and I am not a 
witch.” She was embarrassed and beginning to get angry. “If 
you were not wounded, I would slap you for your insolence.” 
“But I am wounded, little one, and I do not greatly enjoy 
pain.” A moan escaped him as he leaned forward to gaze into 

her eyes. 
Instantly contrite at the look of pain deep in those beautiful 
blue eyes, she hurried to say, “Oh, please forgive me.” The 
gold flecks seemed to disappear as his pain increased. 
“We need to get you some place warm and take care of 
those wounds.” Worry was setting in. He looked pale, and a 
fine sheen of sweat had broken out on his brow when he tried 
to move. “Do you think you could rise if I were to help you?” 
“I will certainly try, little one. But are you strong enough 
to hold me? You are such a tiny thing and look too weak to 
help a great hulk such as myself.” 
Tempest did not notice that the golden sparkles had returned 
to his eyes. She was too concerned with the logistics of moving 
this huge man safely to Castle Windhaven so she could care 
for his wounds. 
“My name is Tempest,” she told him absently as she 
wrapped one well-muscled arm over her shoulder to lift him. 
“I am neither tiny nor a thing. My mother tells me I am an ugly, 
fat female with a foul temper. She is probably right.” 
“Your mother is a fool,” came the growl from deep within 
his chest as he drew his legs under himself in order to help 
her. 
She strained as he gave a mighty shove with his long legs, 
then he was on his feet, swaying as though he were in a strong 
gale. 
“Little Tempest,” he said, between clenched teeth, “this is 
not going to work.” And he tipped toward her like a mighty 
oak felled by the woodsman’s ax. They tumbled in a heap to 
the forest floor, with her underneath. 
Moments passed as she tried to catch her breath. In another 
time and place the whole situation would have triggered her 
wry sense of humor. Here she was, a eighteen-year-old maiden, 
daughter of the castle, and she was lying in her father’s vast 
forest with a very handsome, very naked, blond giant sprawled 
over her, quite unconscious. If her life kept going down this 
road, it would be interesting indeed. 
“Sir?” She pushed at the man. “Do try to wake up now. 
You are really quite heavy, you know. I am having trouble 

breathing.” But the man did not move. “Are you dead?” Her 
worry increased. “Please do not be dead.” She felt the warmth 
of his blood soak through her gown to her skin. 
“Tempest?” It was Tristan’s voice, calling from down the 
path. 
“Tris,” Tempest called out frantically. “I am here. Help 
me.” 
The scene that met Tristan’s eyes stopped him in his tracks. 
He saw his beloved sister being ravished by a giant, under her 
sacred oak tree. He pulled his dagger and rushed to save her 
from a terrible fate. 
She saw her brother rushing toward her with his dagger 
raised to kill the man lying atop her. She screamed. 
The shrill sound in his ear woke the man, and he rolled 
from her body, only to lie staring at the youth rushing toward 
him with a lethal-looking dagger in his up raised hand. He 
tried to rise to defend himself but was too weak and fell back 
with a groan. 
“Little Tempest,” he whispered weakly. “Save yourself.” 
She valiantly threw herself across the man to protect him 
from her brother’s blade, and knocked the breath from him. 
He was again unconscious. 
“Roll away, Tempest.” Tristan’s voice was filled with anger. 
“I will kill him for what he has done to you.” 
“Tris, he has not harmed me,” she cried, frantically. ”He 
has been sorely injured. He needs help. Sheath your dagger.” 
“Must you help every stray you find?” he asked, staring at 
the man. “You know him not. He could be a dangerous bandit.” 
“Nay,” she replied. “I would know if he were dangerous. 
He needs our help.” 
Tristan sheathed the dagger and knelt beside the blond giant 
who was now bleeding profusely from the reopened gash in 
his side. 
Tempest quickly tore strips from her undercoat to bind the 
man’s wounds. ”We have to get him to shelter, or he will surely 
die.” She laid a thick wad of cloth on the seeping wound. 
“Who is he?” Tristan asked as he applied pressure to the 
wound. “Why is he here? How did he get hurt?” 

“You ask more questions than I do,” Tempest replied 
tersely. “I know not who he is nor how he came here. He cannot 
remember anything.” 
“Well, he has to have a name,” replied her brother. “I have 
never heard of anyone forgetting his own name before. I think 
this is just something he made up to avoid telling you the truth.” 
“Then call him Adrian,” Tempest snapped impatiently. 
“Adrian? Why Adrian?” Now Tristan was curious. “Why 
not Thomas...or Samuel? Why Adrian?” 
“I like the name, ’tis why.” She did not know why she had 
chosen the dragon’s name for this stranger and it made her 
defensive with her brother. “He just looks like he should be 
called Adrian.” 
“’Tis a good name.” The stranger’s voice was a mere 
whisper. “Thank you little one. You have chosen well.” 
*** 
“Very good move, m’ dear.’ The blond-haired man patted 
her hand gently. “You slipped that one in rather cleverly. I 
am proud of you.” 
“Actually,” replied the woman, frowning, “I did not cause 
that to happen. Are we losing control of this game?” 
“Never,” he replied with a smile. “They are mere pawns in 
the grand scheme of things. You know that.” 
“Perhaps she is not the pawn, but the queen.” 
“And he is the king?” The man laughed heartily. “Not 
hardly, dear. Not hardly. 

TEN 
The struggle to get Adrian back to the keep alive was a 
difficult one. He was a large man. Tempest and Tristan were 
hard-pressed to half carry, half drag him down the long, narrow, 
branch-strewn path. To make matters worse, it started to snow, 
and the temperature plummeted. Tempest had wrapped her 
cloak around Adrian to keep him warm and cover his nakedness, 
but even so, she felt the shivers rippling through his huge body. 
She worried that he would develop a fever. This would further 
exacerbate his condition. He seemed to be growing weaker 
with each passing moment. 
“Tris,” she urged through chattering teeth. “Can you not 
move any faster? ’Tis getting colder. If he loses consciousness 
again, we shall never get him home.” 
“He is heavy.” Tristan clenched his teeth as he stepped 
over yet another fallen tree limb. “Or have you not noticed? 
You are the witch. Why do you not just change the weather?” 
he muttered under his breath. 
“Tristan!” She was shocked at her brother’s words. “We 
are not alone! You know such words will get me burned at the 
stake. Is that your intention?” She stopped to confront her 
brother, heedless of the cold, driving sleet. 
“Hold back the storm, little witch,” Adrian whispered 
weakly, “else I will not make it to safety.” His misty-blue eyes 
turned dark with pain. 
“I need to concentrate.” She could not draw her gaze from 
his tormented eyes. As she spiraled into those lapis pools, she 
heard a soft whisper. 
“I will help you, little one.” Tranquil and sweet, warming 
her very soul, the words floated on a soft, warm breeze. 

Tempest pulled the warmth deep into herself, then let it 
radiate peacefully outward to encompass her companions, 
enveloping them in a blanket of warm air. She withdrew her 
gaze slowly from Adrian to meet Tristan’s startled look. 
“You asked, Tris. Now hurry. I know not how long I can 
keep up this circle of warmth.” 
As the trio reached the edge of the forest, she could feel 
her circle weaken. She could feel a darkness probing the edges, 
pushing inward, trying to penetrate, a threatening, destructive 
force. 
“Nay!” The word was torn from the lips of the injured 
man. He sagged in their arms, and the insidious blackness 
disappeared from Tempest’s mind. 
“Tris,” Tempest panted as they gently lowered the 
unconscious Adrian to the ground. “Leave us. We will be all 
right while you get help. I can go no further.” She sank to the 
ground beside Adrian and laid his head gently in her lap, 
brushing the golden curls tenderly from his icy forehead. 
“Hurry, Tris! Please hurry! I think he is dying.” 
*** 
“What sort of stray has my daughter dragged home this 
time?” Christiana’s voice was loud as she came down the hall 
and into the guest room. “Tempest, what are you up to now?” 
“Get out, Mother.” Tempest had no time for her mother’s 
histrionics. “I will deal with you later.” 
“Tempest...” Christiana’s voice rose several notches as she 
prepared to berate her daughter. But she stopped instantly as 
her husband stepped quietly from the shadows. 
“Come with me, love,” he said, trying to placate her. “We 
must let Tempest and Miriam help this man. Let us go to the 
great hall, and I will tell you everything I know about her latest 
injured stray.” He smiled as he took his wife’s arm and led her 
from the room, closing the door firmly behind him. 
Miriam looked at Tempest with a speculative gleam in her 
eyes. “You were rather short with your mother, Tempest. She 
will be very angry.” 
“She has been angry before,” Tempest answered flatly. “She 
will forget soon enough.” 

“You will suffer her anger yet again? I have never heard 
you speak thus to her.” 
“I have no time for another confrontation right now, 
Miriam. Adrian needs our help. We have to stop this bleeding. 
“I am thankful you made up a fresh batch of soapweed 
this morning,” Tempest noted as she gently cleaned the gash 
over Adrian’s heart. It was deep and raw, the blood oozing 
steadily. “It should help to keep the wound from mortifying.” 
“I added yarrow for pain, and marigold and woodruff to 
help the wound heal faster. ’Tis good that the man has not 
regained his senses. The pain must be severe,” Miriam answered 
as she busily prepared a poultice of Lady’s Mantle, St. John’s 
Wort and comfrey to put over the gaping wound. “It will have 
to be stitched, Tempest. Do you want me to do it?” 
“Nay. I need you to treat the burns on his legs. They look 
so deep. Do you think a mixture of lavender oil and St. John’s 
wort oil will be enough for them?” Tempest carefully sewed 
the long gash over Adrian’s heart as she spoke. 
“Small stitches, Tempest...not too tight now...there will be 
enough scarring as it is. We will add comfrey and costmary to 
speed the healing. I wonder how he got these terrible burns. 
He must have been in agony when you found him.” 
“He never complained. Even when Tris and I walked with 
him back to the keep, he never complained. I have never met 
anyone like him. He is so brave and strong...so beautiful..” 
Her voice trailed off, and Miriam glanced at her sharply. 
“Be about your work now,” Miriam scolded gently. “This 
is no time to be daydreaming,” 
“I am not a child, Miriam. I know what I am about. Adrian 
will heal, for I shall not leave his side until he does.” Tempest 
bound the poultice to Adrian’s wound with soft, white linen 
strips, then gently pushed the hair from his face. 
“Adrian,” she whispered. “Please wake.” 
“He needs rest, Tempest.” Miriam was firm in voice and 
manner. “Go to the kitchens and get yourself something to eat. 
I will stay with him until you come back.” 
“Nay,” Tempest sighed. “I am not hungry. You go. I will 
call you if I need your assistance.” She pulled a big wooden 

chair to the bedside, rearranged the cushions on it and settled 
in for the long vigil ahead. 
Helpless to control her charge, Miriam shook her head and 
quietly left the room. 
*** 
The crystal glowed brightly for a moment, then dimmed 
to a pale bluish glow. In its center were two figures—one lying 
helpless in a huge bed, the other sitting silently at his side 
waiting through the night for him to open his eyes and look at 
her. Gradually her head nodded. Then she leaned forward to 
lay her head on the bed beside the unconscious giant. Tempest 
slept in exhaustion. 
“She cannot heal him,” the woman said softly. “Only 
dragon magic can do that. If we lose him now the game will be 
finished, and I am not yet ready for that to happen.” 
“Do you think I should heal him for her?” the man 
asked thoughtfully, his fingers steepled under his chin as 
he gazed into the crystal. 
“Aye!” the woman answered eagerly. “Do heal him now so 
the game can continue. I grow impatient.” 
“I think not just yet,” he answered. “Let us wait to see 
what they can do together. We must know if they are worthy of 
our game. Do you not agree, m’dear?” 
“You will not let him die?” 
“They must pass the tests, dear. Do not worry. I am 
in control of this game.” 

ELEVEN 
Adrian could not wake up. His eyes would not open ,and 
he could not hear, see, nor feel any part of his surroundings. 
He found himself in a world bereft of light and sound. He felt 
no pain, but was beginning to hate this limbo into which he 
had been cast. His spirit roamed free, but his heart stayed with 
the tiny, redheaded witch who had found him in the forest. 
He wandered through the limbo-world for a long time 
before he heard a voice coming as from a great distance. 
“I gave you death,” a whisper, deep and rasping, neither 
male nor female burrowed into the dark shadows of his soul. 
“Do not fight me, for we have battled in the past, and I have 
won. You cannot best me. I am too powerful for you, weak 
creature of light and fire. You can never escape my darkness 
nor my dark servants.” 
“Adrian, please...” Tempest’s soft voice cut through the 
blackness on a pale blue beam of light. “You cannot die. I 
refuse to let you go. Adrian...” He could hear the desperation 
in her voice. 
“Tempest,” he whispered, opening his eyes. “Help me...” 
“I am trying, Adrian, but I know not what to do. I...” her 
voice faded as she was swept toward the icy vortex of darkness 
waiting to pounce and destroy them, without qualm nor 
conscience. 
“Nay.” The word was a mere whisper on her lips, but a 
scream in her mind. She reached for his hand, ready to battle 
the blackness, unwilling to let him go, even if it meant her own 

death. 
Tempest found herself in an alien place of impenetrable 
darkness. She knew Adrian was standing beside her because 
she could feel the heat from his body and hear his quick intake 
of breath as the relentless cold of that desolate plain began to 
leach the warmth from them. She drew in a deep breath to 
speak but gagged and choked as the fetid air stung her mouth 
and lungs. She exhaled quickly and put her hand over her mouth 
to mask the stench. 
“Adrian, where are we?” 
“I know not, little one,” he replied, gasping for air. 
Hideous laughter resounded all around them, assaulting 
their senses, driving them to their knees, penetrating their ears 
with pain. 
“SO, YOU THINK YOU ARE STRONG ENOUGH TO 
ENTER MY DEMESNE AND LEAVE UNSCATHED, 
WITCH.” The voice pierced their ears, wound its way through 
their minds and slithered into their souls. “FOR THIS 
TRESPASS, YOU SHALL BE DESTROYED ANON. BUT 
FIRST I MUST EXTINGUISH THAT WEAK LIGHT BESIDE 
YOU.” Again the grating laughter filled the darkness. 
“Nay!” Tempest stood tall and true in her anger and fear, 
protecting Adrian with her slight body. “He has been sorely 
wounded, and I will let you do no further harm. If I must war 
with you to save him, then so be it.” She stepped bravely 
forward, but felt Adrian’s arm around her waist, gently holding 
her back. 
Again the maniacal exultation screamed deeply into her 
mind. But she did not falter. Resolutely, she removed Adrian’s 
hands from her waist and again stepped forward, battle ready. 
Although the pain in her head was agony, she bravely 
reached into her memory and recalled Miriam’s teaching. “Light 
destroys dark. Fire quenches cold. Laughter dispels terror.” It 
was one of the first lessons she had learned so long ago. She 
knew her path. 
She laughed softly, raised her arm and pointed at the form 
before her, now glowing red in the darkness. 
“A gift for you, Lord Demon, to send you back to the abyss 

from whence you came.” As she spoke, lightning flew from 
her fingertip and struck the demon, sending him howling in 
agony to the ground. 
But the lightning strike did not stay him for long. He was 
soon up and snarling at them. 
“NOW YOU BOTH SHALL DIE,” he bellowed, outraged. 
Tempest felt bitter cold begin to creep into her body. Her 
fingers and toes were growing numb. Her arms and legs became 
heavy. She could not move. She resisted the cold with 
everything she could think of but could not defeat it. She became 
listless and realized she might soon pass into a stupor. Then 
she noticed a golden glow behind the demon. 
She concentrated on the golden light, willing it to grow 
stronger, knowing, deep in her soul, there lay her salvation. 
Gradually she grew warmer. The strength began to return to 
her body. Her mind began to clear, and she saw the form of a 
woman in the golden light. 
“Lady, help us...” she implored weakly. 
The light shone sun-bright and Tempest had to look away. 
She saw Adrian lying at her feet and bent to help him. Tempest 
did not see the light turn into an immense dragon, glowing 
golden in the darkness. Nor did she hear a mother’s words... 
Never shall you harm my son, Demon of the Dark. Nor 
shall you do battle with his intended until she is ready. Back 
to the abyss, wretched creature, and heed my warning lest I 
banish you for all eternity. Never shall your master again 
summon you. Anger blazed from golden-hued dragon eyes. 
The demon’s terrified cries faded as he fled back to his 
dark abode. 
Tempest felt a feathery touch, caressing, loving. She tried 
to raise her head but could not. She drifted slowly to the rock-
strewn ground to lie beside Adrian. 
Sleep, child, murmured a soft, gentle voice. I have 
much work to do which is not for mortal eyes. Rest peacefully. 
Tempest did not try to fight the gentle voice. Her limbs 
grew heavy. Her eyes closed in deep sleep as she curled next to 
Adrian, her arm thrown across his chest as if to protect him 
from further harm. 

“What magic have you done?” Adrian cried out as he 
wrapped his strong arms around the sleeping maid. “I will not 
let you harm her,” he said, as he struggled valiantly to his feet, 
holding Tempest tightly to his chest. “She is good and kind 
and beautiful, and I will protect her.” 
I mean her no harm, Adrian. Did I not banish the demon 
back to his foul abode? 
“Aye, Lady. I thank you for that. This maiden has many 
powers, but they are not yet strong enough. I could not come 
to her aid. But I know you not. Why should I place my trust 
in you?” 
Do you not know me, Adrian? The beautiful golden 
dragon’s eyes glittered. 
“Nay.” 
Then you must have faith. Your wounds are severe, and 
you cannot long hold the maid as you do now. You cannot 
fight to protect her, and she will not awaken until I release 
her. Trust in me, Adrian, for I offer you my protection. 
Adrian could feel the strength slowly ebbing from his body 
and knew the dragon was correct in her summation. I am stuck 
in this dark, smelly place, and I need help to get out, he thought 
to himself. I know not who I am or from whence I came, and I 
must protect this wonderful little witch in any way I can. 
“What must I do?” he questioned softly. 
Close your eyes, Adrian, commanded the dragon. 
Adrian briefly wondered how she knew his name but did 
not question her. He began to feel sleepy. His body relaxed, 
and he could no longer feel Tempest’s slight weight in his arms 
as he fell slowly into unconsciousness. From far away the 
dragonsong drifted to him like the gentle whispers of new-
fallen snow. 
Offspring of my heart’s delight, 
Echo of my spirit, 
I summon by the dragon’s might 
The Wraiths of Time to hear it. 
From dragon heart to dragon heart 
This healing spell be cast, 

Strongest of all living art 
This bond forever lasts. 
By power knit the dragon bone 
The strength of dragonkind, 
By flight of dragon wing alone 
Renewing of the mind. 
With serpent’s blazing fiery urge, 
Burn out this dragon’s pain. 
With pulsing life, his blood now surge,
His vigor now regain.
Now Wraiths of Time bring forth your power, 
His health you must restore. 
Heal his wounds from conflict dour 
And keep him from death’s door. 
From dragon soul to dragon soul 
This song a mother sings.
A dragon chant that makes him whole, 
Now restful slumber brings. 
Adrian and Tempest slept peacefully in deep silence. The 
dragon touched each with a glittering, golden wing, whispered 
a gentle blessing and faded into the darkness. 
*** 
“Curses!” the man exclaimed as he paced from chess 
board to golden chair and back again. “Will she never stop 
her cursed meddling?” 
“He needed to be healed,” the woman replied calmly as 
she leaned closer, peering intently into the crystal ball. 
“The game would end if the king was destroyed.” 
“King,” he snorted with disdain. “He is no more than 
a pawn and you know it.” 
“Whatever you say, dear.” She smiled as she leaned back 
to stare thoughtfully into space. “I rather admire her courage. 
At least she is making the right moves. Do sit down now. You 
are making me quite upset by your anger.” 
“Humph,” the man mumbled as he sank into the soft 

cushions of the chair. “You do not look upset to me.” 
The woman smiled softly as she returned her gaze to the 
glowing orb. 

TWELVE 
A bird’s song woke Tempest. She found herself curled at 
Adrian’s side, on the big four-poster bed. She laid her hand on 
his chest and felt the rise and fall of peaceful slumber. There 
was no fever. Temptation was too much for the curious maid, 
and she moved her hand slowly to the small patch of wispy 
blond hairs in the center of his chest. 
Twice she had found herself in the arms of this strange 
man and quite liked the feeling. She was loathe to move but 
knew he would be hungry when he woke from his long sleep. 
She would need to get to the kitchens to make sure there was 
some broth for him. She tried to inch slowly to the edge of the 
bed, but his strong arms held her fast. 
Gently, she tried to lift Adrian’s arm and yet not wake him, 
but to no avail. He held her too tightly. She would simply have 
to lie quietly until he awoke. 
But she found that she could not just lie quietly and wait. 
Her mind feverishly itemized the new day’s tasks, and she was 
eager to be up and started. 
“You wriggle more than a new puppy, little one.” Adrian’s 
voice rumbled deep in his chest, startling her. “And you kind 
of feel like one, too, but you certainly do not smell like one. 
You smell like wild lavender in the summer.” He nuzzled her 
hair, pulling her even closer to his lean, golden-tanned body. 
“Adrian,” she breathed, pushing ineffectually against his 
chest, “you must be careful, or you will pull out your stitches. 
Do not move so much. You must let me go now... Adrian!” She 
tried to pull away from him, but he still held her close and 
nuzzled her hair, inhaling deeply. 
“Mmmm....you fit just right in my arms. You are so soft 

and tiny.” The big hand at her waist moved slowly up her rib 
cage on its relentless way to her breast. “Stay here with me 
forever, sweet one.” 
“If you move that hand any farther, sir, I will break it.” 
Nay, she thought, I could never hurt you. 
“I know, little witch. I could never hurt you, either.” His 
voice was gentle. “It seems you are my protector, at least until 
I am healed.” 
“Protector..?” Tempest did not realize that he had divined 
her thoughts as the events of her nightmare flooded back to 
her. 
“You fought that demon for me, Tempest. I am forever in 
your debt.” 
“Nay.” In her agitation, she easily moved his arm and sat 
on the edge of the bed, facing away from him. She looked at 
the dawn’s soft light as it streamed through the window. “’Twas 
a dream. I cannot throw lightning bolts. I can manipulate the 
weather somewhat; I can gentle wild animals and I can create 
illusions in people’s minds, but no one can throw a lightning 
bolt. ’Tis an impossibility.” 
“Nothing is truly impossible, little witch. If you really 
believe and set your mind to it, you can accomplish any task.” 
“Adrian, I am no more a witch than you are a...a...dragon.” 
She laughed at the absurdity of her idea, as she turned to look 
at him. “Although you are big enough to be one,” she giggled. 
“Ummm,” he growled, lunging for her,. “and I am hungry 
enough to be a dragon, too! Shall I take a bite from your lovely 
little body, Tempest?” 
“Oh nay, Sir Dragon,” she giggled, as he wrapped his strong 
arms around her and pulled her onto his long, lanky body. “I 
am but a fat, ugly maid and not fit for a dragon’s dinner.” 
“Ah, Tempest,” he whispered into her ear, “you are soft 
and curvy and beautiful and fit only for the mightiest of rulers. 
I will make you mine, little witch, now and forever.” His soft 
kisses traveled slowly toward her mouth and she held her breath 
in anticipation. 
Adrian’s kiss was soft as a butterfly’s caress. She felt a 
fluttering in her stomach and her heart beat faster as her arms 

tightened involuntarily around him. She wanted more, but more 
of what, she did not know. A tiny moan escaped her as his lips 
caressed hers, then became more demanding. 
“Well, I see our patient is feeling better this morning.” 
Miriam’s voice cut through their tender kiss like a sharp dagger 
through fresh-churned butter. Tempest jumped and scrambled 
from the bed, an embarrassed flush making her freckles stand 
out vividly. Adrian lay in the bed, arms folded across his chest 
as a lopsided smile spread across his handsome face.. 
“Miriam...we...I...ah...” Tempest stammered. “He...” 
“Aye. And I could see what ‘we, I and he’ were doing. 
Have you forgotten your recent betrothal?” Miriam asked dryly. 
“I...” Tempest blushed even deeper, her hand raised in a 
guilty plea for understanding. 
Miriam, seeing the stricken look on the girl’s face, relented. 
“I was young once,” she said softly, “and I do understand how 
difficult some patients can become when they are healing. This 
one,” she said, looking at Adrian, “seems to be even more 
difficult than most. You must watch him closely and be careful 
that he does not injure himself with all his activity.” 
Tempest bent her head and clasped her hands together 
tightly in front of her. “He is—” 
”Hungry.” Adrian finished for her with a big smile. “I need 
food. I am starving. Ohhh.” he groaned in mock agony. “I want 
a whole cow, two sheep, twelve chickens...” 
“You will get some nice nourishing broth,” Miriam stated 
firmly. 
“Broth? Oh please, kind lady,” Adrian moaned. “I am a 
man grown. I need real food, not child’s pap. See how weak I 
am?” He tried to rise from the bed and fell back weakly. A 
look of surprise crossed his face. I really am weak and very, 
very hungry, he thought. 
“You seemed fine when I walked into this room just a few 
moments ago,” Miriam retorted. 
Tempest could feel his hunger pangs as she stepped closer 
to the bed and laid her hand on his forehead. His skin was 
clammy and damp. “He is not being foolish, Miriam. He needs 
to eat to regain his strength. I feel his pain,” she added softly, 

smoothing his hair gently from his forehead. Adrian’s hand 
shook visibly as he reached to clasp her small hand in his. 
Miriam was a healer and knew the truth of his need. “Keep 
him warm, Tempest. I will be as quick as I can,” she said as 
she hurried from the room. 
*** 
Adrian was seated in a large, cushioned chair which had 
been drawn near the fire by the time Miriam returned with the 
tray of food. He was wrapped in a soft fur from the bed and 
looked pale and weak. His long, bare legs were stretched out, 
and his head rested on the back of the chair in exhaustion. 
“Tempest,” she scolded, “he should not be up. He is not 
strong enough yet. He will catch a chill.” 
“He insisted, Miriam. And I covered him with the fur.” 
“Not well enough,” she answered, looking pointedly at his 
bare legs. “I do not approve of a maiden carting a naked man 
around. Even wounded, a naked man is not a sight for a maiden 
to behold.” 
“I have seen him without clothing, Miriam,” Tempest 
replied. “He had nothing on when I found him under my tree. 
Remember? Why must you worry so? I am no longer a child, 
you know.” 
“I fully realize that you are no longer a child, Tempest,” 
Miriam said patiently, “but there are certain things you do not 
yet realize about men and...” 
“I am dying of hunger,” Adrian’s voice growled. “Are you 
healers or torturers? Feed me, woman, ere I waste away to 
nothing before your very eyes.” He struggled to throw off the 
fur, to reach for the tray which Miriam was still holding. The 
rich scent of venison made him salivate, and he could think of 
nothing but his need for nourishment to heal his wounded body. 
He reached for the tray, and the fur slid precariously toward 
the rush-covered floor? 
“Young man!” Miriam exclaimed in shock at his boldness. 
“If you do not keep yourself covered, I will leave, and the food 
will go with me. Patience is its own reward...Now cover 
yourself, sir,” she coldly insisted. 
Hastily, Adrian covered himself, a slow blush 

spreading across his cheeks. Tempest giggled and moved a 
small table closer to the chair. She peered at the embarrassed 
man out of the corner of her eye and winked. Adrian coughed 
and looked away. 
“I am covered now. May I eat?” he asked meekly. 
“Please?” 
Miriam set the tray in front of him without a word 
and removed the cloth to reveal the food she had brought. 
“Broth?” questioned Adrian in astonishment. “Fruit? 
Bread? ’Tis not food for a man. I need meat to give me strength. 
I need real food.” 
“This is real food, young man. ’Tis all you will get for a 
while yet. You have been unconscious for four days, and this 
is all your body can tolerate,” Miriam answered gruffly. 
“Four days?” Tempest and Adrian said in unison. 
“Aye.” Miriam looked from maid to young man and back 
again. “Tempest, are you so worn that you do not realize 
how long it has been? Lord Wendall has been quite concerned 
at the amount of time you have spent with this great oaf.”” 
“Do not call my dragon-man an oaf,” Tempest replied 
absently, trying to accept in her mind the time span that her 
mentor had claimed. “I recall only one night. We brought him 
in, tended his wounds, you left, and then it was morning, and 
he was almost well.” She looked at Adrian in wonder. “We 
could not have wandered in the abyss for four days!” she 
whispered to him. 
“Abyss?” Miriam may have been old, but her hearing 
was acute. “What abyss?” 
Tempest told her about the dream. “But Adrian remembers 
it, too,” she explained. “How can this be, Miriam? Why can I 
not remember four whole days?” 
“Ofttimes magical things cannot be explained,” said the 
elderly healer thoughtfully. “But I did check on you and the 
young man often. You always spoke, and you tended him well 
throughout that time.” 
Is he the one the dragon spoke of at her birth, she 
wondered. Is he her intended? Nay, he is human, not dragon. 
Is it possible for a dragon to become human? Nay, ’tis not. 

“But I cannot throw lightning bolts, Miriam,” Tempest 
stated firmly. 
“Have you tried before, dear?” Miriam asked gently. 
“Nay. There has been no need.” 
“Well, apparently you found a need this time,” Miriam 
remarked, staring hard at Tempest. 
“I am still hungry,” Adrian said looking at the depleted 
tray before him. “May I have more food now? 
*** 
“What does that old nursemaid know?” the woman 
wondered, as she looked from the glowing crystal to the man 
seated across from her. “Will she cause trouble?” 
“If she interferes with our game, I will destroy her,” the 
man replied. “I believe ’tis my move?” 
“What do you have in mind, dear?” the raven-haired 
woman asked, leaning back in her chair, a small smile 
twitching the corners of her pretty mouth. “More violence, I 
suppose. Males are such violent creatures.” 
“Now who would think of our little game as violent?” 
The man smiled sweetly as he reached across the chessboard. 

THIRTEEN 
Adrian had been abed for days and was increasingly 
restless. He felt as though he were being tortured, and no visitor 
to his room had been spared his pleas for clemency. 
“Please, Tempest,” his lip quivered as he begged. “I cannot 
spend another moment in this bed. I shall go mad if I do. Can 
you not see what lying here has done to me? If I must be your 
prisoner, send me to your dungeon. At least there I could pace 
the floor and get some exercise. I will die if I have to spend 
another day in this wretched bed...Please?” 
“That quivering lip is a nice touch, Adrian.” Tempest 
laughed as she reached to fluff his pillows. “But I see no tears 
to convince me.” 
“Real men do not shed tears,” Adrian growled as he grabbed 
her arms and pulled her onto the bed. “If I cannot get up, I 
shall hold you prisoner until I am released.” He raised himself 
to his elbow, clasped her arms over her head and draped one 
long leg over her thighs to keep her from escaping. 
“You will hurt yourself.” Tempest looked up at him, 
amusement sparkling in her green eyes. “Besides, you have no 
clothes. Remember?” 
“Clothes be damned,” he growled. “I do not need clothes. 
I need to get out of this bed.” 
“I think you need to let me go, Adrian.” Tempest tried to 
move, but he held her fast. “If someone were to enter this room 
right now, we would certainly give the wrong impression. 
Miriam told me I was not to be alone with you, you know. She 
wants me to stay a maiden until I am wed.” She moved her 
hips, trying to get out from under his leg. 
Adrian’s blue eyes began to glaze over as his body 

responded to her struggles. “Tempest,” he whispered as he 
leaned over her. “Stay here with me, forever.” His lips brushed 
hers in a gentle kiss. 
She could not breathe. Her heart beat faster as she spiraled 
deeper into his soft caress. His kiss grew more demanding as 
she felt his tongue probing against her mouth. She parted her 
lips. 
“Tempest!” Christiana’s screech was like a bucket of ice 
cold water. 
“Go away, woman,” Adrian snarled as he glared at 
Tempest’s mother. “She is mine!” 
“Animals!” Christiana screamed as she raced toward the 
bed, fists raised. “I will kill you both!” 
Adrian threw back the covers and leaped over Tempest to 
stand between her and the maddened Christiana. 
“Nay!” he bellowed angrily. “You will not harm her. She 
is my little witch, and you shall not harm her.” 
“Your witch?” Christiana echoed, disbelief on her enraged 
face. “WITCH?” she screamed. “Aye, she is a witch, and a 
deceitful, shameless slut! Whore!” 
“Nay.” Adrian’s voice became quiet. Golden specks of light 
grew in his mist-blue eyes as he spoke. “You will not use such 
terms to describe my Tempest again, else your life be forfeit.” 
“Stop...both of you!” Tempest jumped from the bed to stand 
between the embattled pair. “I will have no more of this! 
Mother...leave.” 
“Tempest...” It finally occurred to Christian that the blond 
giant her daughter was so intent upon protecting was completely 
without clothing. “That man is naked! You were in bed with a 
naked man!” 
“Nay, Mother, the naked man was in bed...I was on the 
bed,” Tempest explained patiently. “Now, will you please leave? 
Adrian has been very ill and needs care.” 
“Humph,” Christiana grumbled. “Is that what you call care? 
I think...” 
“I have no interest in what you think, Mother,” Tempest 
interrupted. “I just want you to leave. What are you doing here 
anyway? You have never shown an interest in sick or injured 

people before.” 
“Your father sent me to find you,” Christiana answered 
shortly. Tempest’s wounded man did not look so ill. In fact, he 
looked quite formidable, towering over her daughter. Christiana 
feared no man. But this one... 
“Tempest?” Adrian questioned, putting his big hands 
around her tiny waist. 
“Adrian, get into bed,” she commanded without looking 
at him. “Cover yourself.” 
Adrian crawled meekly into bed and pulled the soft woolen 
blanket up to his chin. He was impressed with how quickly 
Tempest had assumed control, and did not want her angry with 
him. Besides, his legs were somewhat shaky from his recent 
exertions. 
“What does Father want?” asked Tempest. “He knows how 
busy I am here.” 
“William has arrived. He heard about him,” Christiana 
answered pointing at Adrian. 
“Who is William?” asked Adrian. But neither woman 
replied, so he decided to ignore their conversation and just 
admire the view. Tempest, from behind, looked just as good as 
she did from the front, he observed. So round. So soft. 
“Tell him I shall be there as soon as I can. I need to see to 
my patient first.” 
“Change your dress and fix your hair,” said Christiana. 
“You must look presentable for your intended,” she added, 
looking pointedly at Adrian. 
“Intended?” asked Adrian. “Tempest, what does she mean 
by `intended’?” 
Tempest was spared the need to answer as Miriam opened 
the door. 
Miriam felt the tension as soon as she entered the room. 
Once again, Christiana and Tempest were at odds, and Miriam 
knew exactly what had caused the argument: the wounded man. 
His whitened fingers clutched the blanket as if it could afford 
him some small protection. He looked confused, and she felt 
sorry for him. She too had been unwittingly drawn into these 
confrontations and knew how he felt. 

As soon as she had heard that Christiana was headed for 
Adrian’s sick room Miriam knew there would be trouble. She 
hoped to forestall any serious strife, but saw she was too late. 
Christiana was flushed and agitated, and Tempest was standing 
protectively near the bed, hands on her hips, eyes blazing. 
“M’lady...Tempest,” she said calmly. “I will take over the 
nursing chores now so you can see to your guests.” 
Christiana did not say a word as she took Tempest’s hand 
and pulled her to the door. 
“Miriam,” Tempest balked. “I...” 
“Go with your mother, child.” She gave Tempest a warning 
look. “Your father has been very concerned for you. I will see 
to the young man.” 
“Tempest. Wait,” Adrian protested. “I really want to know 
who this William is.” 
“Hush now, boy. She has guests that require attention,” 
said Miriam as she walked toward the bed. “Besides, I need to 
check your wounds.” 
Christiana yanked Tempest from the room, slamming 
the door behind them. 
“Now, shall we see how you are doing?” Miriam smiled 
brightly at Adrian, reaching for the cover. 
“I am fine,” Adrian snapped as he clutched the blanket 
tightly to his chest. “Tempest is my healer. She takes care of 
me. I do not need your help.” 
“All right.” Miriam sat on the edge of the bed. “We can 
wait for a while. Would you just like to talk?” 
“About what?” he asked suspiciously. 
“Well, we can talk about you.” 
“Nay.” 
“What would you like to talk about?” 
“Tempest,” he answered quickly. 
“What about Tempest?” she asked. 
“Was that horrible woman truly her mother?” 
“Aye. That was Lady Christiana, Tempest’s mother,” she 
answered, then smiled. “You think she is horrible?” 
“She is worse than horrible,” he nodded. “She is mean. 
Would she really beat my Tempest?” 

“I am afraid she has done so in the past,” Miriam admitted 
sadly. 
“She cannot do that to my Tempest!” Adrian was growing 
angry again. 
“Aye, she can, Adrian,” said Miriam. “She is Tempest’s 
mother. Did your mother not punish you when you were bad?” 
“I do not remember,” said Adrian with a catch in his husky 
voice. “I cannot remember my mother. Why can I not remember 
my mother, Miriam?” 
“I know not,” she answered, “but I am sure you will regain 
your memories with time.” 
Adrian was silent for a long time, trying to remember, trying 
to recall something familiar. Even his name. But Adrian sounded 
right. Why did ‘Adrian’ sound so right? 
“What did that woman mean by Tempest’s ‘intended’?” 
he finally asked when the effort to remember began to make 
his head hurt. 
“Tempest is to wed in the spring,” Miriam explained gently. 
“Did not she tell you?” 
“Nay,” he answered shortly. “Tempest is mine. She will be 
my bride.” He sensed the truth of his statement. 
If only he could remember. 
“Tempest is the betrothed of Lord William Mirabelle. She 
cannot be your bride. The dowry has been paid and the plans 
are set. She does not belong to you.” 
“But she does! She is my intended!” Desperation was 
creeping into Adrian’s voice. If only he could remember. 
Something...anything... 
“Why do you say that, son?” Miriam queried gently. “You 
had never met her before your injuries, had you? Who told you 
that she is yours?” 
“She is mine!” Adrian said stubbornly. “I know we are 
meant to be together. Her name is written on my heart, and I 
will not let another claim what is mine by right of the gods!” 
“By right of the gods?” 
“Aye,” he looked deeply into the healer’s eyes. “By right 
of the gods. This I know to be true.” 
Somehow Miriam felt the correctness of his statement as 

the picture of a stormy night and a glittering golden dragon 
played out in her mind. But this was a young man lying in the 
bed, not a dragon. 
“What are we to do, Adrian?” she whispered. “How can 
we make things right?” 
*** 
Tiny streaks of lightning flashed through the glowing 
crystal ball. Silence hung heavily over the two figures as they 
gazed intently into its depths. 
“Well, now what?” the woman asked as she lifted her eyes 
to the man. “Will you give him his memory back, or will you 
just let things float along until ’tis too late to change them?” 
“Hush, woman. I am thinking,” the man answered in a 
distracted voice. “That Miriam is just too cursed smart for 
her own good. ’Tis not yet time for answers.” 
“And what will happen if we wait too long? What if HE 
finds out?” she asked softly. “You know the punishment for 
interference in the lives of mortals.” 
“What do you think we have been doing all this time, you 
foolish woman, if not interfering?” 
“We have not made any great changes, dear,” she 
answered sweetly. “Until now we have only moved the pieces 
around the board and not changed things considerably. We 
must have care. Remember, HE can be mighty in HIS wrath.” 
“I remember,” he sighed. “Let things develop as they 
may for now. I need to think about this for a while.” 

FOURTEEN
Tempest quickly dressed for the meeting with her intended, 
but her mind was on the handsome young man she had just 
left. She remembered his kiss, those gentle, yet firm lips. A 
tingle began deep in her belly and spread out to engulf her 
body. She loved the way he smelled like sandalwood; those 
wispy hairs on his chest had felt so soft when she touched 
them. She sighed. She knew she had to get her mind on the 
meeting with William, but she would rather not have to think 
about him just now. She ran her brush through her hair, surveyed 
herself in the mirror and decided she looked good enough. 
Smiling softly, still thinking about Adrian, she left the room. 
She paid no notice to her surroundings as she headed down the 
narrow staircase to the great hall. 
She ran smack into Sardon di Mercia. 
“So, I finally have you alone, witchling,” his voice, 
sepulchral and hollow, sounded as though he spoke from a great 
hole deep in the earth. It permeated her mind, causing a blinding 
flash of pain behind her eyes. Her vision became blurred, and 
she swayed as her knees grew weak. 
“Who...what are you?” she whispered, looking into those 
fierce onyx eyes. 
“Why, I am Sardon di Mercia, my dear. Have we not 
been introduced?” The hollow voice slid into her mind like 
hot tallow and crept into its depths. She tried to fight a feeling 
of lassitude but failed as deep, impassable blackness began to 
envelop her. His hands on her arms felt like ice, etching into 
her skin. Pain blossomed throughout her body. She opened her 
mouth to scream but could not. 
Sardon smiled. 

“Nay,” she struggled to speak, lifting her hands to push 
him away before he took her very essence and left her an empty 
shell. “Do not...” 
“Do not what, my dear,” he purred. “Do not stop?” 
“Do not touch me!” Her fear receded, quickly replaced by 
anger. Her fingertips began to tingle. Witch’s power flowed 
through her. “Release me, demonspawn, or feel my wrath!” 
“You name me true, Witchling.” There was a hint of surprise 
in his voice, but he did not release her. “But what is the power 
of a mere apprentice to the glorious workings of a master?” 
“Be damned then, hell-creature!” Cold, calculating fury 
descended upon Tempest as she channeled all her strength into 
her fingertips. She felt the flames erupt and sent them deep 
into his chest. 
A startled look of pain crossed his face as he 
quickly released her and stepped back. His coarse black robe 
smoked where her fingers had touched, but there was no flame. 
The smoke quickly dissipated. 
Sardon smiled. “You would make me a worthy mate, 
witchling,” he said as he turned and walked away from her. 
“Never,” Tempest exclaimed to his retreating back. “I 
would die first, spawn of hell!” Tempest felt drained as she 
made her way slowly toward the dining hall. But she also felt 
the exhilaration of a battle fought and won. 
*** 
Sardon was in the great hall when she entered. He sat by 
himself in a far corner. His knowing smile sent ripples of disgust 
down her spine, but she ignored him as she walked slowly 
toward William. 
Her face was pale and William frowned, all gentle concern, 
as he helped her into a chair by the warm fire. 
“Tempest,” he said softly, “are you ill?” 
“I am well, Sir William,” she answered with a smile. “I 
just had a rather unpleasant encounter with one of the servants.” 
Wendall, standing nearby, heard her. “Who was it, 
dearheart? I will mete out a proper punishment. I will not have 
you mistreated by one of my servants.” 
“He received a just punishment, Father,” she 

answered, glancing at Sardon. “’Twas was nothing I could not 
handle. 
She turned to William. “What brings you to Castle 
Windhaven again so soon?” 
“I wanted to see your sweet countenance again, Tempest,” 
he replied with a big smile. “Also I have a small gift for you. 
Actually two gifts, but one was too large to bring at this time.” 
“William, you do not have to bring me gifts,” she said. “I 
have everything I need. And I do not expect betrothal gifts.” 
“The purpose of a gift is to give something you do not 
need, my dear,” he replied, a twinkle in his brown eyes. “You 
are to be my bride, and I only wish to put a smile on your 
lovely face.” 
“You are too kind, Sir William,” Tempest replied, wishing 
she could give him the love he deserved. William would soon 
be her husband. Adrian’s face swam before her mind’s eye, but 
she quickly banished it. It was wrong to think of another man 
when she was betrothed. 
William handed her a small, carved wooden box, wrapped 
in velvet. 
When she opened it, she found a beautifully wrought silver 
broach—a bouquet of roses done in silver, each leaf an emerald. 
On one petal of each rose sparkled a crystal dewdrop. 
“So beautiful,” she said softly. “’Tis too priceless for me, 
Sir William.” She tried to hand the box back to him, but he 
refused to take it. 
“Please, Tempest, accept this small token of my esteem. 
We mine silver on my land, and the emeralds seem to spring 
from the earth whenever we want them. It causes me no great 
hardship to give this gift to you.” 
“But I have no gift to give in return,” she tried to explain, 
but he would not listen. 
“You have already given me the greatest gift of all, dear 
one. You have agreed to become my wife.” William continued, 
“Now, I said I have another gift for you, but ’tis one which you 
must come to Far Reaches to choose, With your father’s 
permission, of course,” he added, looking at Wendall. 
“By all means,” said a beaming Wendall. “Of course, you 

will be chaperoned. Her brother...” 
“Nay,” Tempest quickly interrupted, “I have a very 
sick patient whom I cannot leave for quite some time.” 
“Oh, but you must come, Tempest,” said Marisa, who had 
just joined the little group. “Father, may I tell her what her gift 
is?” she asked, turning to William. 
“Of course, dear.” William smiled fondly at his daughter. 
“Father received a delivery of several beautiful mares, and 
he needs you to choose the one you would like.” 
“I am truly sorry, Marisa, but my patient is quite ill and 
needs constant care.” Tempest did not want to leave Adrian for 
any reason. She feared she would have far too little time with 
him and was loathe to lose any of it. 
“I understand.” Disappointment flickered across William’s 
face, and Tempest saw it before he was able to successfully 
hide his feelings. 
“You have been so kind, Sir William.” She laid her hand 
on his arm as she spoke. “I hate to disappoint you. Perhaps 
you and Marisa can spend a few days here?” 
“I do not believe there is anything pressing at home at the 
moment.” William smiled at her as he took a goblet of wine 
from a serving maid. 
“Excellent,” said Wendall. “I have been having a bit of a 
problem with a few of my serfs and would like to discuss it 
with you. Mayhap you would have some helpful ideas.” 
They quickly became engrossed with the problem, and 
Tempest leaned back in her chair to enjoy a few moments of 
peace. But her respite was short as she felt eyes upon her. She 
looked uneasily around the room. 
Sardon di Mercia sat in his dark corner, watching her with 
reptilian eyes. She stared as he glanced down at something in 
his hand. He looked at it intently, his attention drawn from the 
others in the room. 
Tempest could feel the power growing. It drew her toward 
the vile darkness which seemed to surround the man. She rose 
and walked slowly across the room as though mesmerized, 
drawn toward the dark, evil power. 
As she drew near Sardon she saw a tiny, black, snakelike 

creature uncoil from the palm of his hand. It reared its ugly 
head, looking at the black-robed man, its ruby eyes glittering. 
Sardon circled his other hand counterclockwise three times over 
the creature. As his hand made its last circle, the black opal 
ring he wore glowed with dark fire. The creature struck at the 
ring and vanished in a wisp of gray smoke. 
As the smoke faded, Tempest could hear footsteps coming 
from the hall. Sardon looked to the doorway with a smirk as a 
messenger entered the room. 
William hurried to the man, and they spent several moments 
in deep conversation. He dismissed his servant and returned to 
them wearing a worried look. 
“I have some trouble at Far Reaches and must return home 
immediately,” he told them. 
“Father?” questioned Marisa. “What is it?” 
“Do not worry, my dear,” he replied, patting her hand 
absently. “’Tis nothing I cannot handle with a little force and 
thought. But I must hurry. I must leave you here, in Sardon’s 
care.” He turned to Wendall. “If this is all right with you, sir?” 
“Of course,” Wendall replied. “Your lovely daughter is 
always welcome here at Windhaven. We shall take care of her 
as though she were our own. Have no fears.” 
The afternoon gathering broke up quickly as each 
person went his own way. Tempest and Marisa left Wendall 
and William in earnest conversation with Sardon as they went 
to the south tower to get a room ready for Marisa. 
*** 
“Marisa, this is a beautiful gown,” Tempest exclaimed as 
she ran her hand over the pale blue material. “It must look 
wonderful with your hair. I wish my hair was that color. 
Anything but this horrible red.” 
“Your hair is lovely. It reminds me of autumn, my favorite 
time of year. I love how the trees turn such wonderful colors 
after the first frost. I look so washed out next to you.” 
“Nay,” said Tempest, patting Marisa’s hand. “You could 
never look ‘washed out’. At least you have never been called a 
witch, like I have.” 
Marisa smiled. “I have been called a witch. Once, I was 

talking to a guest at our castle and his lady accused me of 
trying to steal his attentions. She called me a witch, among 
other things.” Both girls giggled wildly. 
“And what was so funny,” Marisa added between giggles, 
“was that he was really ugly, and I was only talking to him 
because his lady was flirting with my father and I felt sorry for 
that poor, ugly man.” 
The more time Tempest spent with the perky blond, the 
more she wondered how she could arrange a meeting between 
Marisa and Tristan. 
“Marisa?” she said, suddenly serious. “Are you betrothed?” 
“Nay. My father does not wish me to wed yet. He wants 
me to marry for love.” 
“And you have found no man to give your heart to?” 
“Nay.” 
“Have you met my brother, Tristan?” 
“Tempest, you are being very obvious. Are you trying to 
be a matchmaker?” Marisa giggled again. “Is he dashing and 
handsome?” 
“Aye. Very!” Tempest replied. “He is always in the stables 
with the horses. I think you should hurry down there to bid 
your father farewell...Do you not agree?” 
Marisa smiled as she reached for her cape.... 
*** 
The woman was gently dusting the crystal with 
the sleeve of her shimmering gown. She frowned as she rubbed 
harder at one particular spot. 
“I wonder what he is up to now?” She stared hard 
at the glowing crystal. “I think I do not like that man.” 
“Sardon?” The man’s eyebrows lifted in surprise. 
“He thinks himself a master wizard, but he has far to go 
to compete with my powers. Concern yourself not with the likes 
of him, my dear. He is just there to make the game more 
interesting, after all.” 
The woman stared steadily at him for a long moment. 
“Never underestimate your opponent, dear,” she said tightly. 
“Especially a dragon-mage, no matter what side of the light 
they spring from. They can be very dangerous to the unwary.” 


FIFTEEN 
Adrian paced the room, a worried look on his face. He had 
been visited by Miriam, then the kitchen drudges, Anna and 
Mary, but there had been no word of Tempest since early 
morning when Christiana had burst in on them. His chest felt 
tight with the thought of never seeing her again, of losing her 
to the man she would wed in the spring. 
“I will not let that happen,” he exclaimed loudly to the 
empty room. “She is mine. I feel it here!” He hit his chest and 
felt a searing pain as his fist struck the neat row of stitches 
Tempest had used to sew up the gaping wound over his heart. 
He staggered to the bed and sank to the edge as dizziness 
overcame him. A stream of blood from the torn stitches ran 
down the center of his chest and he sat there looking at its 
descent to his navel. “Tempest,” he whispered as he watched 
the blood trickle slowly down his torso. “I need you. Do not 
leave me.” 
“Adrian?” Tempest was leaving the dining hall after a very 
difficult evening spent watching her mother fuss over Sardon 
as though he was visiting royalty. She smiled as she recalled 
how early Marisa had gone to bed. Marisa’s excuse had been 
the need to rise early to exercise her horse. Evidently she and 
Tris had found quite a few things in common. 
Tempest... His voice reverberated through her mind. 
She picked up her skirts and hurried up the narrow staircase 
to his room. I am coming, Adrian. I am on my way. Sardon di 
Mercia, seated at the dining table, deep in conversation with 
Lady Christiana, stopped in mid sentence and looked toward 
the staircase. His mind echoed with Adrian’s cry for help, then 
Tempest’s answer whispered closely upon its heels. 

She is too weak to help you. The words stormed 
through Adrian’s mind ricocheting into his soul. This time I 
shall destroy you, but she will be my slave for eternity. You shall 
never have her! 
“Nay!” Adrian’s angry voice rolled like thunder down the 
hall as Tempest hurried to his room. She pushed the heavy oak 
door open, fearful of what she would see. What met her eyes 
made her stop her headlong rush. 
The room was a shambles, the soft blankets were 
tossed across the bed, the heavy fur spread lay tangled at 
Adrian’s feet. One corner of the tapestry hanging above the 
bed, was pulled down, hiding the final outcome of a hunting 
scene. 
Adrian stood strong and defiant in the center of the 
room. Candlelight gave his body a golden sheen. His blue eyes 
glowed yellow, like a wild animal’s in midnight’s soft 
moonlight. Blood was smeared across his wide chest, and the 
light around him had taken on a golden hue. He seemed to 
grow even larger. The golden light glittered as she watched. 
“Adrian?” she whispered softly, mesmerized by 
his transformation. “What is happening?” 
“Tempest?” He blinked his eyes and there was only a 
normal-looking, bleeding man swaying before her. His blue 
eyes showed confusion as they looked into hers. “Help me!” 
He staggered, his face pale. He reached out his hand to her, 
fingertips smeared with blood. “I am bleeding,” he sighed as 
he sagged slowly to the floor. 
*** 
Adrian was unconscious for three days, and Tempest 
refused to leave his side. On the second day Christiana came 
to the sick room. 
“Tempest, we have guests. ’Tis unseemly for you to neglect 
them and spend all your time here. Marisa is constantly at the 
stables with those smelly, dangerous horses your father insists 
he must have, and Sardon has asked after you several times. 
He needs to finalize plans for your marriage.” For once she did 
not scream or berate her daughter. Tempest looked so tired and 
drawn that even Christiana was concerned for her health. 

“He will not wake, Mother.” Christiana’s consideration and 
her own weariness made Tempest vulnerable. “I cannot leave 
him until I know he is all right.” 
“Someone else can stay with him.” She did not like 
her daughter’s stubbornness and, in fact, never had. It raised 
her ire and her voice rose in keeping with her burgeoning anger. 
“I will have you here no longer, Tempest. Come with me, 
NOW!” 
“Mother, lower you voice or leave.” Her tiredness vanished 
to be replaced by anger at her mother’s thoughtlessness. 
“I will not!” Christiana took Tempest’s arm and 
began pulling her toward the open doorway. “I will make no 
more excuses for your absence to that nice Sardon!” 
“Nice?” Tempest gave an unladylike snort. “Sardon di 
Mercia—nice? I hardly think so. I refuse to talk to that man 
about the wedding or any other matter. He is evil and I want 
nothing to do with him, now or ever!” She pulled away from 
Christiana to stand looking at her defiantly, hands on hips, feet 
planted firmly. 
“Bitch. Changeling,” Christian shrieked. “You are no child 
of mine to be so obstinate.” She slapped Tempest’s cheek, 
leaving a crimson handprint. 
Christiana’s slap was the last straw for the 
already overwrought young woman, and Tempest lost control. 
She seized her mother’s arm in a steely grasp and propelled 
her across the room and out the door before Christiana had 
time to collect her thoughts. As Christiana wheeled around to 
further berate her unruly daughter, the door was slammed in 
her face, and she could hear the distinct sound of a bolt being 
driven home. 
Stunned by Tempest’s reaction, she turned and walked 
slowly down the hall to Wendall’s rooms, but changed her mind 
in mid-stride. She realized she did not want the inevitable 
confrontation with her husband. He had a habit of siding with 
Tempest whenever it came to her healing arts. Instead, 
Christiana went to the Great Hall to find Sardon. Her new friend 
would help her. He was such a kind, understanding man. 
Tempest laid her hand on Adrian’s forehead to check for 

fever and was relieved to find it cool to the touch. She gently 
brushed a golden lock of hair away from his face, then smiled 
as he opened his eyes. 
“Tempest.” Adrian’s whisper was weak. “Do not leave 
me.” 
“I shan’t leave you, Adrian,” she whispered softly, looking 
into his blue eyes, now cloudy with pain. “I will stay here until 
you are well. I promise.” 
He smiled and faded back into unconsciousness. 
*** 
Tempest was sleeping in a big chair close by his bed when 
Adrian awoke much later. This time his eyes were clear, and 
he felt ready to get out of the bed and conquer the world. Or at 
least do something about this man who thought he would wed 
my Tempest in the spring, he amended silently. 
He was also very hungry, but Tempest was sleeping 
so peacefully and she looked so weary that he was loathe to 
disturb her. He watched her for a long time, but became 
distracted when his bladder demanded attention. Then his 
stomach growled like an angry bear disturbed in its winter sleep. 
He slipped quietly to the far side of his bed and reached for the 
nearby chamber pot. 
Adrian tried his best to be quiet, but he could not stop the 
huge sigh of relief as his bladder emptied itself noisily into the 
metal pot. He smiled contentedly, then frowned as his stomach 
gave out another ferocious growl. 
He glanced around quickly to see if he had disturbed 
Tempest, only to find her green eyes watching him. 
“I could have helped you,” she said. “You should not be 
up yet. You have been unconscious for three days, Adrian.” 
“I can do this for myself,” he growled to cover 
his embarrassment. “Besides, I feel fine. I am hungry,” he 
announced as his stomach agreed with yet another not so subtle 
roar. 
“You are always hungry.” Tempest smiled at his 
obvious discomfort, enjoying the sight of the pink flush that 
colored his cheeks. 
“Well then, where is my food? I need three roasted chickens, 

a whole leg of lamb, two rare venison—” 
“Adrian,” Tempest warned as she rose and started around 
the bed. “I will get your food when you are safely back in bed 
and not a moment before.” 
He hastily pushed the chamber pot under the bed and turned 
to crawl into his former resting place. But he moved too fast, 
and dizziness overcame him. The blood drained from his face 
and he swayed, dangerously close to fainting. 
Tempest hurried to him in time to prevent any serious 
damage and helped him lie down. 
“God’s teeth, Adrian,” she said, her fear for him making 
her angry. “Will you never listen to me?” 
“I am listening,” he answered meekly. “Would you please 
feed me? I perish from hunger. I need food! Ladies do not curse, 
Tempest,” he added with a mischievous grin. 
“Honestly, Adrian,” she laughed, “sometimes you drive 
me mad with worry.” 
“Do you worry so much because you love me?” he asked, 
a hopeful twinkle in his eye. “Tell me you love me, and I will 
be good forever.” 
“I will get you something to eat.” Tempest turned and 
abruptly left the room, leaving his question unanswered. 
“I shall make you love me!” he said softly to the empty 
doorway. “You will belong to me, not some rich, ugly old man! 
You will be mine, Tempest! Forever!” 
*** 
“Interesting turn of events,” mused the man as he again 
gazed into the glowing blue crystal ball. 
“Aye,” the woman answered with a small smile. “He heals 
quickly for one such as he.” 
“I did not mean his healing abilities,” the man 
answered absently. “His type always heals fast.” 
“You meant the trouble brewing with the sorcerer?” she 
asked quietly. “Is he too powerful for them?” 
“It matters not if he is. I am in control of the situation.” 
“Of course you are, dear.” She patted his hand. “You are 
always in control.” 
“Do not mock me, woman,” he growled. “No mere 

mortal can ever have as much power as I.” 
“No mortal,” she hesitated. “But what about—” 
“Quiet!” he interrupted, glancing around furtively. “To 
speak HIS name is to invoke HIM. You know that!” 
“I was not going to say HIS name.” Her reply was quietly 
dignified. “You are not the only one around here 
with intelligence, you know. 

SIXTEEN 
Adrian was bored. He had been in lying in the huge old 
oak bed for two days—five, if he counted the three days he 
had lain unconscious—and he had not seen his sweet Tempest 
since early the day before. He tossed and turned, trying to find 
a spot in the bed where the feathers had not been compressed 
with his weight, but was unsuccessful. 
He finally gave up his losing battle and sat on the side of 
the bed. There was no dizziness, so he stood, stretched and 
started for the narrow window to look outside. He stopped mid-
journey, returned to the bed and retrieved one of the lighter 
wool blankets. After he wrapped himself in it, he continued 
on. 
He hated using the blanket, but reflected upon the various 
reactions of the women who had attended him recently. All of 
them, with the exception of Tempest and Miriam, giggled and 
flirted outrageously whenever they saw him. Not a few had 
become quite bold, and it made him uncomfortable. 
“I need some clothes,” he muttered thoughtfully. “Why 
will these silly women not find me some clothes? I will never 
understand them. They act so foolish whenever they see me 
uncovered. If someone would just bring me something to wear, 
we would all be happy.” 
He smiled when he recalled an incident two days previous. 
Tempest had entered the room with his midday meal and seen 
Mary rubbing his newly-mended scars with oil to keep them 
pliant. He had not objected when her hand had strayed away 
from the scars to follow the line of golden hairs leading from 
his chest, down the center of his flat belly and lower. It had felt 
good, and he closed his eyes, an image of his beloved Tempest 

coming to mind. 
“Mary!” Tempest’s angry voice shattered the peaceful 
image. “What do you think you are doing?” 
“Rubbin’ the man with oil, Ma’am,” Mary stuttered. “Just 
like you tol’ us to.” 
“I said rub the wounds with oil, Mary.” Tempest’s voice 
became low and quiet. “Do you see any wounds where you are 
rubbing?” 
“Nay, M’lady.” Mary’s head ducked with guilt and 
embarrassment. 
“Leave.” Tempest pointed to the open door. “I will care 
for him. You will stay in the kitchen, where you belong, from 
now on. Have I made myself clear?” 
Mary, sobbing now, edged past an angry Tempest and ran 
out the door, unable to respond. 
“You!” Tempest turned her anger upon the man lying in 
bed with a crooked smile on his handsome face. “You let her 
do it, and you enjoyed it!” 
“But that warm oil felt good.” His soft blue eyes sparkled 
with good humor as he spoke. “She poured out too much and 
did not want to waste it,” he added with an innocent look. 
“Besides, I was thinking of you while she rubbed.” 
“You were thinking of me?” Tempest was so incredulous 
she could hardly speak. “You were thinking of me?” 
“I always think of you, little one.” 
“Well, think of someone else from now on,” she spat, 
plopping the tray on the bed, spilling hot broth on the blankets. 
A hurt look crossed her face. “I hate you,” she yelled as 
she turned and fled, slamming the door behind her. 
“Nay, sweet Tempest,” he whispered softly. “You love me 
as I love you.” 
“Well, I see you finally have the good sense to cover 
yourself.” Miriam’s voice startled Adrian from his reverie. 
“Although that wool blanket must itch like the very devil.” 
“That it does,” he agreed, as he turned to look at her. “I 
guess there is no extra clothing in this place to spare for a poor 
wounded man?” 
“’Tis why I am here.” 

“You brought me something to wear?” Adrian eyed the 
bundle she carried. “Am I going to be released from this room 
at last?” 
“Aye to both questions,” she answered with a smile. “You 
need to move around more to regain your strength, and Tempest 
needs her room.” 
“This is where Tempest sleeps? She never told me.” 
“Lord Wendall is not a terribly wealthy man, Adrian. This 
keep is large enough for the family members to sleep in separate 
rooms, but there are few rooms to spare for guests. Sardon di 
Mercia is staying in the guest tower, and Lord William’s 
daughter, Marisa, is in the only other available room, so there 
was nowhere else for you to stay but here. We could not put an 
injured man in the great hall where additional guests usually 
sleep.” She tossed the bundle to him. “This was all I could find 
that would fit you. It may be somewhat tight, but you are a 
large man, so they will have to do until we can get something 
made for you.” 
Adrian dropped his blanket and began to spread the clothing 
out on the bed, humming softly to himself. 
Miriam watched him for a moment, a small smile on her 
face. “I will leave you to dress yourself. When you are ready 
you can come to the hall for evening meal.” 
“Miriam?” Adrian’s voice stopped her, and she turned to 
him. 
“Where is Tempest? I have not seen her for two whole 
days.” 
“She has been busy.” Miriam paused, looking at him for a 
long moment. “I think she is rather angry with you.” 
“But why?” he asked. “I have done nothing to make her 
angry. I am too sore to do anything.” 
“What about Mary?” asked Miriam. 
“Mary?” 
“The serving girl Tempest caught rubbing oil where ’twas 
not needed.” 
“Oh.” Adrian’s face lit. “She is nice. I liked the way she 
rubbed my belly. But why is Tempest angry? I did nothing 
wrong. Does she not want me to feel good? I thought she was 

angry because I was thinking of her. I have tried my best not to 
think about Tempest, Miriam, but ’tis hard not to. She is 
beautiful and sweet and I love her,” he said, a stricken look 
upon his face. 
Miriam walked around the bed and laid her hand gently on 
Adrian’s cheek. “Do you know nothing about the ways of 
women, Adrian? Tempest is to wed William in the spring. She 
cannot return your feelings. What you desire is impossible, my 
dear.” 
Just for a moment, Miriam remembered her meeting with 
the golden dragon the night she buried Tempest’s caul under 
the sacred oak. She knew, deep in her heart, that Tempest should 
not wed William, but she could not go against Wendall’s wishes. 
She had never told him of the secret betrothal she carried in 
her heart. Wendall would not have believed her; in fact, he 
would have done everything in his power to make sure his 
beloved daughter would not have to wed a dragon. ‘Twould 
have been unthinkable to him. She would wait and see how 
events unfolded. Dragons were powerful creatures. If a betrothal 
was what they desired, then ‘twould happen whether Wendall 
wished it or not. 
“Nay,” Adrian growled. “She will not wed that man in the 
spring nor any time. Tempest is destined to be my mate and 
‘twill be so!” 
“She is promised to him.” Miriam watched his reaction. 
He frowned and golden flecks floated in the blue of his eyes 
like tiny golden stars in a daylight sky. Could it be..? Nay, 
Adrian was only a human male, destined to love and lose, for 
no human could go against the dictates of dragondom. 
“I will kill him.” His anger made his eyes glow brighter. 
“Nay. If you kill William there will be war and many lives 
will be lost—including yours and Tempest’s. Do you wish to 
be the cause of her death?” 
“Nay. Never will I be the cause of my beloved’s death. I 
would give my life for her!” 
“Then you must forget this idea of killing William. He is a 
nice man, Adrian. I believe you will quite like him when you 
meet.” Miriam smiled gently at him. “Now, I brought you all 

these clothes, and I would like to see you wearing them soon. 
Your nakedness does not bother me, but you have seen how 
the young women react.” 
“Aye,” Adrian said obediently as he picked up the snowy 
white shirt. “But I will not like him at all!” he added 
emphatically. 
*** 
“The young man does look rather splendid when he is 
unclothed,” the woman mused. 
“Hrumph,” the man huffed, disgust evident in his voice. 
“He looks like any other mortal male, clothed or unclothed.” 
“Somewhat more generously endowed than most mortal 
males,” the woman amended, her smile almost reaching the 
two tiny dimples on either cheek. 
“Cover that cursed crystal, woman.” His face was red 
from anger—or embarrassment. “We needs must plan 
for coming events.” 
Silvery, feminine laughter tinkled lightly across 
the heavens as the glowing blue crystal grew dim. 

SEVENTEEN 
Adrian felt uncomfortable descending the narrow 
spiral staircase. His new boots were tight and felt unnatural, 
as though he had not been born to wear anything on his feet. 
He kept to the outer, wider steps. Glancing at the inner wall, 
he wondered briefly if anyone could use those steps without 
falling—they were so narrow. 
As he entered the great hall, he was surprised to see so 
many people occupying the long trestle tables. Seated on 
benches were the squires and pages, the lowliest and youngest 
being at the very end nearest the entrance. The guards were 
next, closer to the center of the long tables, with the knights of 
the castle being closest to the dais where Lord Wendall sat 
with his family and guests. 
Adrian’s eyes were drawn immediately to Tempest. Before 
fully entering the huge room, he paused to admire her. He had 
never seen her looking lovelier. She wore a soft green velvet 
tunic, the color of spring grass, over an underdress of deep 
forest green. Both garments were embroidered with tiny silver 
leaves. Her auburn tresses were piled upon her head in ringlets, 
with tiny curls escaping their confines to caress and frame her 
heart-shaped face. She hesitated midst lifting her silver wine 
goblet to her lips, drawn by Adrian’s hungry stare. 
The shock of seeing him standing in the great hall nearly 
caused her to drop her goblet. He looked so different. His boots 
were made of soft leather and fitted to mid-calf. The straining 
black breeches, obviously made for a much smaller man, clung 
to him like a second skin, revealing every curve of his muscular 
legs. His cobalt blue tunic, almost too short, barely concealed 
his bulging manhood. A broad leather belt was cinched tightly 

at his slim waist, the brass buckle shining brightly in the 
candlelight. A cream-colored linen shirt peeked from beneath 
his tunic and flowed down his long arms to gather tightly around 
his strong wrists, the ruffles brushing his long, powerful fingers. 
His golden blond hair had been brushed until it glowed in the 
light from the candles overhead and was drawn back and tied 
with a black ribbon. 
Azure eyes met jade eyes and locked. Adrian and Tempest 
were unable to tear their gaze from one another. The room and 
its occupants faded into obscurity. Unspoken promises charged 
the air between them, and the heavy silver goblet finally fell 
from Tempest’s nerveless fingers to crash loudly upon the table. 
“Tempest!” Christiana’s voice broke the spell. “How can 
you be so clumsy?” Her eyes followed the path of her daughter’s 
gaze and she saw what held her attention as Adrian walked 
confidently to the dais where the family sat. 
“I see you have recovered from your wounds, young man.” 
Christiana looked Adrian over from head to foot, her 
gaze lingering on the too-tight breeches. Then she noticed 
Sardon lingering in the shadows of the entryway. He nodded to 
her, and she smiled brightly at him, but turned back to Adrian. 
She ran her tongue over her lips as she glanced again at his 
trim figure. 
“Come, sit next to me,” she said, with a coy smile. “Adrian 
is what you are called, I believe? I would learn all about our 
newest guest.” 
Adrian wanted to sit next to Tempest, but the lady of the 
castle had commanded his presence, and protocol would not 
let him refuse her. As he walked by Tempest’s chair to join 
Christiana, his fingers brushed fleetingly across her graceful 
neck. She reached out to touch his hand, but he was gone too 
quickly. Tempest felt like a child who had been offered a sweet 
and then denied even a small taste. She glared at her mother 
but was ignored. 
Sardon slipped silently into the empty seat next to Tempest. 
“And how are you this evening, my dear?” Sardon’s voice 
startled her, and she almost dropped her goblet again but 
managed to control it. 

“Could you not find another seat, sirrah?” She threw him 
a venomous look. “Preferably in another kingdom?” 
“But I have news of your intended, Tempest.” A sly smile 
spread across his gaunt face as he pointedly ignored her 
derogatory ‘sirrah’. “You do not wish to hear about the man 
you are soon to wed?” 
“Tell me your news quickly. Then leave.” Tempest turned 
away. She was uncomfortable being so near the man. A strange 
odor of decay combined with some sweeter, spicy essence 
surrounded him, making her queasy. 
“It seems there has been another witch found at Far 
Reaches,” he said, closely watching her reaction. 
Tempest said nothing, yet her whitened fingers clenched 
the goblet, betraying her feelings. 
“He may be gone for quite some time,” he continued, 
staring at her intently. “He hates these trials and tries to drag 
them on for as long as possible, always looking for some way 
to free the accused witch. But if his people are very angry...Well, 
I am sure you are aware of the outcome of most witch trials.” 
“Have there been many accused witches brought before 
him?” 
“Aye, but William always fails in his efforts to save them. 
I...our people always enjoy a good burning.” 
“They were burned?” Tempest paled at his words. “But 
why does he always fail? He is the lord of the manor. Surely 
his word is law.” 
“William may be lord of his manor, but ’tis I who run his 
small kingdom.” His saturnine features reflected his 
satisfaction. He would enjoy baiting this witchling. ”The first 
witch we burned shortly after I became his priest. She caused 
the death of his first wife and made his only son a monstrously 
deformed child.” He leaned back in his chair, relishing the story 
he was about to tell. Watching. Anticipating. 
“William has a son?” Tempest asked, shocked. “I did not 
realize that. Where is he? Does he still live?” 
“Aye, unfortunately. But no one ever sees him. ’Tis said he 
is too horrible to behold. His head is larger than that of a normal 
man. His body is small and weak. His eyes are a strange shape, 

round, yet slanted, and his mind is that of a child. He speaks 
slowly and simply, and his words are often slurred and difficult 
to understand. William has secluded him in a distant monastery. 
He never visits him or speaks of him.” 
“But why did he send the child away?” Tempest asked. “I 
have seen others born like him, and they are always sweet, 
loving children.” 
“Would you want your only son and heir to be known as 
the village idiot?” 
Tempest shook her head, unable reply. 
“But I digress, witchling. You must hear the rest of the 
story.” He stared at her over the rim of his goblet as he sipped 
his wine. “Many years ago, while William was away negotiating 
a treaty between two warring lords, Marisa’s mother was 
brought to childbed for the birth of William’s son. He returned 
home to find his hall filled with an angry mob. He had not 
even had time to hear the news of his demesne, when a witch 
was brought to him for judgment. The woman looked much 
like you, Tempest. She had flame-red hair and green eyes. She 
was William’s mistress.” 
Tempest did not comment. Most marriages were loveless, 
arranged for political reasons. A man often had a mistress 
hidden away somewhere. Her own father had fathered Tristan 
from his mistress during his first marriage. She knew, however, 
that Wendall was faithful to Christiana. 
“When the professed witch, Clairesse, stood before 
William, he refused to make a judgment, for he loved her,” 
Sardon continued. 
“What is the accusation against this woman?” William had 
asked when she was brought before him. 
“She bewitched your lady wife, Milord,” the midwife 
answered. 
“How so?” he asked her. 
“She was in Milady’s chamber while she was birthing. This 
witch, Clairesse, cursed her, saying Milady would die of 
childbed fever,” the woman answered, wringing her hands. 
“I am a healer,” Clairesse explained. “The midwife is a 
filthy creature. Her hands and body are covered with dirt, and 

she smells of the pigs she keeps. A new babe must come into 
the world in cleanliness else the mother will become feverish 
and die.” 
“’Tis honest soil.” The midwife’s voice rang out in the 
silent room. “I am the best midwife in the kingdom. Ask any 
mother here.” Murmurs of assent buzzed through the crowded 
hall. 
“Clairesse may be correct,” William said, trying to protect 
the woman he loved. “We do not know what causes some 
women to sicken with fever and die after childbirth.” 
“But then your child came, Milord, in a great rush of blood 
and birth waters, and its countenance was horrible to behold,” 
said the midwife, wringing her hands. 
“Nay!” William’s cry of anguish filled the room, for he 
had yet to learn of the birth of his child. 
“’Tis a boy child Milord. But ’twould be a blessing for us 
all if the child did not survive.” 
“Nay!” cried Clairesse, touching her belly which was great 
with child—William’s child. “Every babe has a right to live, 
even if ’tis not perfectly formed.” 
“But you made a sign of the devil ere the babe entered the 
world,” the midwife cried out in anger. “I saw it, as did every 
other woman there. You cannot deny that.” 
“I can deny it,” Clairesse retorted. “I wished no harm to 
the babe. May the gods bear witness to the truth of what I 
say.” 
“Do others here say the same as the midwife?” William’s 
voice was filled with despair. “I will have more testimony.” 
For he hoped to find someone who would help Clairesse. His 
mistress. His child. He could not, would not, pass the judgment 
that would end their lives. 
One by one the women stepped forward to attest to the 
truth of the midwife’s statement. Clairesse held her head high 
and looked each of her accusers in the eye. 
“She made my cow go dry,” yelled a man in the back of 
the room. “She just looked at it, and there has been no milk 
since.” 
“My garden withered and died when I refused to sell her 

fresh carrots,” said another. 
A young girl who had been in the birthing chamber fell to 
the floor and began convulsing. The crowd drew away from 
her as she foamed at the mouth and babbled in a strange tongue. 
A woman began screaming, “I am blind! The witch has 
taken my sight!” 
“Burn the witch!” A voice rang out from the crowd. 
Soon others followed suit until the great hall rang with the 
chant “Burn the witch...Burn the witch...Burn the witch!” 
William raised his hands for silence. “I will not condemn 
a woman great with child,” he said when the room had grown 
quiet. “Her innocent child is not on trial.” 
“’Tis demonspawn she carries,” a woman cried out. “I saw 
her dancing with the devil!” 
“Burn the witch! Burn the witch!” The chant began again, 
filling the courtyard, overflowing the castle walls, reaching 
toward the heavens. “Burn the witch!” 
“What did he do?” Tempest whispered. “Oh, what could 
he do?” 
“He took my advice,” Sardon answered, the lie coming 
easily to his lips as he continued his tale. He remembered how 
easy it had been to convince a frightened William to follow the 
plan—the plan that he, Sardon, knew would fail. 
“Clairesse du Monterre, you have been accused of 
witchery,” William choked. “You will be taken to the burning 
post and burned. May God have mercy upon your soul.” His 
eyes burned into hers in an anguished farewell. 
“Take her away.” His voice was harsh with pain as he gave 
the order to his guards. 
“My babe!” Clairesse’s voice rang out above the clamor 
of the crowd. “You would burn our child, William?” 
The room grew silent, all within waiting for his answer. 
“’Tis not my child, woman, but the child of the demon you 
worship,” he parroted, his eyes averted from her beseeching 
gaze. He rose from his chair and lurched from the room. 
“Oh, nay,” Tempest’s voice choked with emotion. “How 
could he deny his own child? Had William no feelings?” 
“Aye, my dear. He had feelings for the woman. She had 

been his mistress for six years, and he truly loved her.” 
“But he told the guards to burn her.” Tempest was pale, 
her hand clutched the goblet, her fingers white with tension. 
“He denied his own child. How could he do such a terrible 
thing?” 
“I told him we could take several days to erect the burning 
post and collect enough dry wood to burn her. During that time 
we should be able to come up with a plan to save her and 
his child. I believe he truly feared the mob his people had 
become, and I did not disabuse him.” 
“What happened?” There was hope in Tempest’s voice. 
Hope for that innocent woman of so long ago. Hope for the 
unborn child. But Sardon blithely dashed those hopes with his 
next words. 
“We did not reckon with the mood of his people that night.” 
Sardon watched her closely, gleefully anticipating her reaction. 
“The whole village joined in. They brought a newly cut post, 
still green from the forest, secured it deeply in the courtyard; 
even the little children brought faggots to throw upon the pyre.” 
“Even the children?” 
“Aye, witchling. Even the children.” Sardon closed his eyes 
for a moment, relishing the memories of seeing William’s lover 
burned, of seeing the agony on William’s face as he struggled 
to free her. 
“The pyre was ready within the hour, and Clairesse was 
dragged from the dungeon. She tried to walk with her head 
held high, but then something happened.” 
“Tell me they changed their minds,” Tempest whispered. 
“Tell me William was able to save her.” 
“Nay,” Sardon answered. “As she walked toward the stake, 
her birth waters came in a rush, and she suffered the first pangs 
of birth. She screamed and tried to ease the pain by bending 
over, but the guards held her fast. Her face was contorted in 
agony, but still they dragged her inexorably to her death. They 
tied her tightly to the post, and the ravening beast which the 
villagers had become saw the way her body writhed as the 
child tried to force its way into the world. 
“Still, the villagers had no sympathy for Clairesse, and 

they cheered as the first faggot was lit.” 
“But where was William?” 
“Locked in his tower.” Sardon recalled his own feeling of 
ecstasy when William heard the tumblers fall into place; 
remembered how the key had felt as he turned it in the lock; 
relished the memory of William’s anguished cries when he 
realized he could not save his mistress. 
“Why? Who locked him in the tower?” 
“He locked himself in, witchling.” 
“Nay!” 
“Aye.” 
“Please...Tell me no more.” Tempest tried to retreat 
physically and emotionally from the horror of what Sardon 
had related, but he held her captive with his eyes. 
“They watched in silence as the first flames licked at her 
feet, and Clairesse screamed in agony as the flames and the 
pains of imminent birth hit her simultaneously. Then a flame 
caught the hem of her linen shift and crept slowly up her body. 
“A small boy ran forward, throwing yet another faggot upon 
the inferno, and the flames rose higher and higher until she 
was engulfed. As the fire roared around her, she screamed and 
screamed, until finally silence reigned over the courtyard and 
the watchers heard only the crackle of the huge fire as Clairesse 
died. 
“Then the sounds of William’s anguish could be heard as 
he watched from his tower window. But he stopped his sobbing 
when the tiny wail of a newborn infant reached his ears. The 
wail turned into a piercing scream of intolerable pain as 
Clairesse’s babe was also consumed by the flames and he joined 
his mother in death. William’s horrified cries echoed across 
the courtyard, silencing all who watched.” 
Tempest jerked to her feet like a marionette, trying to escape 
the nightmarish vision of the story. Her face white as chalk, 
her mind spun as she sought sanctuary. 
Adrian, her mind and soul whispered. 
Adrian, who had been watching Tempest as she listened 
so intently to what that evil-looking man had been saying, 
leaped to his feet. In two long strides he was at her side and, 

holding her tightly, whispered, “I am here, little Tempest. Fear 
not.” 
Tempest escaped the horror of Sardon’s tale as she sagged 
into Adrian’s arms, her mind releasing her body into 
unconsciousness. 
*** 
The woman paled as she watched the scene in the 
crystal unfold before her horrified eyes. Even the man beside 
her was visibly shaken. 
“Is there truth to this tale?” she asked, looking at the 
man beside her. Tears gathered in the corners of her eyes and 
slid silently down her wan cheeks. 
“I am afraid so, my dear.” He patted her hand gently. 
“Humans can be very cruel at times.” 
“I am so glad I am not one of them,” she said. “I can 
only hope that I have never been like them. I cannot believe 
such cruelty has ever existed.” 
“It has been ever so since the beginning of time,” he 
spoke wistfully. “I only wish I could remember....” 

EIGHTEEN
“You must put her down, Adrian,” Wendall said quietly. 
“Miriam will be here soon, and she needs to examine her. She 
cannot do that if you are holding her.” 
“Nay.” Adrian’s jaw was set stubbornly as he sat on the 
bed, Tempest cradled gently but firmly in his arms. “She needs 
me to hold her. She is very frightened and I will not release her 
until she tells me to.” 
Wendall sighed in exasperation but said no more as he went 
in search of Miriam. She will be safe with Adrian, he thought. 
I believe that young man would battle all the demons of hell 
to protect Tempest. Did I betroth her too soon? he wondered. 
Would Adrian have been a better choice? But I know nothing 
about him. He is a stranger. I know William. ‘Tis best to leave 
things as they are. Tempest will be happy with William. 
“Adrian?” Wendall did not hear Tempest’s soft cry as he 
left the room, but to Adrian it sounded like a scream. He felt 
the fear in her trembling body. 
“Tempest?” he gently brushed a stray curl from her cheek. 
“I am here. You are safe with me.” 
“Do not let him burn me, Adrian.” Her hands clutched him 
tightly as she buried her face in his strong neck. 
He rubbed her back gently as he spoke. “None will harm 
you, little witch. I will protect you. Please do not cry, Tempest. 
I cannot bear your tears.” 
“I am not crying.” she raised her face to stare into his cobalt 
eyes. Her face was pale, but there were no tears in her green 
eyes as she spoke. “I never cry. Witches cannot cry.” 
“What happened? What has frightened you so?” 
“Sardon told me about a witch that William sentenced to 
be burned many years ago.” Her voice was a dull monotone as 

she told him the story of William and Clairesse. Her eyes stared, 
unfocused, as she tried to distance herself from the horror. “How 
can I marry a man who would condemn his lover to the stake?” 
“Do not worry, little one. I will kill William, and you will 
not have to worry about him any more,” he comforted, his strong 
young arms still holding her tenderly. “I will kill that lizard-
man also,” he added softly. 
“Adrian,” she touched his cheek and sighed. “You cannot 
kill everyone who displeases you.” 
“William does not displease me, Tempest. I do not even 
know the man. But that lizard-man is evil and he needs to be 
killed.” 
“What do you mean ‘lizard-man’? Twice you 
have mentioned that strange phrase, and I cannot understand 
of whom you speak” She thought a moment. “Do you mean 
Sardon di Mercia? He is ugly, but I do not think he looks like a 
lizard. Although he is a bad man, ’tis not your job to remove 
all the bad people from the earth. You cannot just go around 
killing people. And Father would be very angry if you harmed 
William’s advisor. He is a guest, after all.” 
“Can you not see what your Sardon is, little witch?” Adrian 
asked. He remembered his shock at her calm acceptance of the 
man, how his hackles had risen as Sardon had seated himself 
beside Tempest. He could not understand why others did not 
see the saturnine features of Sardon di Mercia. 
“Do not call him my Sardon. He is cruel, Adrian and only 
that. Why do you call him a lizard-man?” 
“Because when I look at him I see a man in a black robe, 
but I also see an evil aura which surrounds him. ’Tis as if I see 
a man, but I also see a...a...dragon,” he faltered. “Do you 
understand what I am telling you?” He needed to make her 
understand. Somehow she needed to be warned, made aware. 
But how? Why could she not see the man’s true form? ’Twas 
quite obvious to him. 
“Sweet Adrian,” Tempest smiled as she reached up and 
gently brushed a stray lock of golden-blond hair from his 
forehead. “You were sorely injured when I found you under 
my tree. You were unconscious for days and had a high fever. 

’Tis probably just that which makes you see such strange things. 
It will get better with time. I promise.” 
“Mayhap,” he said thoughtfully as he tucked her head under 
his chin and stared sightlessly into space. “But I know what I 
saw.” 
*** 
Tempest watched Adrian as he sat in the big chair next to 
the fireplace. He was staring into the flames, but she sensed 
his thoughts were far away. She wanted to call him back to her 
bed and nestle in his strong arms again but was loathe to disturb 
him. She sighed and looked up as the door opened. 
“How are you feeling, sweeting?” Miriam asked as she 
entered the room, carrying a covered tray. 
Adrian looked up from his place by the fire, and his jaw 
dropped. ’Twas the lizard-man. But this time his form was far 
different. This time ’twas Miriam’s face covering those reptilian 
features. 
“Get out, hellspawn creature!” He growled, his voice low 
and menacing. “I will not have you near her again, monster!” 
He rose to his feet and advanced slowly toward Sardon. 
“Adrian!” Tempest exclaimed, bewildered by his reaction 
to her friend and mentor. “I will not have you speak to Miriam 
that way. Ever. Do you understand me?” 
“’Tis not your Miriam, Tempest,” Adrian said, his 
hands fisted at his sides, his eyes never leaving Miriam’s face. 
“Look at it! Use your powers to see the truth.” 
Tempest stared hard at Miriam but could see only her friend. 
She threw back the fur cover and clambered hastily from 
the huge bed. She could not allow Adrian to harm Miriam. 
As she ran toward them, she smelled a familiar odor of 
musty decay. The sweet, spicy essence assailed her senses, 
making her mind reel. She stepped in front of Adrian and faced 
Miriam. 
“Miriam?” she whispered. “What...?” 
Deep in Miriam’s eyes she could see a darkness 
blossoming, reaching toward her. The darkness grew, and once 
again she was assaulted with the malodorous scent of rotting 
flesh. She swayed and would have fallen were it not for 

Adrian’s strong arms suddenly encompassing her. His strength 
flowed like a raging river into her mind and body until she 
stood straight and steady, facing Miriam. 
But it was not her friend she faced. She could see that 
now. The body in front of her looked like Miriam, but it was 
encircled by a thick aura of impenetrable blackness. The 
darkness gradually took form, and she found herself staring 
into the obsidian eyes of a black dragon—a dragon with the 
eyes of Sardon di Mercia. 
Tempest fainted. 
Adrian’s arms tightened around her as she swooned. He 
lifted her into his gentle embrace as he faced Sardon. 
The man/dragon stood tall and proud before Adrian, a slight 
smile curving his thin lips. “You make a formidable team,” he 
said. Then he twisted the glowing, black opal ring on his finger 
and vanished. 
*** 
The woman shook her head, raven tresses tumbling 
in disarray, as she looked away from the pulsating blue crystal 
ball. “She has the power to see,” she said. “Why does she 
need him as a catalyst?” 
“She is yet young,” the man replied, picking up a chess 
piece, idly turning it in his hands. “If we push too hard it may 
break her, and that would end the game.” 
“Aye,” the woman mused as she leaned her arm on 
the gold-inlaid table, resting her chin in her delicate, beringed 
hand. “After all, the game is everything, is it not?” 
“But of course, my dear. And you know that one wrong 
move from the Bishop and the Queen will destroy him.” 
“But in the end ’tis the King who will do final battle and 
either win or lose the game.” She smiled as she reached to 
move the white knight. 
“Quite right, my dear,” he agreed. “And now I believe 
’tis my turn.” 

NINETEEN 
It seemed like every person Tempest met in her father’s 
huge demesne smelled like Sardon. After he had come to her 
room in Miriam’s shape, she felt she could trust no one unless 
she smelled that person first. She was beginning to feel a little 
foolish, and the serving people were looking at her strangely. 
Four times, in as many days she had ferreted out the man in 
different guises. She was as jumpy as a cat in a kennel of 
hounds. 
She found Adrian in the garden—after a full morning’s 
search. He was slumped dejectedly on a stone bench, staring 
into the distance, and did not notice her as she sat beside him. 
“Adrian?” 
No answer. 
“Adrian?” She touched his arm. “Where are you, Adrian?” 
she asked softly. 
“Who am I, Tempest?” he asked as he looked at her, his 
blue eyes filled with pain. “I have been trying to remember, 
but all I see is emptiness. I do not even know my true name. 
Why do you call me Adrian? Why that particular name? Gods 
how I wish I could just remember something!” He pounded his 
thigh in frustration. 
“I called you Adrian because you remind me of a beautiful 
golden dragon I once met,” she answered with a smile. “You 
are big and golden, much like him. I just thought the name fit 
you.” 
“A dragon named Adrian?” His short burst of laughter 
startled her. “’Tis the silliest thing I have ever heard. Dragons 
have names like T’bor or L’sira...” His voice trailed off, and he 
paled, “or A’dryan.” His intonation was a deep growl with clicks 

and pauses. “But my father could not pronounce it, so he called 
me Adrian,” he whispered. 
Tempest was silent for a long moment, unable to 
comprehend the name he had spoken or even how he had said 
it. She decided to ignore that surprise for the time being. 
“You remember your father?” She held his hand, pressing 
it gently. “What else do you remember? Who is your father? 
Concentrate on him, Adrian. Close your eyes and remember.” 
He closed his eyes, trying to recall his father’s image. “He 
is dark. They call him Demon Knight. But he is human. He...” 
“You quest uselessly, stripling.” Sardon’s words startled 
them. “You will not remember. You see an untruth, put into 
your feeble mind by your desires. Nothing more.” His scathing 
words cut deeply. 
Quickly Adrian rose to tower over Sardon. “I will kill you, 
lizard,” he growled menacingly. 
“And how do you plan to accomplish this great feat, Boy?” 
Suddenly Miriam stood in his place. “Will you kill me?” Her 
form slowly segued into Christiana’s. “Or me?” she asked 
sweetly. “Or would you kill your beloved’s father?” Now 
Wendall was standing where Tempest’s mother had been. “Will 
you eliminate the entire populace of this puny, so-called castle?” 
With mocking laughter he vanished, leaving behind the stench 
of putrescence and spice. 
Adrian raised his clenched fist and bellowed, “Come back 
and fight, you cowardly lizard. I will hunt you down and destroy 
you. Before the gods, I swear to remove your ugly, smelly 
carcass from this earth. I will tear you to shreds, Sardon di 
Mercia. This I vow!” 
“You cannot destroy what you cannot find, youngster.” The 
mocking words flowed around them like cold honey. “I will 
kill you soon enough. You cannot harm me, weakling.” 
His maniacal laughter filled the air around them. Then 
the garden grew silent, neither bird nor squirrel dared make a 
sound. 
*** 
Tempest and Adrian shared a trencher at the evening meal, 
but she ate very little. She could not banish the sight of Sardon 

changing from Miriam to Christiana to Wendall, and his horrific 
laughter still echoed in her mind. 
Adrian ate heartily, as always, but his mind too was 
distracted. Tempest intuitively knew what he was thinking 
about. 
“Are you still trying to recall your father?” she asked 
quietly. 
“Aye. I can see his face, but I cannot recall his name,” he 
answered absently. “Why am I able to see him but not my 
mother?” 
“Let it go for tonight, love. We will try again on the morrow 
when you are rested. I am sure you will remember more. Just 
be patient.” 
“Love?” he said, a lopsided smile spreading across his face. 
“Am I your love, little one?” 
Tempest was spared an answer as the serving maid brought 
them each a fresh goblet of wine. She smelled mint—an 
overpowering scent of mint. She looked at the maid but could 
detect nothing unusual. The girl worked with herbs all day; 
mayhap she had been crushing dried mint earlier. Tempest 
relaxed and drank deeply of her wine. 
Looking around the room, she saw Sardon sitting by the 
great fire in the corner of the hall. As she watched him, his 
body shimmered for a moment, becoming almost transparent. 
Tempest rubbed her eyes, took another sip of the wine and 
looked at him again. Nay, he looked solid. Her imagination 
was playing tricks. She felt so weary. It had been a long day. 
“Little witch.” Adrian’s voice broke her concentration. 
“You did not answer me. Am I your love?” 
“Adrian...” Rattled, Tempest dropped her goblet. 
She watched the red wine flow across the table like a dire omen, 
like newly spilled blood. “Curses.” 
“Here, drink mine,” said Adrian, offering her his goblet. 
“I prefer ale. You are so pale, Tempest. You look like you could 
use it.” 
Tempest gratefully accepted the proffered goblet and drank 
deeply. The wine tasted sweeter than usual, with an underlying 
bitter tang. She quickly drained the goblet, hoping it would 

revive her. 
But the wine did not help. Dizziness overwhelmed her as 
pain struck deep in her stomach. Her eyes watered. She took a 
deep breath and swallowed, hoping it would help. She was just 
too tired. She needed to lie down. Sleep would help. 
“I am tired,” she announced to her parents. “If you will 
excuse me, I shall bid you all a peaceful night’s rest.” 
“Tempest.” Christiana’s stern voice was a distant echo. 
“’Tis impolite to leave the table before the lord of the manor. 
You know that. Sit down and wait until we are all finished.” 
“The child is tired, my dear,” said Wendall. “You may leave, 
Tempest. Sleep well.” 
“Tempest?” Adrian rose to help her. 
“I am fine,” she said. “Good night, my heart. Dream well.” 
She ran her fingers softly along his cheek and walked from the 
room. 
The pain hit again when she reached her room. It screamed 
through her belly then slithered up her throat, making her gag. 
She swallowed desperately. Yet another horrific spasm launched 
her recent repast into her throat, and she spewed what little she 
had eaten upon the floor. Hanging on to the door frame, she 
pulled herself into the room and collapsed in a heap. Still 
conscious, she pulled her pain-filled body slowly toward the 
bed, forced to stop in the middle of the huge room as another 
spasm hit. Again her stomach tried to empty itself, but there 
was nothing left to eject, and she curled into a fetal ball, panting 
and retching. 
The room spun around her, and into the whirling maelstrom 
she cast but one word—a name. “Adrian.” She tried to scream, 
but could only whimper as pain engulfed her. 
Adrian heard her call, felt the pain engulf her body, and 
his heart beat wildly as he took the narrow, winding stairs two 
at a time to get to her. He cried her name as he stepped into the 
room and saw her curled tightly in a small ball, lying on the 
floor. 
Tempest she felt his strong arms lift and cradle her tortured 
body. His soothing words of love and comfort soothed her as 
she closed her eyes. 

***
“Poison!” exclaimed the woman. “That bastard poisoned 
her! ‘Twas poison in the goblet meant for Adrian!” 
“Aye,” the man replied, his voice filled with outrage. 
“Should I kill him now?” 
“Nay. ’Tis not part of the game.” she answered reluctantly. 
“Heal her, else the dark bishop will capture our queen and 
we will be checkmated. If his mate is destroyed, the line will 
not survive.” 
“She is not yet his mate, my dear,” he chided. “Or have 
you not noticed?” 
“I have noticed,” she said, sulky now. “And it seems to 
me that you have lost control of this game.” 
“Never, my dear,” he said, shaking his mane of 
pale, golden hair and smiling a secret smile. “There is a way 
out of every tangle if you but know where to look.” 
“Well?” She tapped her foot impatiently. 
“Ahem,” he cleared this throat noisily. “I believe ’tis my 
move?” 

TWENTY
Adrian paced back and forth between the stone bench and 
the herb garden. He watched the sun sink slowly behind the 
high walls of the castle, then slumped dejectedly upon the hard 
seat. 
All day his beloved Tempest had lain near death, and he 
had not been allowed near her room. He had threatened and 
cajoled, even shed a few tears, but still had not been granted 
permission to see her. Adrian had never been so alone or so 
frightened as he lingered in the rapidly darkening garden. A 
light dusting of snow was beginning to cover everything, but 
still he did not move. 
He needed to see her, to touch her, to hear her voice. He 
quested into that part of his mind where she had always been, 
but there was only silence. 
“Tempest,” he said, his voice quivering with emotion. “I 
need you. Where are you, little one?” 
“Adrian.” His name whispered upon the breeze, burrowed 
into his heart. 
“Tempest?” He rose to his feet, hope blossoming. “Please, 
little witch, tell me what to do.” But there was no answer 
Adrian had never prayed before—so far as he could 
remember—but he prayed. He called upon gods. He called upon 
goddesses. He begged and pleaded far into the night. He offered 
his own life if they would only spare his beloved. There was 
no response. He was alone, and he sensed the futility of his 
prayers as he finally gave up and wandered into the castle. 
Everyone was asleep. The serving people had gone to their 
homes in the nearby village, and the castle guards who were 
not on duty slept on their hard pallets in the great hall. He 

stepped over and around them carefully, determined to not fail 
in whatever was necessary to be with Tempest. He desperately 
needed to do something to help her. 
He met not a soul as he made his silent trip up the narrow 
stairs and, listening at the door to Tempest’s room, he detected 
no sound. He hesitated a moment, then opened the door. Miriam 
was sitting by the bed, and she looked up as he entered. 
“Please do not tell me to leave,” he implored as he 
approached the bed. “I must be with her.” 
“I know, Adrian,” Miriam said, her kind voice was weary. 
“You love her.” 
“Aye. She is my heart.” 
“She is dying, and I can do nothing,” she said flatly, hiding 
her gnawing pain, her eyes black with fatigue. For the first 
time, he saw the old woman she had become since Tempest 
had taken ill. 
“Nay!” The word exploded from his lips. “I will not let 
her die!” He could not lose her. He would not lose her. 
“There is nothing you can do,” Miriam replied bitterly. 
“She has been poisoned.” 
“Nay!” he exclaimed, refusing to believe anyone would 
do such a thing. “She was just tired. She spilled her wine, and 
I gave her mine. She seemed better after that and went to bed, 
but then I heard her call to me and, when I found her, she 
was...so sick,” he whispered. Shock suddenly suffused his body. 
“Twas meant for me!” He backed away, hands lifted as if to 
ward off some unspeakable evil. The truth hit him hard, deep 
in his belly. “The wine. ’Twas in my wine and I gave it to 
her.” 
“Nonsense. Lord Wendall has trustworthy cupbearers. 
Nothing ever comes to the tables without first being tasted. No 
one else has taken ill.” 
“’Twas the wine,” Adrian insisted. “We ate from the same 
trencher, and I was with her all day. She took no other 
sustenance that we did not share. Except the wine!” 
“Who served you the wine?” 
“I do not recall,” he answered, trying to remember. “I did 
not see who brought it. I was too deep in my thoughts. I was 

trying to remember my past,” he added. “All I remember is the 
strong odor of mint.” 
“Mint?” 
“Decayed mint!” The truth suddenly dawned on his face. 
“The lizard!” he exclaimed. 
“Lizard? Adrian have you gone daft? There are no lizards 
in this manor.” 
“Aye, there is one, and I will destroy him,” he raged. “I 
will rend the flesh from his foul body and send his soul straight 
to the hell from whence it came!” 
A’dryan. The words in his mind were soft and musical. 
Send the woman from the room. Tempest? he wondered. But 
he knew ’twas not Tempest. Her voice was higher, softer, 
sweeter. He looked around. But no one had entered the room. 
He saw only Miriam and Tempest. Tempest lying so pale, so 
still, looking so small and defenseless in that huge bed. 
“Leave us alone, Miriam.” Somehow Adrian knew that 
voice in his mind. He could picture the face of the speaker. He 
was beginning to remember A’dryan. “Please? I will call you 
if she worsens. You look so tired. How long since you have 
had any rest?” 
“I am tired,” Miriam agreed, her shoulders sagging in 
weariness. “I feel as though I have not slept in a fortnight.” 
She rose, gently kissed his cheek and left the room. “Call me if 
there is any change. Promise me, Adrian.” 
“Aye, that I promise.” 
She closed the heavy oak door quietly behind her. 
The room was silent. 
“Mother?” 
Lysira stood before him. “Your memory has returned?” 
“I remember you. And Father,” he answered, reaching out 
with wonder to touch her arm. His mother. Golden wings. Soft 
lullabies on a moonlit night. Flying, soaring, being. 
She watched him closely. ”Nothing else?” 
“I know what we are...and what Father is,” he replied, 
realization dawning in his azure eyes. “But I do not know why 
I have become human. I remember speaking with Tempest after 
I killed the red, then all is emptiness.” 

“‘Twill return,” she said as she looked toward the bed where 
Tempest lay, still as death. “Your mate has been poisoned.” 
“We are not yet mated. There has been no oath of 
concordance.” 
“Soon, my son,” she assured him as she walked over to the 
bed. “But first we must heal her.” 
Lysira laid her hand upon Tempest’s forehead. “Fever. 
Raging fever.” She pulled the heavy fur from the bed and cast 
it on the floor, leaving Tempest lying naked in the open air. 
“She is more beautiful than I could imagine,” Adrian spoke 
softly. “Even as ill as she has been, she has a strong, beautiful 
aura. So full of life.” 
Lysira laid her hands gently on Tempest’s belly then bent 
to smell her breath. “Mandragora. Sweet Goddess,” she hissed 
angrily. “Twas indeed meant for you, my son. ’Tis dragon 
poison.” 
“Aye,” he nodded. “The black lizard, Sardon di Mercia, 
gave it to me in my wine, but she drank it instead.” 
“S’rdonne?” Lysira drew back from the bed and looked 
around the huge room. “S’rdonne is here?” 
“I know not his dragon name,” he answered thoughtfully. 
“The name he uses around humans is Sardon.” 
“Aye, ‘twas ever so. I thought Damien had destroyed him.” 
“Evidently not, for he is here now.” Adrian’s eyes sparkled 
with golden lights ,and he seemed to grow in stature as he 
spoke. “I will kill him, Mother, just as soon as I am sure that 
Tempest is well and safe.” 
“You cannot best him, A’dryan, for he is too powerful.” 
“I can and I will.” Adrian’s jaw was set stubbornly, and 
his eyes appeared almost golden in the soft candlelight. “I have 
no fear of him.” 
“Are you able to change back to dragon?” 
“Nay.” He looked away. “I cannot.” 
“’Tis a rare human who can battle even a young dragon 
and win. You are not that person, A’dryan. Not yet. There is 
much you must learn and remember before you meet S’rdonne 
on the field of battle.” 
“But Mother...” 

“Hush now, Son. I must tend to Tempest and I will need to 
use all my powers to help her. ’Tis only the healer Miriam’s 
vow for you to be mated that keeps her alive now. If I do not 
help her she will soon die, and you will have no mate.” 
As he watched, her blue eyes, so like his own, began to 
glow golden. Her form shimmered, an incandescence radiated 
from her and flashed sun-bright. In her place stood a golden 
dragon. 
*** 
“God’s teeth and blood,” the man bellowed. “Must she 
interfere in everything?” 
“You have done nothing to help,” the woman noted. “And 
you know ‘twill take dragon magic for this healing.” 
“I can do dragon magic,” he said, lower lip extended in a 
pout. “She gets to do all the good things. This is my game, 
and I do not want her in it.” 
The woman looked at him in surprise. “You are acting 
like a spoiled child,” she chided. “Be yourself. You are an 
immortal, interfering in human lives. You are not a dragon 
and you are certainly not a human child.” She turned from 
him to gaze into the crystal, disgust on her lovely face. 
“Nay, I am neither human nor dragon.” He turned to look 
at her. “But I have lost control of the game, and it scares the 
hell out of me.” 
“Hell is where we may end up if we do not get control 
again, my dear. Let L’sira do her work.” 
“There are other forces at work here,” he mused as he 
reached to a shelf under the gold table and drew out another 
crystal. This crystal ball glowed brightly in the starlight, small 
specks of onyx emptiness seemed to glow within as he gazed 
into it raptly. 

TWENTY-ONE
L’sira’s wings whispered softly over Tempest’s body as 
she spoke the healing spell. Her dragonspeak rebounded 
through Adrian’s mind as the power filled the room. He closed 
his eyes, listening, feeling, trusting. 
Tempest in this raging storm,
Dragon’s mate are you.
Gentle one with witch’s blood,
Healer pure and true,
Listen closely to my words
And feel my healing power.
Heed me not and you shall be
Too soon laid in your bower.
Fading, gentle, mortal flower.
Mandragora, Dragon’s bane,
You have no power here.
This child of light, this mortal true,
This witchling is too dear.
You must not take her from this life,
Your power I disclaim.
Poison vanish, leave this realm,
Return from whence you came.
To your sender be you bane.
TO YOUR SENDER BE YOU BANE.
L’sira’s eyes glowed golden, then faded to sky-blue. Her 
golden scales flashed brightly in the candle light, then they too 
grew dim, as she reverted to human shape, her eyes never 

leaving Tempest’s face. Her hands wove intricate patterns in 
the air as she chanted softly. 
A dark, amorphous silhouette struggled free of Tempest’s 
inert body. It rose, growing distinct, becoming first human, 
then dragon. It made no sound as it rose higher and higher then 
vanished. 
Color flooded Tempest’s cheeks as the healing began. She 
opened her eyes and looked at Lysira. Just for a moment she 
knew, she understood. “You are L’sira,” she whispered, wonder 
in her eyes. 
“Aye, Child,” Lysira answered. “You name me true.” 
“A’dryan is my true intended.” 
“Aye.” 
Tempest closed her eyes and fell into a deep, restful 
slumber. 
“Mother?” Adrian spoke for the first time. “She knows 
who I am?” Hope blossomed in his heart. If Tempest truly knew 
who and what he was, she could help him remember. She could 
help him again become dragon. Tempest would be his salvation, 
his mate. 
“She has always known who you are in her soul, A’dryan. 
She will remember what we have done this night only as a 
dream. But ’tis too soon for her to know all.” 
“But why? I know. I can tell her the truth.” 
“Nay. Tell her nothing of what you have recalled. She needs 
must discover the truth herself.” 
“Why?” he repeated, puzzled, wanting Tempest to help 
him out of this nightmare that his life had become. 
“So many questions,” she smiled at him and touched his 
cheek. “You have ever been full of questions. Trust in me, 
A’dryan. Do as I say.” 
“Aye, Mother,” he said unhappily. “But ’twould be much 
easier if I just told her everything.” 
“I know, dearling, but life is not meant to be easy.” 
“’Tis something I have been learning lately,” he muttered. 
“I must go now, A’dryan,” she said, looking out the narrow 
window. “The sky grows light with the coming dawn.” Her 
body began to fade. 

“Mother, wait!” There was panic in his deep voice. “Where 
can I find you if the need arises?” 
Her words came softly with the morning light. “In the 
forest. You know where. Come to Ravensnest when you need 
me.” 
*** 
Adrian was tired of the questions. First Miriam had asked 
what he had done to heal Tempest—then Wendall. Even 
Christiana had asked, but he could not and would not answer 
them. He knew they would never believe that she had been 
healed by a golden dragon—a dragon he called Mother. 
He spent the early morning pacing the great hall. When 
the morning meal was served he left the castle, too agitated by 
his returned memories to eat. 
He found no solace in the garden and left the castle by the 
postern gate, heading into the forest. “I will find the tree where 
Tempest found me,” he thought. “Mayhap there I will find a 
clue to the last days before my memory loss.” 
But when he reached the tree, he found nothing. Snow 
covered the area, and the footprints of animals littered the 
ground. Whatever had been there had been obliterated by the 
time he arrived. 
He faced the tall tree. “I am a dragon,” he proclaimed, 
raising his arms. “I am also addlepated,” he added as he lowered 
his arms. “If I am truly a dragon, why am I in human form, 
standing here talking to a sleeping tree? Awaken tree and tell 
me how to become a dragon.” He knew the tree would not 
answer, but he was at a loss as to his next step. 
He stared at his hand intently, willing it to change. “Just 
one claw,” he muttered. “A great big claw. Here, on my hand. 
Right at the end of my finger.” Nothing happened. “Well then, 
a little claw?” Nothing happened. 
He closed his eyes tightly, trying to visualize himself as a 
dragon. He tried to make his body larger, to change his hands 
into talons, to grow a long tail, but did not feel any different. 
Breath. Dragons breathe fire, he thought as he inhaled deeply 
and held it. He blew. Hard. He opened his eyes, expecting to 
see the huge oak in flames. The tree stood unscathed and silent. 

But Adrian would not surrender to one small failure. Again 
he closed his eyes. Again he visualized himself as a huge golden 
dragon. He concentrated. He held his breath and prepared to 
incinerate the leafless oak tree with a huge blast of fire...and 
felt a sharp pain in his leg. ’Tis working! he thought excitedly. 
I will soon be a dragon again! He felt another pain, higher 
this time. The needle-sharp pains inched slowly up his leg. 
When the pain reached his manhood, he screamed and opened 
his eyes. 
He looked down at his body—his human body. His eyes 
swam from the pain in his nether regions, his stomach lurched. 
He swallowed hard as the nausea hit. 
A tiny cry came from the center of his pain. He rubbed his 
eyes and looked down again—into sea-foam green eyes. Eyes 
the color of his beloved. A black kitten encased those green 
eyes, bedraggled, wet and miserable looking. 
“You are really hurting me,” Adrian groaned. He reached 
down and carefully unhooked the tiny, sharp claws from his 
hose and the tender skin beneath. He lifted the kitten to his 
face. It struggled feebly then grew still, watching him warily. 
Holding the kitten in one hand, he reached the other hand down 
to gingerly massage his stinging groin. 
“I think I am dying,” he groaned again. “If I were a dragon 
right now I would probably eat you.” The kitten hung limply 
in his big hand and stared at him. 
“Well, do you show me no fear?” The kitten’s eyes blinked, 
and then it meowed. 
Adrian immediately felt remorse at his threat. This was 
the tiniest creature he had ever seen. “You would probably be 
stringy anyway,” he grumped. “You feel like a little, furry bag 
of bones.” The kitten shivered and meowed again, weaker this 
time. 
“Are you cold?” He tucked the wet animal under his cloak, 
held it close to his body for a moment, then opened his cape 
and peeked at it. It was curled in the crook of his arm and, as 
he watched and held it closer, it began to purr loudly. 
He smiled broadly as Tempest’s face floated into his mind. 
“Tempest will know what to do with you. She knows 

everything,” he explained to the kitten. “Except the fact that I 
am a dragon, even if I cannot change back to one,” he added 
as he trudged morosely through the thick forest back to 
Windhaven cradling gently in his strong arms the tiny, purring 
bundle . The snow drifted softly earthward from the gray skies 
above. 
*** 
Tempest was alone in her room when Adrian entered, his 
cloak dripping melted snow onto the rush mat. 
She looked at him and smiled. “Adrian,” she said, “I missed 
you. Where have you been?” 
“I miss you always when we are apart, little witch,” he 
said, walking carefully to the bed. “I have been in the great 
forest. I went to your tree.” 
“You were able to find it? You were hurt so badly, I thought 
you would not remember anything about that day.” 
“I remember many things about that day.” He grinned 
hugely and came to stand beside the bed. “I remember being 
naked and lying on top of you.” 
“Adrian,” she exclaimed, blushing deeply. “A maiden must 
not be reminded of such things!” Then she giggled. 
“Why not?” His eyes fairly sparkled with mirth. “’Twas a 
most pleasant experience, and I recall it often.” 
“Why are you still wearing your cloak?” She chose to 
ignore his last statement. “Are you cold?” 
“Nay. I did not want anyone to see what is beneath it.” 
“What have you been up to now?” 
“I found this wild creature in the forest,” he answered. 
“But it seems to feel poorly.” 
“What kind of animal?” she asked cautiously. “Let me see 
it.” 
“ ’Tis a very dangerous animal,” he said gravely, ignoring 
her demand. “It hurt me!” 
“Where?” Tempest was worried. “Show me where it hurt 
you.” 
It was Adrian’s turn to blush. Tempest was amazed when 
his face turned a bright scarlet. “Adrian, come here and let me 
feel your head. You look feverish of a sudden.” 

“Nay, ’tis too warm in here.” He busied himself with the 
difficult, one-handed task of unfastening the broach holding 
his cloak together. He finally succeeded and let the long, black 
woolen cape fall in a wet heap around his feet. 
Tempest noted absently that his feet were bare. 
“Honestly, Adrian, you must learn to wear boots. You will 
catch your death running around outside with bare feet.” 
“Boots hurt,” he complained. “Are you at all interested in 
seeing this monster?” He looked pointedly at the crook of his 
arm. A tiny, black head peered around the folds of his 
voluminous, light blue linen shirt sleeve and yawned. 
“A kitten! Oh my, let me have her!” 
“ ’Tis a male cat, little one. I believe he will be insulted if 
you call him female.” 
“And just how do you know ’tis a male?” she asked with a 
smile. “’Tis nearly impossible to tell if a kitten is male or 
female.” 
“I know,” he replied smugly. “We males recognize each 
other no matter what shape we wear.” 
Tempest giggled. “Well, I don’t care if ’tis a boy or girl. 
Just give it to me!” 
As he handed her the kitten, he noted it did not look as 
bedraggled as it had when it was climbing valiantly up his leg, 
almost destroying his manhood in the process. He winced as 
he recalled the pain. 
He sat on the bed and watched Tempest as she exclaimed 
delightedly. “I have never been given such a wonderful gift. 
Thank you, Adrian.” Her eyes glowed brightly as she laid the 
kitten gently on the bed, wound her arms around his neck and 
soundly kissed him on the lips. 
The kiss created unexpected results. Adrian clutched her 
against his hard body, his tongue probing her lips, seeking 
entrance. When she opened her mouth he thrust deeply, 
exploring, touching, tasting her sweetness. His manhood 
hardened painfully. He wanted her more than he had ever 
wanted anything in his life. He needed to be inside her, to feel 
her softness beneath his powerful body, to take her finally and 
forever as his mate. She would be his first and last. He had 

waited long for her. 
Tempest’s head reeled. Her body tingled, and heat radiated 
from her lips to the deepest part of her, to that secret place, 
never spoken of, never touched. She ached. She yearned. She 
felt like her body would explode into flames if she could not 
quench the raging fires burning within her. Alarmed, she pulled 
away from that hot, wild kiss and looked into cobalt eyes. 
“Tempest,” he panted as he unwound her arms from his 
neck and laid her hand upon his hardness. 
She looked down at her hand. She ran her fingers gently 
down the long length of his erection. She wanted to feel his 
skin, the heat of it radiated through the heavy wool he wore. 
She reached for the tie of his breeches. 
The kitten yowled loudly, and they both jumped. Sharp 
claws reached for his manhood, and Adrian leaped from the 
bed. 
“Not again,” he growled. “Never again will you attack that 
which can promise such pleasure. Monster! I should have eaten 
you when I first found you!” 
Tempest giggled. The tension broken, her laughter burst 
free to dance merrily around the room. “Monster!” Tempest 
exclaimed, between bursts of merriment. “Now I understand.” 
She held the kitten up to her face, looking into its green eyes. 
“You must be careful, Monster, or the big, bad man will eat 
you!” She fell back against the huge bolsters on the bed, helpless 
as mirth rolled over her. 
Adrian smiled in spite of himself as he watched her 
laughing. He had made her happy. He was well satisfied. His 
passion fled, replaced with a quiet contentment. 
*** 
The raven-haired woman ran her hand gently over the 
man’s thigh, a misty smile in her eyes. “They are so beautiful 
together. Their love is a wondrous thing to behold.” 
“He wants her,” the man answered, trying to ignore her 
soft caress upon his leg. “’Tis pure animal instinct. Nothing 
more.” 
“Are you sure about that?” she asked softly, removing 
her hand from his leg and returning it primly to her lap. “Do 

you not remember love?” 
“Love,” he scoffed. “We are far beyond that emotion.” 
“Are we?” she wondered. “I remember love....” 

TWENTY-TWO
Tempest hurried down the spiral staircase in search of 
Adrian. She carried Monster in her arms, absently stroking his 
silky head. He had grown in the week since her recovery, and 
his ribs were no longer visible; his black fur was long and soft. 
She carried the kitten everywhere she went. 
He had won a few minor skirmishes with the castle mastiffs, 
and they had soon learned to leave this particular cat alone. 
Monster was well named. He had claws which could tear the 
flesh from tender noses and no fear of big teeth. The great 
hounds had—quickly and painfully—learned to respect the tiny 
terror. 
Tempest had suffered almost as much as Monster. The 
servants were not unlike the great mastiffs of the castle. They 
too hated and feared the tiny black kitten. There were whispers 
of ‘the devil’s creature’ and ‘witch’s familiar’ around every 
corner, and she was concerned. She feared the gossip and 
superstition but loved her pet; he had been a gift from Adrian, 
and she was determined to protect him. 
Most of the castle’s cats had been destroyed years ago. 
Christiana hated cats and fed the peasant’s superstitious fears 
of them. It had begun with the black cats and had gradually 
come to include every color. Tempest’s childhood pet, Honey, 
had been the last. She had been devastated when Honey had 
been found dead in the courtyard, her neck broken. Tempest 
blamed her mother and had not spoken to her for months 
afterward. ’Twould not happen again, she vowed. Never again. 
Not even if the whole castle became overrun with rats, which 
it had nearly been of late. 
She found Christiana in the great hall, sitting on a corner 

bench talking to Sardon. Tempest shuddered at the sight of 
him and walked reluctantly toward them. Monster growled 
softly, the fur on his neck raised. 
“Mother,” she began, ignoring Sardon as she spoke, “have 
you seen Adrian this morn?” 
“Nay,” Christiana answered. “I have not seen him. I prefer 
the company of refined gentlemen.” She reached over and patted 
Sardon’s hand, missing the look of repugnance that flitted 
across his face when her hand touched his. 
Sardon hated being touched, particularly by Christiana. 
His skin crawled every time it was necessary to be close to her. 
But he needed her, needed her to see him as a friend, as a trusted 
priest. In the end, she would help him, help him to take the 
witchling’s power. 
“Why would I want to see your pet?” asked Christiana. 
“This is my pet, Mother.” Tempest held the loudly purring 
kitten up to Christiana’s face and watched her recoil. “Adrian 
is my friend. There is a great difference between the two. Or 
have you not noticed?” 
“Get that thing away from me!” Christiana drew back as 
though her daughter held a poisonous adder. “I simply cannot 
abide cats!” Her arm came in contact with Sardon, and he too 
recoiled. 
He had to get away from this stupid woman. If she touched 
him again he would tear her to pieces. He would go to the 
stables and drag Marisa away from Wendall’s bastard son. She 
had been spending too much time with the man lately. In his 
opinion, she looked far too happy. 
“I must take your leave, milady.” He rose quickly and 
nodded his head to Christiana. “I believe you will find your 
friend in the garden,” he said, looking at Tempest. “If you will 
excuse me?” 
“Why anyone would want to sit in a garden filled with 
snow is beyond me,” said Christiana, watching Sardon hurry 
away. 
“How can you stand being around that disgusting man?” 
Tempest asked, noting Sardon’s stiff, noiseless glide. He was 
positively reptilian in his movements. 

“I find him very good company in this dreary old place.” 
Christiana glared at the kitten Tempest cradled so gently in her 
arms. Monster’s green eyes returned the glare, and she shivered. 
“’Tis a witch’s familiar you carry, Tempest.” 
“Nay, ’tis only a wee, fluffy bundle of love,” Tempest 
retorted as she turned to leave the room before her temper could 
erupt into another screaming match. There had been an uneasy 
truce between the two of them since her illness, and she was 
loathe to violate it. 
“Heed my words, Tempest,” Christiana called as Tempest 
walked from the room. “That animal is a dark omen. ‘Twill 
bring trouble anon.” 
“Nonsense, Mother,” she scoffed. “You feed upon 
superstition like a peasant.” As she left the hall, she could hear 
Christiana raving. As she hurried back up the stairs to get her 
fur cape, pitying the next unfortunate who came in contact 
with her mother. 
Opening the door to her room, she noticed the familiar 
odor of spice and decay lingering in the hall. “Sardon? What 
are you doing in my rooms?” It was not Sardon she met there, 
but Junia, her maid. 
“Milady, do you wish to see Sardon di Mercia?” the girl 
asked as she spread the last fur coverlet over the bed. 
“Junia? Where is he?” Tempest looked around the room. 
“Ma’am?” 
“Junia, come here to me, please.” Sardon was not in the 
room, but she had unmasked him in other guises before, and 
she trusted no one in the castle until she could first check them 
for that sick odor of decay. As Junia neared, the overpowering 
odor of roses nearly took Tempest’s breath away. 
“Ye gods, woman,” she exclaimed, “you wear too much 
scent.” She covered her nose and waved the woman away. 
“Forgive me, Milady,” Junia said. “My friend, Samuel, gave 
me a vial of this wonderful scent, and I am afraid I used too 
much. ‘Twill not happen again.” 
“See that it does not,” Tempest replied, watching her 
closely. She recalled the night she drank the potion intended 
for Adrian. She remembered the cupbearer and the strong scent 

of mint. Could Sardon have learned to mask his odor? She 
knew he had been in the hallway; she had smelled him there. 
Mayhap... 
“You may leave,” she dismissed the woman. “I do not 
require your assistance today.” 
In her arms, Monster growled a tiny kitten growl of 
menace—or warning. He stared at Junia intently, not moving. 
“Monster?” Tempest stroked his head gently. “Do you sense 
something which escapes me?” 
Junia smiled, a sly smile, not her usual sweet friendliness 
as she reached for the kitten. “Perhaps the wee beastie wishes 
to go outdoors for nature’s call.” As her hand touched Monster’s 
head, pandemonium reigned. 
The kitten suddenly became an uncontrollable ball of claws 
and hisses as he launched himself at the woman. Junia screeched 
and threw up her hands to protect her face. His claws left long 
furrows on the back of one hand as she flung him to the floor. 
“I despise cats,” Junia spat as she kicked at Monster. 
“Nay, do not hurt him,” Tempest yelled. She tackled Junia, 
tumbling them both to the rush-covered floor. 
“Remove yourself from me, woman.” Sardon’s voice was 
harsh. Tempest almost lost her morning meal, as the rose smell 
suddenly dissipated and the dank odor of decay assailed her. 
“Your touch is nearly as foul as your mother’s.” 
“And your stench is nearly as foul as your breath,” Tempest 
responded in kind. 
“Get...off...me!” His anger was palpable in the air about 
them, but Tempest did not release her hold. He struggled but 
could not dislodge her. She held his arms to the floor. He turned 
his head, blew the rushes from his face, and tried to rise, but 
she would not release him. 
“’Tis strange, indeed, how the voice of the ugly Sardon di 
Mercia comes from the beautiful mouth of my sweet friend, 
Junia,” she mocked. “How is it, I wonder, that you seem to 
have no strength in this body you use so poorly?” 
“I will destroy you, witchling,” he said, his voice filled 
with hatred. 
“You tried that already.” She was sweetly sarcastic. 

“Remember? It seems even your poisons are not strong enough 
to defeat me.” 
Sardon struggled harder and managed to dislodge Tempest. 
He reached for the opal ring on his finger, muttered strange 
incantations under his breath and disappeared, leaving his own 
particular smell of spicy decay in his wake. 
Monster wailed an eerie cat’s howl as he jumped into 
Tempest’s arms, looking for protection from an evil beyond 
his ken. She shuddered as she sat ‘midst the prickly rushes, 
still panting from her struggle. Holding the kitten close, she 
crooned soft words of love. 
“This is an abominable situation,” she said, stroking the 
kitten slowly. “That...that thing can change his form at will. I 
can trust no one in this castle. Now he has even learned to 
mask his disgusting odor.” She gazed thoughtfully at the purring 
kitten. 
“I must have protection.” She placed Monster gently on 
the floor and hurried to her wardrobe. “I know ’tis in here 
somewhere,” she muttered as she searched the floor of the huge 
chiffarobe. Her hand finally found a carved wooden box and 
she pulled it out, opened it and began rummaging inside until 
she found what she sought. 
It was a small silver dagger with faceted quartz crystals 
embedded in the hilt. On the blade was etched the form of a 
serpentine dragon. Tristan had given it to her on a long ago 
Yule celebration. Christiana had objected, saying it was not a 
fit gift for a young girl, but Wendall had just smiled and admired 
it. “Christiana,” he had said calmly, “Tempest needs must carry 
protection. She spends most of her time in the woods and refuses 
a guard. I think this is a very thoughtful gift.” He had handed 
the dagger back to his daughter, and the matter was closed. 
Tempest smiled at the memory. When Wendall spoke, everyone 
heeded his words. Her mother was no exception. 
She had kept the dagger, and Tristan had spent many hours 
teaching her how to use it to her best advantage. But she had 
not felt the need to carry it—until now. 
She strapped the dagger’s leather sheath to her thigh, 
wrapped her long fur cape around her slim shoulders and, once 

again, went in search of Adrian, Monster close upon her heels. 
*** 
Adrian sat on the stone bench ‘midst the sleeping 
rosebushes, kicking idly at a clump of snow. In his hand he 
held a long sword which gleamed in the muted winter sunlight. 
The blade was sharp, and he nicked his finger as he tested the 
edge. He popped the finger in his mouth to stop the small trickle 
of blood and thought back upon the morning’s events. 
Lord Wendall had presented the sword to him for saving 
Tempest when she had been poisoned. Adrian had taken it to 
the garden to familiarize himself with it. 
“I did nothing to save my beloved,” he mumbled. “I only 
called upon the powers of my mother. Even then I did not realize 
what I was doing. If I could change back to my natural form, 
I would not need this weapon in which humans seem to set 
such great store.” 
He closed his eyes, concentrating, willing himself to once 
again become the great beast—his natural form. His brow 
furrowed deeply and his face grew red from the effort, but the 
only change he noticed was a pounding headache which began 
behind his eyes. 
He laid the sword on the bench and leaned forward to rest 
his arms on his knees. His head drooped dejectedly. “Why can 
I not change? Why can I not remember how I got into this 
form? How can I truly be of help to Tempest or anyone else 
when I have this great, black hole in my memory?” A groan of 
anguish escaped him. 
“Adrian?” Tempest’s soft voice startled him. “Are you ill?” 
“Tempest?” He looked up into her worried face. “Nay, ’tis 
more frustration at my helplessness. I feel so useless.” He 
picked up the sword and held it out to her. “What good is this 
to me? I know not how to use the thing.” 
“Do you know that to be so, Adrian? Have you remembered 
something?” 
“Nay,” he answered, looking away. “I remember nothing.” 
He felt uneasy lying to her, but knew he must obey his mother’s 
words. He lowered the sword point to the ground and began 
drawing idly in the hard-packed snow at his feet. 

“God’s teeth, Adrian,” Tempest exclaimed. “Where are your 
boots? You will catch your death out here in this cold with 
your feet bare. Have you lost your senses completely?” 
“I do not like those boots. They are too hard, and they hurt 
my feet,” he complained, relieved to have her attention diverted 
to another subject. “Besides, the cold feels good. I like the 
way the snow crunches between my toes when I walk.” He 
grinned, a look of pure devilment in his winter-sky eyes. “Try 
it.” He tossed the sword into a nearby snow bank and dove for 
her feet. 
She squealed, eluded his grasp and ran down the well-
packed path toward the quadrangle door, intent on keeping her 
feet warm, dry, and well out of his reach. 
As they slammed the heavy door behind them, a dark figure 
stepped silently out from behind a thick clump of holly bushes. 
He stared at the door for a moment, then reached down and 
picked up the forgotten sword. A deep, menacing laugh emerged 
from the black hood which concealed his face. 
“Fool,” he snarled as he tucked the weapon under his black 
robe. “You are no challenge. ‘Twill be easier than I expected 
to destroy the last of your kind. My revenge upon L’sira will be 
sweet indeed.” 
The tiny black kitten hissed softly from his hiding place 
under the stone bench as Sardon twisted his ring and vanished 
from the garden. Monster settled deeper into the safety of 
darkness. His green eyes did not waver as he watched the place 
where Sardon had stood. 
*** 
“That monster disgusts me,” the woman said, turning from 
the muted light of the glowing crystal ball. 
“The cat?” the man asked as he idly turned the black 
rook in his hand. “Why would a cat disgust you?” 
“Do not be a simpkin.” She took the rook impatiently from 
his hand and flung it down on the table. They watched in 
silence as the chess piece bounced and rolled slowly onto the 
green marble floor. 
“You know very well how I love cats. Especially black 
ones. I mean Sardon di Mercia,” she explained when the rook 

had finally come to rest near the leg of her chair. 
“That one,” the man said thoughtfully. “Aye, he is a bit of 
a monster.” 
“Well, what are you going to do about this?” 
“Wait.” 
“Wait?” She was incredulous. “You are just going to 
wait?” 
“Aye,” he answered. “I am interested to see what his next 
move will be. I believe he would make a rather good opponent 
in a game of chess. Do you not agree?” 

TWENTY-THREE
Miriam stood by the postern gate. Well concealed in the 
dark corner, she watched as Sardon twisted his ring and 
vanished. She heard his evil threat and saw Monster’s reaction 
to the man. 
She was worried. She had raised Tempest from birth and 
shared with her a vast knowledge of herbs and spells; but 
Tempest was not yet ready to face the likes of Sardon di Mercia. 
Adrian would do everything in his power to protect 
Tempest, but he had problems of his own. Miriam had an idea 
who and what Adrian was, but was afraid to acknowledge it in 
her own mind lest she unwittingly hex them with her thoughts. 
She was well aware of Sardon’s ability to twist everything to 
his advantage. 
Monster poked his head out from under the bench and gave 
a soft meow. 
“Monster,” she chided, as she bent to pick him up, “Tempest 
has looked everywhere for you.” She sat on the bench and 
looked absently around the snowy garden. She needed to think, 
to plan. 
“I must do something to help them,” she said as she petted 
his silky head. “But what?” Monster purred loudly and settled 
deeper into her arms, content with the moment. 
“I am too old to do battle with that powerful an evil,” she 
mused. “If I could but remove that great opal ring, mayhap 
they would be able to stand against him. But how do I do such 
a thing?” Monster had stopped his loud purring and soon 
replaced it with a growl—then a snarl. Miriam almost dropped 
him in her surprise. She had never seen the kitten act thus— 
unless Sardon were in the vicinity. 

As she looked up, her gaze met emotionless black eyes 
glowing from deep within the dark, hooded robe, the face only 
visible as a pale gray blur. She shivered as the odor of pestilence 
overtook her, almost driving her to her knees. With a banshee 
scream, Monster leaped from her arms, diving deep into the 
garden, his fear manifested in his raised fur and frantic scrabble 
for safety. She was alone with Sardon di Mercia. 
“What are you?” she whispered, fear making her voice 
tremble. 
“I am death come calling.” His sonorous voice tolled from 
the blackness. His hand delved deep into the shadowy robe, 
then emerged, holding Adrian’s sword. 
“I will not go easily, demon,” she said as she rose from the 
bench to face him. 
She had no fear of mundane, earthly weapons. Many had 
tried to take her from this life with such tools and failed. ’Twas 
the arcane knowledge he held which she feared. She raised her 
hands, and a bolt of shining blue light shot from her fingertips. 
The sword glowed brightly with white fire, but Sardon did not 
release it. He drove the weapon into the snow, and the light 
hissed then was gone, leaving only an undamaged sword in its 
wake. He lifted it again and advanced toward her. 
His hood fell back, and she could see the malicious smile 
on his twisted face. 
“Is that all you have to offer, woman?” he asked, surprised 
at her ability to cast white fire but secure in the knowledge that 
he could easily defeat her. After all, he was Sardon di Mercia— 
dragon mage. 
“Nay,” she replied, “’tis only a small warning.” 
She shot another bolt at him; this time red fire erupted 
from her hands, but he calmly raised his other hand to ward off 
the blow. The blazing fire hit his hand, knocking him back a 
step, but he only smiled as its heat enveloped his hand, then 
turned from him and ricocheted back to its sender. 
Miriam calmly moved to one side, and the fire sizzled 
harmlessly past her to hit a rosebush, igniting its branches. It 
burned hotly for a moment, then abated, leaving the bush 
unharmed. 

Again she sent the red fire at her foe, but this time he easily 
stepped aside as it hit the frozen ground beside him. 
He returned her fire with a black fire of his own. It burned 
hotly in a circle at her feet She did not move out of its way, but 
waved her hand in small circles in front of her and the magefire 
dissipated. “You have no more than simple magefire to offer 
me, demonspawn?” she asked quietly. “Mayhap you are not as 
knowledgeable as you would have others believe.” 
“I but play with you, woman,” Sardon growled, as he wove 
his fingers in intricate patterns before her. Again, black magefire 
erupted from his fingertips. He grasped the blade of the sword 
and sent a wall of flames toward her. 
The heat hit Miriam like a physical blow, but she did not 
falter. Instead, she manifested a shower of ice crystals. They 
surrounded him and grew solid as ice covered his body. He 
waved his hand, and the ice was gone, leaving him unharmed 
and dry. He was enjoying this battle. But he could see she was 
weak; she could not defeat him. 
Miriam took a deep breath, readying herself for the next 
salvo but was distracted by voices approaching the secluded 
garden. They were calling for Tempest’s kitten. She looked 
around but saw no one. She again breathed deeply and 
concentrated upon the figure standing before her. 
“We will soon have visitors,” he noted as he rubbed his 
fingers across the glittering opal ring. “And t’would not do for 
them to see what I am about. So...” His body shimmered in the 
winter’s light and became that of Adrian. He stepped closer to 
her. 
“I grow tired of this,” he sighed, his dank breath hitting 
Miriam like a physical blow. He raised the sword. It glowed 
and pulsed like a living creature as he infused it with his 
malevolence. 
Miriam could not move. She could not look from those 
compelling black eyes. Eyes that did not belong in the face of 
the gentle young man she had come to love as a son. Those evil 
eyes mesmerized her, making her limbs grow weak and heavy. 
She tried again to move, to look away from that chilling gaze. 
But she could not. 

She felt the sharp, icy blade sink deep into her chest. Miriam 
cried out with the blinding pain and sank slowly to the ground. 
Her hand grasped the sword as she watched her life’s blood 
trickle, then gush from between her suddenly nerveless fingers. 
“Sardon?” Adrian’s voice came to her as though from a 
great distance. She watched her killer twist the opal ring on his 
finger and he was gone. Her body grew cold as numbness 
overtook her arms and legs. 
“Miriam?” Adrian’s voice was close. She smelled the scent 
of sandalwood and knew it really was he. But he was too late. 
Sardon had accomplished what he had come to do. 
He grasped the sword to pull it from her body, but she 
wrapped her bloody fingers around his hand and tried to speak. 
“Adrian...” she whispered, her words barely audible. He 
bent his head closer. “The opal...” Her eyes closed. 
‘”Miriam!” he cried, frantic now. Her eyelids fluttered, and 
she made one last effort. 
“His power... the ring...” She could say no more as eternal 
blackness descended, releasing her from mortal pain. 
Adrian felt her death as he had felt no other. He watched 
as a smoky cloud rose from her body and drifted heavenward. 
He reached for the sword and pulled it gently from her inert 
body. Raising the bloody weapon to the skies, he screamed— 
the mindless scream of a dragon about to do battle. 
His cobalt eyes began to turn golden, and his body began 
to change. He could feel it. Dragonpower. 
“Adrian?” Tempest’s voice drew him suddenly back to 
himself. Back to his human self. He whirled around to face 
her, the sword now hanging uselessly at his side. Her face was 
pale as her eyes met his, then flew to Miriam’s lifeless body. 
She walked slowly forward, her anguished gaze returning to 
him and the bloody sword at his side. “What have you done?” 
“Tempest. Nay,” he said, backing away from those hurt 
green eyes. “I did naught. ’Twas the lizard... Tempest?” 
She did not speak as she knelt and took Miriam in her 
arms, rocking her back and forth, crooning softly. She looked 
again at Adrian, her eyes almost as lifeless as the body of the 
woman she held so tenderly. 

“Tempest? Beloved?” 
She gave him no answer but closed her eyes and turned 
away from him. 
Screams. Suddenly the garden was filled with people, 
drawn there by the dragon’s scream. Frightened eyes. Hate-
filled eyes. Accusing eyes. He dropped the bloody sword and 
backed away, raising his hands as if to ward off their anger. 
They surged as one into the snowy garden. 
“I did naught,” he whispered helplessly. “She was my 
friend.” 
“I saw you kill her,” a woman shouted from the fringes of 
the angry mob. “I looked out the tower window, and I saw you 
drive that great sword into her.” 
“Take him to the dungeon,” Wendall commanded as he 
stepped forward. “Chain him well. I will pass judgment after 
our Miriam is laid to rest.” 
Rough hands bound him and hauled him through the great 
hall, down winding steps to the furthermost reaches of the keep. 
Adrian did not protest as they chained him to the wall and 
slammed the heavy iron door behind them. As he sagged against 
the stone walls all he could see was the anguished eyes of the 
woman he loved. He could feel her despair and loss. Adrian 
shed the tears he knew Tempest could not. 
*** 
For the four days since Miriam’s death, Tempest had felt 
dead inside. Her body felt numb, her eyes dry and sore. She 
could not weep for her friend. Witches could shed no tears. 
They could only grieve deep in their souls. 
She sat silently beside Miriam’s bier, her mind and heart 
strangely empty. She could form no cohesive thoughts, feel no 
pain. Nay, ’twas wrong—she could feel pain, she could worry 
about Adrian, she could think. She just did not want to. Not 
now. Not ever. She knew she must think, plan. But how? It 
hurt too much...too much. 
Miriam was gone, and Adrian stood accused of her murder. 
Adrian had loved Miriam. He could not have killed her, of that 
Tempest was certain. But how was she to convince her father? 
Wendall would surely condemn Adrian to death. 

“Someone, please help me!” she cried out in desperation. 
But there was no response. Only silence greeted her plea. 
Exhausted, she let her head droop, to rest wearily upon her 
chest. Her eyes closed. 
A soft noise caught her attention, and she looked up. 
Sardon stood across from her, only Miriam’s body 
separating them. He did not speak, but his deep penetrating 
look made her uncomfortable. Something was missing. Then 
she realized she could not smell him. Tempest wanted to slay 
him, destroy his ugly body, send his evil soul to eternal 
damnation. But she could not move. 
“I see you have learned to mask your disgusting odor,” she 
snarled to break the tension. She tried to rise from the bench. 
She wanted to kill the monster with her bare hands, to feel his 
life-force flow from his body. But still she could not move. 
He did not speak. 
“Speak your piece, lizard,” she said angrily, unintentionally 
using Adrian’s name for the loathsome creature. “Then be gone 
from my sight. I know what you have done, and you will not 
go unpunished. Neither shall Adrian suffer for your crimes.” 
“I am not who you think.” The words were gentle and soft, 
as though spoken from a great distance. They tinkled like tiny 
bells through her mind. She noticed absently that his lips had 
not moved when he spoke. 
“Who are you?” she whispered as she watched his form 
waver in the still room. His body grew transparent then became 
opaque once again. “What are you?” 
“I was Tsuraldi of Werishan.” The gentle voice rang in her 
head. “I was Sardon di Mercia’s mentor. I found him as a 
hatchling and took him in.” 
“Hatchling?” Tempest could barely speak so great was her 
shock at his words. But nay, she vaguely remembered a 
time...Sardon...his visage had taken on a form. A dragon’s face... 
“Yes, little witch. Hatchling.” He nodded. “His sire and 
dam were destroyed in the dragon wars, and he would have 
perished. I thought I could teach him to be good and kind. I 
thought giving him the power would make him into a great 
mage and healer. I was wrong. I could not change his true nature, 

and he destroyed me.” 
“Adrian can see his true form,” Tempest said in wonder. 
“Your Adrian is very special, Tempest. As are you. You 
have the power, if you become one with your true love. Perfect 
love and perfect trust can defeat absolute evil.” 
“But why are you here?” She was shaken to the core with 
his revelations. “Have you come to help?” 
“I am here because your pure heart called out to me. I can 
do no more than advise you.” 
“Tell me what I must do.” 
“You know what you must do, Tempest. Follow your heart. 
Dream a golden dragon.” His body shimmered, the soft white 
light surrounding it faded, and he was gone. 
*** 
Shocked silence overtook the couple as they gazed into 
the glowing crystal ball. The man looked at the woman, his 
gold-flecked blue eyes locked with her soft brown eyes. 
She reached out and took his large hand in hers, raised it 
to her lips and gently kissed the palm. 
“Perfect love and perfect trust,” she whispered and smiled. 

TWENTY-FOUR
The candle Tempest carried gave scant light as she 
cautiously made her way down the steps. The stairs to the 
dungeon, unlike those of the upper chambers, were wide and 
led straight down to the lower floor. There would be no need to 
defend this part of the keep should they be attacked. Prisoners 
would be the last concern for a castle under siege. 
In truth, Tempest had rarely seen the dungeons used. 
Wendall was a kind lord and treated everyone with wisdom 
and respect. She could not remember a time when there had 
been a murder on the grounds. 
Until Miriam...Goddess, how she missed Miriam. But 
Tempest knew she must put her grief aside for now. She was 
worried about Adrian. She had to find him, had to get him out 
of this foreboding place. 
The floor was damp, and the air smelled strongly of mold 
and animal droppings. She shivered as she made her way 
carefully along the corridor leading to the farthest cells. There 
were no fires burning for heat, and no rushlights lit her way. 
An errant breeze snuffed her candle, and she was left alone in 
the stygian darkness. 
She shuddered as something soft and furry brushed her 
ankle just above her short leather boots. She tried to inch silently 
away from the creature, but it followed, and the fur again 
brushed her ankle. She almost tripped in her haste to get away 
but it seemed to know her mind. Wherever she stepped the 
creature waited. Panic clutched her throat, and she could not 
have screamed if her life depended upon it. 
Tempest stopped and waited. No fur. No animal. Hesitantly 
she moved a step forward. Fur brushed her ankle. There was 

an almost familiar pattern to the animal’s movements. She took 
another step forward. Again the animal wove itself sinuously 
around first one ankle then the other. She could feel vibrations 
coming from its body but it made no sound, as though it knew 
the necessity of silence in that forbidding place. 
She picked up Monster and hugged him close, planting a 
loving kiss upon his tiny head. He meowed loudly at her blatant 
show of affection, and her eyes frantically scanned the inky 
space, fearing a guard may have heard the kitten. But there 
was no guard. The dungeon was ominously silent. 
Monster meowed again, louder this time. 
A chain rattled nearby. “Monster?” Adrian’s voice was loud 
in the darkness, and Tempest jumped. 
“Adrian?” Tempest spoke softly. “Speak again so I may 
find you. But quietly. There may be guards about.” 
“There are no guards.” His voice was softer. “They left 
after they accomplished their duty...and more.” 
She followed his voice and came to the cell which housed 
him. 
Tempest put Monster down and lit her candle with the small 
flint she always carried hooked to her girdle. She held the candle 
up to the small open peephole in the door but its feeble light 
cast no glow into the blackness of the room. The heavy iron 
door was bolted. She slipped the bolt and stepped into the room. 
The stench was overpowering. The smell of moldy straw, 
dank, stale air and blood flooded over her, making her wretch. 
Fearfully, she raised her candle. Adrian was chained to the 
rough-cut, rock wall. His huge body sagged, his arms were 
pulled above his head by chains which cut deeply into his bare 
wrists. His clothing had been torn from his body and, as she 
stepped closer, she could see marks crisscrossing his chest and 
stomach. In the dim candlelight she saw huge dark blotches 
from thigh to ankle, and she prayed it was only dirt. As she 
moved to stand in front of him she knew her prayers were in 
vain. His head was bent, his long blond hair was matted with 
filth and something darker. She raised her hand to brush his 
hair back, and he lifted his head to look at her. 
“Tempest,” he said weakly, his eyes cloudy and pain-filled. 

“I did not kill her.” 
“I know, beloved,” she murmured, gently touching his 
stubbled cheek. “You are the most gentle man I have ever 
known. You loved her.” She pulled her hand back, afraid to 
touch his battered face. 
“My father will pass judgment in the morn, Adrian. ‘Twill 
be a harsh one, for he does not know you as I do. I have come 
to free you.” She pulled a large ring of keys from the deep 
pocket of her surcoat. 
“They will not miss the keys?” 
“The guards were careless,” she answered quietly. “They 
apparently love wine more than their duty to my father. They 
will be punished when you are found gone.” 
Tempest unlocked the ankle chains first, then reached for 
his manacled arms. When she unlocked the first wrist, his arm 
fell heavily to his side, and he gasped with pain. 
“I do not know if I can stand, Tempest,” he grated, barely 
clinging to consciousness. 
She lifted his arm and carefully draped it over her shoulder. 
“Lean on me. I can hold you. I have done so before. 
Remember?” 
His short bark of weak laughter surprised her. “You dropped 
me,” he gasped. “Right under that tree.” 
“Well, there are no trees here,” she laughed softly. “And I 
will not again let you fall.” She unlocked the last manacle, and 
he sagged heavily against her. True to her word, Tempest 
managed to hold him up. She lowered him gently to the filthy, 
straw-covered floor. 
They froze at the sound of footsteps. She scrambled to 
blow out the candle which she had placed a safe distance from 
the straw, then felt her way back to Adrian’s side and tightly 
clasped his hand. 
“You must leave, little one. They must not find you here. 
You will die with me if they do.” 
“I will not leave you again,” she whispered. “Your fate 
shall be mine.” 
“Tempest,” he groaned, but could say no more as she laid 
her hand across his mouth. They trembled as the footsteps 

neared. 
The bright glare of rushlight momentarily blinded them. 
“’Twould seem my little sister must ever play the rescuer 
of gentlemen in distress,” Tristan’s voice drawled. “But, I ask 
you, Tempest...Must he always be naked, or nearly so?” 
“Tris!” Tempest exclaimed, rushing to embrace him. “You 
should not be here! If they catch you, your fate will surely be 
the same as ours.” 
“Hush, little sister.” He laughed quietly. “Fate is a fickle 
creature. A man cannot worry about what she will do next. You 
are much more trouble than the Lady Fate.” 
“You came to rescue Adrian,” Tempest stated. 
“Aye.” 
“But why? Why go against Father for a man you scarcely 
know?” 
“I know you love him, Tempest,” he said, affection glowing 
from green eyes so like her own. “For that reason alone I know 
he could not have killed our sweet Miriam.” 
Adrian’s groan of pain drew their attention. Tempest hurried 
to kneel beside him. “We must hurry, Tris. He is sorely 
wounded. But how can we get him to safety? There are so 
many steps from here to the upper level, and he is very weak. 
The great hall is full tonight. I am afraid he will awaken 
someone if he cries out with pain.” 
“I will make no noise,” said Adrian. “I am no babe who 
cries out at the slightest pain.” 
“Slightest?” Tempest snorted in disbelief. “You have been 
beaten and whipped and starved for days. Your pain cannot be 
called slight.” 
“’Tis slight,” he answered stubbornly. “I have suffered 
worse in days gone by.” 
“You do not know that.” Tempest was growing angry at 
his obstinacy. “You do not even remember your past so how 
could—” 
“Children,” Tristan interrupted before their discussion 
could erupt into a full-scale argument. “We do not have time 
for this. The night flies, and dawn soon approaches. We must 
hurry.” 

“But how?” Tempest queried, worry creasing her brow. 
“We cannot go through the great hall.” 
“We often played here as children,” Tristan stated. “We 
were able to get in and out without ever being seen. 
Remember?” 
“The mine tunnel?” she asked, disbelief written across her 
features. “But ’twas many years ago, Tris. It was crumbling 
then. It may be caved in by now.” 
“How do you think I got in here?” he asked, a cocky grin 
on his face. “’Tis dirty and damp but still perfectly safe. And it 
leads outside the castle, where I have a horse and food waiting. 
I am sorry I did not think to bring clothing though. I did not 
think they would take his clothes. Can yon hero make it?” 
“Aye.” Adrian rose painfully to his feet, swaying, 
dangerously close to collapse. Tempest hurried to his side to 
steady him. 
Tristan removed his heavy woolen cape and draped it over 
Adrian’s shoulders, pinning it at his neck with a plain silver 
brooch. “Does this man never wear clothes?” he muttered under 
his breath as he led the way out the door. 
Just as Tempest remembered from her childhood, the mine 
tunnel entrance was well concealed; the small iron door 
covering the entrance stood open. Tristan and Adrian had to 
duck to enter, and the passageway ahead was narrow, the ceiling 
low. Tristan led, using his torch to light the way. 
The carved stone tunnel led down for a short way, then 
leveled off, but they still had to duck their heads in the cramped 
space. Tempest was sincerely thankful she had not grown that 
much taller in the years since she had left childhood behind. 
Adrian, being the tallest of the three, had the most trouble. 
His whole body was wracked with pain and he was fast losing 
what little strength he had left. He did not complain, just kept 
putting one foot down after the other as he plodded along behind 
Tristan. He hoped with all his heart, that he could stay conscious 
until they reached the end of this nightmarish journey. 
Tempest was worried about him. She could see his strength 
was ebbing and feared she and Tristan would have to carry 
him. She did not remember this tunnel being so cramped nor 

so long. 
Tristan stopped suddenly, and Adrian almost stumbled into 
him. 
“The ladder,” said Tristan, turning to look at Adrian. “We 
can rest a moment before descending.” 
Adrian’s pride would not let him stop. “We can rest when 
we get out of this hellhole.” 
“I need to rest,” said Tempest, knowing the reason for his 
refusal to stop. “You can go on ahead if you wish, but I am 
stopping here.” She sat down and leaned against the tunnel 
wall. 
“Me too,” Tristan agreed after studying Adrian’s pale 
features. “’Tis tiring to walk all bent over for so long.” He also 
sat and leaned against the hard wall. 
Adrian knew what they were doing but did not make an 
issue of it. He desperately needed the respite. Gingerly he 
lowered himself to the cold stone floor and looked around him. 
The stone walls were carved roughly, as if done in haste. Winter 
had chilled the tunnel, and he could see his breath as he exhaled. 
Ice crystals had formed on the cold, damp walls. They glittered 
in the rushlight, making him think he had entered the land of 
faerie. 
But the floor felt colder than death, and he shivered. 
“Adrian?” Tempest laid her delicate hand on his arm. Her 
touch blazed like a Beltane bonfire. 
He lifted her hand to his lips and placed a gentle kiss upon 
it. “I am all right, little one,” he said quietly, then, still holding 
her soft hand in his, he closed his eyes and leaned his head 
back. “Why would anyone build such a place?” he wondered 
idly. 
“About two hundred and fifty years ago,” Tristan began, 
“the land around here was not as peaceful as it is now. There 
were many battles for domination, and siege was often laid to 
a castle to accomplish that end. At that time, Alexander Sanct 
Joliet was lord of the manor and a better tactician than most. 
Darrin of Kondray laid siege to this castle, and it lasted for 
almost three years. 
“Castle Windhaven is built on the ruins of an old motte 

and bailey site.” 
“Motte and bailey?” Adrian asked. 
“A motte is the great hill our castle sits upon,” answered 
Tempest. “Of course you know the bailey is the courtyard and 
the wall surrounding it.” 
“The first bailey was made of wood, as was the great 
tower,” Tristan explained. “It had been burned to the ground in 
an earlier siege and, years later, our castle was built upon the 
ruins. This time the castle was built of stone so it could not be 
so easily destroyed.” 
“But why build here?” Adrian was very interested in this 
bit of human history, and listening to Tristan’s tale helped keep 
his mind off his pain.. “Why not some other place?” 
“Because this motte is stone,” Tempest replied. “They knew 
it would hold the weight of the great tower and outer walls and 
could not easily be undermined.” 
“Darrin of Kondray had laid siege to many castles,” Tristan 
continued. “He knew early on that his siege was having little 
effect on the solid stones of our castle. Even the trebuchet and 
other smaller catapult weapons did no more than irritate Lord 
Alexander. So he decided to dig a mine tunnel.” 
“Through solid stone?” Adrian exclaimed in disbelief. 
“That must have taken years.” 
“They worked on the mine tunnel for a year without 
detection,” Tristan answered. “But Alexander was wise to the 
ways of war and soon discovered their work. He had his men 
start a counter mine from the dungeon, hoping to intercept 
Darrin’s men before they could get into his castle. 
“They met, but Alexander’s shaft was six feet above 
Darrin’s. His men dug straight down, and the first rubble fell 
onto the men below, burying them. From then on it was easy to 
station a bowman at the drop, and he could kill any man who 
tried to scale the wall of the mine.” 
“Why did they not close off the mine shaft after the siege?” 
Adrian asked. 
“They did,” answered Tempest. “But Tristan and I 
discovered it by accident and dug it out. We just kept it well 
hidden and never told anyone about it. Father would have been 

very angry had he known we were playing in such a dangerous 
place.” 
“We must go,” said Tristan. “Adrian, can you climb down 
the ladder?” 
“Aye,” he answered gruffly. “I will not need to waste time 
again.” 
The final leg of their journey, down the cold mine shaft, 
went quickly after their short rest and they were all relieved to 
see that dawn was some time off. Tristan gave a short, sharp, 
whistle, and a horse trotted into view. 
“He’s a trustworthy mount,” he said looking at Adrian. 
“You will have no trouble with him. Just release him when you 
are far enough away and he will return home.” 
“Aye, my thanks to you Tristan,” said Adrian, clasping the 
smaller man’s hand in friendship. “I will see him returned to 
you.” 
“We will see him returned to you,” Tempest corrected 
firmly. 
“Tempest,” Tristan said. “You cannot...” 
“Adrian is hurt, Tris,” she reminded him before he could 
voice his objections. “He cannot travel alone. I must go with 
him.” 
“Think, Sister!” Tristan exclaimed. “When Father finds 
you gone he will be livid. He will have the whole castle up in 
arms and out searching for you. Adrian will be safer on his 
own.” 
“Nay.” 
Tristan recognized the stubborn set of her jaw. He knew 
from past experience that it would be almost impossible to 
sway her but he had to try. He looked helplessly at Adrian. 
“Tell her to stay,” he pleaded. 
Adrian smiled. “I need her, Tris,” he said simply. 
Tristan knew when he was defeated. He kissed Tempest’s 
cheek and whispered, “I love you, little sister.” He watched as 
she mounted the horse and Adrian climbed into the saddle 
behind her, wrapping his long arms around her waist. 
“Tell Marisa,” Tempest said softly. “Tell her, Tris...” 
“If I see her,” he answered with a blush. 

She smiled, bent down and ran her fingers over his cheek. 
“You will see her, big brother. Of that I have no doubt.” 
Adrian turned the horse toward the woods. 
“Herne protect you both,” Tristan whispered, watching until 
they were lost to his sight. “I shall miss you.” 
*** 
“Finally!” the man exclaimed. “We have regained control 
of the game.” 
“Aye,” the woman said thoughtfully. “But for how long 
this time?” 
“’Tis my game. Things will progress just as we decided in 
the beginning. I will not let outside forces meddle again.” 
“You cannot control Lysira or Sardon,” the woman 
reminded him. “They have taken control from you before, and 
you were unable to stop them.” 
The man settled back in his golden chair and templed his 
fingers thoughtfully. “‘Twill not happen again.” 
“We shall see,” she said with a small smile. “We shall 
see.” 

TWENTY-FIVE
They had only gone a short distance when they heard 
hoofbeats, coming fast and headed in their direction. 
“They cannot have missed you yet,” said Tempest, worry 
and fear making her voice sound harsh in the stillness of the 
forest. If her father’s men were coming after them, she knew 
Adrian would not be able to fend them off. He needed time to 
heal. 
Adrian guided the horse deeper into the woods and stopped 
under a tall pine tree. They waited, deep in its shadows as the 
horseman came nearer. Their mount nickered softly and the 
rider drew up. Tempest held her breath, hoping, praying they 
would not be discovered. 
“Tempest?” Tristan spoke so softly she could barely hear 
him. 
“Tris?” They left their meager shelter. “What are you doing 
here?” 
“You forgot something.” He grinned. 
“I forgot nothing.” 
“Are you sure?” 
“Aye,” Adrian agreed. “We have each other, ’tis all we 
need.” 
“Then I guess I will just have to leave this here and hope it 
survives,” Tristan said, pulling a small wiggling bundle from 
his tunic. “I found him waiting by the stable door.” 
“Monster!” Tempest exclaimed as she reached for the 
kitten. He began purring as she took him into her arms, and 
she crooned soft love words to him. 
“Thank you, Tris. He would not have survived without my 
protection.” 

“I did not have time to search out any clothing for you, 
Adrian,” Tristan said. “My others are at the castle laundry. But 
you can take the horse I am riding for Tempest. It would be 
more comfortable.” 
“We can ride together,” Adrian answered, shaking his head. 
“It will keep us from getting separated in the dark.” 
“I will not ask where you are headed,” said Tristan. “’Tis 
better that I do not know.” He wheeled his steed and struck out 
for the castle without a backward glance. Behind him he 
dragged a pine branch to mask his tracks—and theirs. 
“He is a good man,” Adrian said, “and a true friend.” 
“Aye,” Tempest agreed with a sad smile. “He has ever been 
a good brother. I shall miss him. Will I never see him again, 
Adrian? I do not think I could bear that.” She rested her head 
against Adrian’s broad chest and sighed. She fervently hoped 
her brother would not suffer for this night’s deeds. 
“You will see him again, my love. I promise.” 
*** 
Tempest was weary. They had traveled nonstop throughout 
the night and most of the day. She was worried about Adrian. 
Several times during the last few hours he had almost fallen 
from the horse. They were both near the point of exhaustion 
and she knew they must stop soon to rest. Her whole body 
ached from the long ride, and her bottom felt like she had been 
beaten. She knew Adrian must feel far worse than she. 
“Adrian?” Her voice in the stillness of the forest made 
him start. “We must stop. I am so tired.” 
“I know, little one, but we will be there soon.” 
“There? Do you have a destination in mind? How can you 
know where we are?” She looked around, expecting to see a 
cottage or a village but saw only the tall evergreens, their 
branches heavy with snow. 
“I just know.” 
“Have you remembered something?” 
“Aye.” 
“Well then, tell me what you have remembered. Tell me 
where we are headed.” 
“We are going to my mother’s cottage.” Adrian was 

thankful that his mother preferred to use her human form most 
of the time. He would not have been able to explain to Tempest 
why they were going to a dragon’s cave since his mother had 
told him specifically not to tell Tempest anything. 
“You are driving me mad. You must tell me what you have 
recalled.” 
Tell her what he recalled? Nay, he could not tell her how 
he had grown up with a mother who insisted he use his human 
form when he much preferred being a dragon. Lysira had told 
him often that if they were to live among humans, then they 
must look and act like humans; and his father had insisted upon 
it. He could not tell her how her remembered soaring the 
heavens as a mighty dragon but had to become human whenever 
his mother and father were around. His mother had good reasons 
why he must not tell Tempest the truth of it all, he supposed, 
but Lysira surely had made his life difficult with her edict, and 
he really did wish he could tell his beloved Tempest everything. 
“Forgive me, little witch,” he sighed. “I can tell you no 
more.” Nay, he could not tell her the truth. Lysira had warned 
him. She must not know who—or what—he was. His mother 
must be obeyed. If Lysira had said nay, ’twas for a good reason. 
“And why not?” Now she was even more frustrated with 
his mysterious answers. “Do you not trust me?” 
“With all my heart, Tempest,” he declared. “I just cannot 
tell you more at this time. Please be patient. Trust me in this, 
my love. As I trust you.” 
Tempest was silent. She trusted Adrian as much as she 
loved him but knew she could never tell him that. She was still 
betrothed to William. Morality demanded she be released from 
that betrothal before she could declare her love for him. She 
sighed wearily and snuggled deeper into his arms. Would they 
never reach a safe place? Her head nodded as she drifted into 
sleep. 
“A’dryan.” 
The voice registered in Tempest’s mind, but she could not 
open her eyes. She was so tired! All she wanted to do was 
sleep. But the voices went on. 
“Mother.” 

Adrian’s voice this time. She knew she should be awake, 
listening, learning, but she just could not seem to open her 
eyes. “’Tis but a dream,” she mumbled as she drifted into deeper 
sleep. 
She dreamed. She dreamed she was in the strong arms of 
the man she loved more than life itself—a man she could not 
have. She cried out in her dream, but there was no answer. 
Adrian carried Tempest into the cottage. Memories flooded 
over him as he laid her gently on the bed; his mother’s bed, 
covered with soft furs, a place of warmth and safety, a place 
where he had played as a small child and listened to his father’s 
stories. He looked around the cottage as those memories 
returned in a rush. 
He walked over to the huge fireplace. The warmth felt so 
good. The cauldron full of savory- smelling food bubbled 
merrily, making his mouth water. His father’s chair sat near 
the hearth, and he ran his hands over the smooth wood, 
remembering, seeing Damien once again, smiling, watching 
Lysira as she busied herself with her herbs. 
“Has she been injured?” Lysira asked, drawing him quickly 
back to the present. 
“Nay,” he answered. “She is simply exhausted. She is 
grieving the woman who was more than friend. I do not believe 
she has had much rest since it happened. I was in the dungeon 
and she helped me. It has been too much for her.” 
As he turned to face his mother, she could read the 
exhaustion and pain written clearly on his pale face. “You have 
grown taller in the past fortnight, my son,” she said as she 
looked closely at him. “You have been beaten?” 
“Aye,” he answered tersely. “They did their worst.” 
“Take off that cape and let me see to your healing.” 
“Nay, Mother,” he blushed hotly. “I wear no clothes under 
this fine woolen cape.” 
“Since when do you feel the need to hide your body from 
your mother?” Lysira asked with a smile, then frowned. “You 
grow too human.” 
“Aye, Mother, I am human. I cannot change to my rightful 
form. I have tried...and failed.” 

“Try again. Now,” she commanded. 
Adrian closed his eyes and concentrated. He pictured 
himself as a huge golden dragon, tried to feel leathery, golden 
wings upon his back, tried to remember how the scales had 
felt, how they had protected him as he flew, as he fought other 
dragons. He held his breath. He clenched his fists. His face 
grew red with the effort. 
“Stop,” Lysira spoke softly. “You cannot change. Your form 
has been changed by other than dragon magic. You will stay in 
this body until the reason for this change has become apparent.” 
“Then you change me!” 
“I cannot. ’Tis beyond my ken.” 
“You have seen two hundred winters, Mother. You must 
know what to do!” 
“I know you need a bath.” She wrinkled her nose. “You 
stink.” 
Adrian’s shoulders slumped with dejection. He knew Lysira 
would help him if there was anything she could do. 
“I have no clothes,” he complained. “What good to bathe 
if there is nothing clean for me to wear?” 
“A’dryan Westbrooke...” She looked him sternly in the eyes, 
and Adrian knew any more objections would only earn her 
wrath. He hung his head. 
She turned, walked to the far side of the room and opened 
a large chest which sat beneath shelves laden with bottles of 
dried herbs, potions and tinctures. 
“’Tis father’s chest.” His voice held shock. No one had 
ever opened that chest except his father. 
She made no comment as she rummaged around, then lifted 
something out of the chest and turned to him. “These should 
fit,” she said. “You look to be about his size now.” She handed 
him a bundle. “Go to the creek and bathe whilst I see to a meal. 
You will need much food to heal.” 
“’Tis cold outside!” 
“A’dryan!” 
Adrian went to the creek. 
The frigid water stung the lash marks on his body—some 
had cut the skin deeply—but it also soothed his bruises. He 

spent a long time in the creek, letting it wash away the pain, 
but he soon grew chilled, and his skin had taken on a bluish 
cast. He reluctantly left the water to dry himself and dress. He 
noticed absently that Lysira had given him some of his father’s 
better clothes. There was also a pair of knee-high, black leather 
boots at which he frowned, but, seeing that his feet were bluer 
than the rest of his body, decided it best to cover them—at 
least until he returned to the cottage. 
“I am sure I never had this problem when I was a dragon. 
I have never seen a dragon wearing anything on his feet. If I 
were a dragon now I would not have to wear these...things,” he 
muttered as he pulled the boots over his big feet. “They fit,” he 
said with surprise. “And these do not hurt. Mayhap ’tis not so 
bad to cover my feet. At least in winter,” he admitted 
begrudgingly. “Or at least until I can become dragon again.” 
*** 
Monster’s furry head butting persistently against her chin 
woke Tempest. She stroked him absently. 
“You really are a monster,” she complained. “I was having 
such a nice dream. Adrian was kissing my cheek, but it was 
only you, you silly little thing.” She smiled as she held him up 
to look into his green eyes. He sagged in her hands and purred, 
making Tempest laugh. She kissed his head and cuddled him 
close to her heart. 
But where was she? Had they reached Adrian’s mother’s 
cottage? Adrian. Where was Adrian? He had been hurt, and 
she had fallen asleep without seeing to his needs. She sat up 
quickly and looked frantically around for him. Tempest was 
deeply shamed; she was a healer, her first thoughts should have 
been for his welfare, not her need for rest. 
“Adrian?” She was sitting in a big, comfortable feather 
bed with softly woven coverlets and even softer furs. She threw 
back the covers and moved to the edge of the bed but quickly 
realized she had no clothes on. She pulled one of the cotton 
covers free and wrapped it loosely around her. Had Adrian 
removed her clothing? She blushed at the thought, and a strange 
heat burned in the depths of her body as her imagination took 
flight. She pictured the look on his face as he uncovered each 

secret she hid beneath her clothing, his eyes slightly glazed. 
She remembered dreaming of sweet, stolen kisses—kisses that 
had bruised her lips, making them sensitive and alive. She 
imagined his strong fingers lightly caressing her breast. The 
warmth spread like wildfire throughout her body, coming to 
rest, low and pulsing, in her most private place. 
Monster meowed, plummeting her back to reality. 
A curtain had been drawn around the bed. She parted it 
and stepped into a large room. Drying herbs hung in bunches 
from the high ceiling; shelves containing precious glass bottles 
and flasks, all filled to the brim with dried plants or thick 
liquids, lined the walls. A long wooden table stood in the center 
of the room, a large, recently used wash tub upon it. A fireplace 
at one end of the rectangular room contained a huge cauldron, 
its bubbling contents filling the room with the rich odor of 
venison stew. A comfortable-looking chair sat near the hearth. 
Two clothing chests stood near the bed, one stained with black 
walnut, the other made of rare mahogany, its rich red color 
glowing in the firelight. 
Tempest moved to inspect the chest, Monster trailing after 
her batting playfully at the hem of her makeshift gown. 
The black chest was carved with scenes of knightly battle. 
Every one depicted a larger-than-life knight riding a huge 
destrier vanquishing a deadly foe. She shivered and stepped 
away from the chest. Tempest did not like fighting or killing. 
Her chosen field was healing and the saving of lives, not the 
taking of them. The mahogany chest, on the other hand, was 
more to her liking. It too, was carved, but not with scenes of 
domesticity as she had expected. The chest contained only three 
scenes. All three pictures featured a gold-inlaid dragon. 
The first scene was of the dragon in a field of flowers. A 
black knight knelt before it. His sword lay before him as he 
offered his oath of fealty to the ferocious-looking beast. His 
face glowed with utter devotion as he gazed boldly upon the 
glittering golden dragon. 
In the second panel, the same dragon was pictured under a 
huge oak tree in deep woods. A storm raged overhead. but it 
was strangely calm under the oak. The tiny figure of a serving 

woman stood facing the dragon, and a silver glow emanated 
from a small hole in the ground between the two figures. 
The third scene held her interest the longest. It was more 
detailed and violent. In the sky were two dragons, one black 
and one gold. The black dragon radiated an evil older than 
time, and she shuddered as she looked at it. The golden dragon 
was different from the earlier scenes and, upon closer 
examination, she realized that this was not the same dragon. It 
was bigger and more muscular. The dragon in the other pictures 
was female, she realized. This dragon was male. Clearly this 
was a fight to the death. On the ground below the horrific battle 
were two figures. A woman leaned heavily against a tall knight 
dressed in black armor. The knight stood, his arms a protective 
shield around her as he too watched the battle raging overhead. 
On the ground beside them lay a woman, her eyes closed in 
death. 
Tempest felt the power of the scene, felt drawn to the drama 
etched upon the chest before her, knew she needed to 
understand. She called upon the power within as she reached 
to touch the golden dragon. It felt warm, pulsing with life. Magic 
was here. Dragon magic. It flowed from the carved dragon 
into her hand, up her arm and into her heart. 
She drew her hand back, took a deep breath and swallowed 
hard. “No,” she said, her voice shaking, “I will not swoon.” 
*** 
“The battle,” the woman said, catching her breath sharply. 
“There should be more dragons. The Legend...” 
“’Tis just pretty carving on a chest, m’dear,” he said, 
patting her hand absently. “’Tis not the prophesy after all.” 
“But what does it portend?” She turned to him, worry 
etching lines upon her gentle brow. “Have we been wrong?” 
“Never!” He stiffened and looked away. “Look at who 
and what we are. Lysira is nothing compared to us. She is not 
immortal.” 
“Is she not immortal?” the woman asked quietly. “Are 
not dragons immortal?” 
The man gave her no answer as he gazed thoughtfully 
into the glowing crystal before him. 


TWENTY-SIX
“They are beautiful are they not?” 
Tempest jumped at the sound of Adrian’s voice. 
“The black one belongs to my father, the other is my 
mother’s.” 
His arm stole softly around her waist, and she leaned into 
his embrace, much like the two figures watching the battling 
dragons. His big warm body, holding her so gently, made her 
feel safe and protected, a feeling she wished could last forever. 
His hand brushed her breast, and her heart beat a 
wild tattoo. Coherent thought fled. She could only feel. 
“Adrian,” she gasped, unable to say more. His warm lips 
nuzzled her neck, and her knees grew weak. 
“Adrian.” Lysira’s voice broke the enchantment, and 
they pulled away from each other, faces red with 
embarrassment and no little guilt. “I am sure Tempest is 
hungry.” 
“Aye, Mother.” A mischievous grin spread across 
his handsome face as he gazed into Tempest’s moss-green 
eyes. ”I am sure she is very...hungry.” 
Tempest lowered her head to hide the hot blush which 
spread across her delicate cheeks. 
His smile grew and he could not resist teasing her. “You 
look quite fetching in your new gown little witch,” he leered 
as his eyes traveled boldly down her body, barely covered by 
the thin sheet of woven cotton. “And I would love to feed your 
hunger,” he whispered in her ear. 
“Adrian Westbrooke.” Lysira’s voice was stern. ”You told 
me she is betrothed. Your behavior is unseemly.” 
Her words were a dash of icy water to his teasing, and he 

turned to his mother. “Aye, Mother. She has been betrothed, 
but she will be mine. ’Tis but a gentle tease for a comely maiden. 
Nothing more.” He hoped his mother would let the subject 
drop. It had felt so good to just hold Tempest in his arms. He 
did not want to lose the easiness between them. It had been far 
too long since there had been any laughter or love when they 
were together. 
“Lysira?” Tempest finally noticed the woman standing in 
the doorway. ”You are Adrian’s mother?” 
“Aye,” she smiled in her son’s direction. ”’Tis I who 
brought the scoundrel into the world.” 
Tempest smiled at the thought of Adrian as a scoundrel. 
Lysira knew her son well and she did not look any older than 
when Tempest had first met her at the creek when she was only 
thirteen-years-old. She was still a beautiful woman. Tempest 
hoped she looked as well when her children were grown. 
If she lived that long after what she had done. Helping 
Adrian escape...Goddess, how angry her father would be when 
he discovered her part in freeing Adrian. But he was innocent 
of Miriam’s murder, of that she was certain. 
A deep sadness enveloped her as she thought of Miriam 
never seeing her children. She missed her so. ”But you are too 
young to have a son grown,” she said with a smile. 
“Not according to him,” Lysira answered with a frown. 
“He seems to think I am older than time itself.” 
Adrian backed away, raising his hands as if to ward off 
physical blows. “I but mentioned your years,” he said, a look 
of childlike innocence on his face. “I offered no disrespect. 
You have lived long.” 
“Never you mind, Adrian,” Lysira said with a warning 
shake of her head. “’Tis almost time to eat. Come Tempest, I 
have a tunic and surcoat I believe will fit you. Adrian, go outside 
and wash before we sup.” 
“I just washed at the creek,” he complained. “’Tis 
cold outside!” 
“Wash again,” Lysira insisted tersely. 
“But...” 
“Adrian. You are a man grown. Act like one.” 

She was fast losing patience and Adrian knew it. He made 
no further argument as he left the room muttering under his 
breath. 
“You have made him angry,” Tempest noted as the door 
slammed behind him. 
“Nay, most likely ’tis embarrassment. Adrian angers 
rarely.” Lysira opened the mahogany chest. “He is generally 
sweet-tempered, but things seem to have gotten out of hand in 
the past three months. He does not know how to handle it all.” 
She handed Tempest a pale blue, silk undertunic. 
Tempest unwound the cotton blanket from her slim body 
and drew the tunic over her head. It glided over her like a gentle 
rain. The silk felt cool and soft against her skin. “I had a chemise 
made of this material once,” she said quietly. Her lip trembled 
as she spoke. “’Twas given to me by a woman I loved as a 
mother. Nay, more than a mother. She was my friend and 
teacher.” 
“She has passed on?” 
“Aye. She was murdered.” Tempest closed her eyes, trying 
to erase the memory of Adrian standing over Miriam’s body— 
of the blood staining her lifeless chest, of the sword hanging 
limply in his hand. She looked at Lysira, and the pain flooded 
over her. 
“Sardon di Mercia killed her,” she said flatly, “with 
Adrian’s sword. 
“You shed no tears for your friend?” 
“Witches cannot cry.” 
“Everyone can cry if their pain is deep enough.” Lysira 
lifted Tempest’s chin with one gentle finger. “Even dragons 
cry at the loss of a loved one.” 
“Dragons are fearsome creatures. They have no feelings. 
They cannot cry.” 
“Do you know this to be true?” Lysira looked at her intently 
as she spoke. “Have you met a dragon?” 
“Aye, once I did meet a dragon. He was all gold 
and beautiful.” 
“ And did you speak with this beast?” 
“Aye.” 

“And was he a fearsome creature, with no feelings?” 
“Nay, he was gentle, and he laughed. He made me feel 
safe.” 
“Then do not say they cannot cry.” Lysira turned back to 
the chest, bringing out a cobalt blue surcoat, dark as dusk. She 
handed it to Tempest. “You must not judge any of The Mother’s 
children, Tempest, until you have seen the truth with your own 
eyes.” 
Dragons. How did the subject of dragons come to be when 
they had been speaking of Miriam, she wondered. 
Adrian’s noisy entrance brought her back to the present, 
and she quickly donned the soft woolen surcoat. Lysira handed 
her a wide silver girdle, and she fastened it around her waist. 
“I am hungry,” Adrian announced as he sat at the table. 
“And clean,” he added with a big smile. “Even behind my ears.” 
“See, Tempest?” Lysira’s eyes twinkled with merriment, 
all seriousness banished as though it had never been. “Did I 
not tell you he was a good boy?” 
“You said I was a scoundrel,” Adrian chided as he reached 
for a freshly baked loaf of heavy wheaten bread. He broke off 
a chunk from the loaf, stuffed it in his mouth and paid them no 
more attention as he chewed with great gusto. 
The food was delicious, and Tempest ate her fill. As she 
looked at Adrian, she was amazed to see him still eating. Never 
in the short time she had known him had she seen him eat quite 
so much. Still he continued to eat. 
“Adrian!” she exclaimed in disbelief. “You will surely burst 
if you eat more. We did not starve you at my father’s manse, 
and it has not been...” Then she remembered how long he had 
been held in that dank, musty dungeon. “Did they not feed 
you in all the time you were imprisoned?” 
“The guards were busy with other things,” he answered 
around a mouth full of food. 
“You had no food for days.” Her voice was flat, barely 
containing her anger. “’Tis cruel beyond reason.” 
“’Tis of no import.” He took a big gulp of ale. “I have 
gone much longer without food. I am no worse for skipping a 
few repasts.” 

“You were beaten and starved. ’Tis unjust treatment, no 
matter the crime.” 
“’Tis finished, little witch. Mother rubbed ointment on the 
wounds while you slept. ’Twas but a few paltry scratches. I 
am only hungry from that cold bath in the creek.” He grinned 
at Lysira. “And the extra washing so I could finally eat.” 
“You had more than scratches.” Tempest went to him 
to check his back. “I need to see for myself that you are well.” 
She touched the shiny black shirt he wore. The material was 
soft, slippery silk and black as the deepest night. 
Adrian rose from the table to tower over her. “You wish 
me to remove my clothing?” he asked as he reached for the 
silver girdle surrounding his slim waist. A smile crossed his 
face, and she noticed a twinkle in his azure eyes. “I am always 
happy to do as a beautiful lady commands.” 
“Adrian,” Lysira warned. 
*** 
“They seem happy,” the woman observed as she brushed 
a raven-dark curl from her face. “But I worry that L’sira will 
tell her the truth.” 
“She will not,” the man answered as he reached for the 
heavy golden goblet of mead. “She will do what is in the best 
interests of that son of hers.” 
“They needs must return to the castle,” mused the woman. 
“Sardon needs to be dealt with, and they cannot do it if they 
are hiding in the woods.” She too sipped at her sweet mead, 
nectar of the gods. 
“I will allow them to stay there for a fortnight or so, then 
they shall return to the castle. They need a rest from what has 
passed.” 
“Will she be a maiden still when they return, I wonder?” 
She slyly glanced at him. 
“Of course she will,” he replied as he lounged in his chair. 
“L’sira is not addled. She knows it is not yet time. See how she 
dissipates the heat that flows so quickly between them?” 
The woman reached for his hand and drew soft circles in 
his palm with her long nails. Her brown eyes grew smoky as 
she gazed into his. 

He swallowed visibly but did not withdraw his hand. 
The crystal glowed, but they paid it no heed as heated 
looks passed between them. 

TWENTY-SEVEN 
A warm breeze ruffled Tempest’s hair as she sat on 
the boulder. Perched high on a hillside, she could see most of 
the valley and the huge, ancient forest that covered it from end 
to end. A tiny ribbon of water sparkled with sunlight as it wound 
its way through the thick woods. She sighed. Adrian was 
probably bathing in the deep pool he had claimed as his own. 
She reflected on his newfound love of the water since the 
weather had turned warm. She could not blame him—she too 
loved to bathe in the hidden pool. She wished that she had 
the courage to join him. He had asked. 
She could picture his strong, male body as he swam. She 
had watched him once, when the weather had first turned warm. 
It was a sight that would linger forever in her memory. The sun 
had glistened off his strong limbs as he cut smoothly through 
the sparkling blue water. His skin reflected the sun and turned 
a deep golden hue. His long blond hair, darkened by wetness, 
was a rich, burnished gold, the muscles in his arm were like 
powerful bands of steel as he cut so easily through the water; 
his laughter was joyful as he dove deep, then burst back into 
the bright light of day. 
But she could not join him. She was betrothed to William 
Mirabelle. She had agreed to the betrothal, had made her vow, 
and she could not break it, no matter how she felt. No matter 
how much she loved her golden god, she could not offer him 
her promise, nor tell him of her love. She wished with all her 
heart that she could tell Adrian how she loved him. She wished 
she could tell him how her body burned whenever he touched 
her, how her heart ached to say the words. But she could not. 
She was betrothed. She was promised. 

She was miserable. 
Tempest tucked her knees up under her chin and laid her 
head on her arms. How wonderful it would be to be able to 
shed tears—to cry, to sob, to wail away her misery—but she 
could not. Lysira said witches were just like everyone else. 
She said they could cry, but Tempest knew better. She had not 
been able to cry for her beloved Miriam. She had not been able 
to cry when Tristan’s mother, Sarah, had died screaming out 
her agony from the terrible disease that had eaten away at her 
insides. She had no tears and never had, not even as a child. 
They were a blessing the gods had never bestowed upon her. 
Lysira could see the dejection in the slump of the girl’s 
body. Tempest should not be so sad. ’Twas a beautiful day and 
she knew the young woman was in love with Adrian. ’Twas 
plain to see whenever she looked at him. The love shown from 
her and made her glow with an inner beauty. 
“Tempest?” Lysira laid her hand on Tempest’s shoulder. 
“Go away. Please. “Tempest’s voice was muffled. “I am not 
fit company.” 
“What is it, sweetling?” asked Lysira, worry evident in her 
words. “What can I do to help?” 
“Nothing.” She looked up, and Lysira took an involuntary 
step back. The pain in the girl’s eyes tore at her heart. 
Lysira sat beside her, and, putting an arm around her, she 
gently pulled Tempest’s head to rest upon her shoulder. “Tell 
me,” she said. 
“It hurts,” Tempest said dully. “I cannot stop the pain. I 
cannot cry. I have tried. There are no tears.” 
“There are tears,” said Lysira calmly. “You have not been 
able to cry for a good reason. A witch’s tears are a powerful 
magical tool. When those tears are needed, they will be there.” 
“But I need them now!” 
“Nay, dearest. If you needed them now, they would 
be here.” 
Tempest was quiet in Lysira’s arms for a long time. 
“Lysira? It has all happened just like you read in the cards 
on my eighteenth birthday. The tower, the lovers. Is death 
coming soon for me?” 

“Death comes when it is time, sweetling. There is no need 
to worry over it now.” Lysira was silent, thinking how best to 
explain the card of death to this very young maiden. Finally 
she cleared her throat and spoke. 
“Do you remember what the card of death looked like?” 
“Aye,” Tempest tried to swallow around the lump in her 
throat. ”’Twas a figure in a hooded cape, carrying a bloody 
scythe. A skeleton lay at his feet. All around was death. ’Twas 
a horrible card!” Shudders wracked her slight body. 
“Death is an end,” Lysira explained. “But it can also be a 
beginning.” 
“How so? When you die, you are no more.” 
“Not always. Some die only to be reborn into a better life. 
Sometimes a way of life dies to give way to something better, 
as old habits die to give way to new and better habits. 
Sometimes the death card signifies the death of a loved one.” 
“Will Adrian die?” Tempest’s eyes grew wide, her face 
pale as she visualized how desolate life would be without him. 
She felt as if he had always been a part of her life. “I could not 
live if he were to die. I would not wish to.” 
“Adrian will live long yet.” Lysira smiled tenderly at the 
glow of love on Tempest’s face. “Why would you think he 
would die?” 
“Because I love him more than life itself. And that is the 
problem. You see, I can never have him, for I am betrothed and 
cannot break my vow. I promised my father and I promised 
William. I can find no other way for us to be together.” 
“There is always another way, child.” 
“If only there were,” said Tempest quietly. “If only there 
were.” 
*** 
Adrian stood beside the pool. He remembered how it had 
felt to be a dragon, how it felt to soar the skies on strong, leathery 
wings. He remembered the feel of power coursing through his 
body, how the fire had built deep within his belly, then spewed, 
white-hot and blazing, toward an enemy. He remembered...Oh, 
how he remembered! 
He closed his eyes, trying to recapture those sensations. 

He held his breath, trying to create the fire deep within. He 
raised his arms, visualizing dragon wings, long and powerful. 
The pain began behind his eyes and radiated outward 
to encompass him. It grew intense. Lights flashed— 
cobalt, viridian, scarlet, gold. He gasped, clutched his throbbing 
head and fell to his knees, panting heavily. An involuntary sob 
escaped as he fell to Earth. He lay on his back and opened his 
eyes. 
Lacy white clouds floated in a cerulean sky, birds sang 
from high treetops, the nearby stream bubbled merrily to its 
final home—and Adrian Westbrooke was still human. 
He swore and threw his anger—like blazing bolts 
of lightning—to the heavens. He begged, he beseeched the gods 
to return him to his natural form, but there was no response. 
The world was oblivious to his torment. Exhaustion and 
depression swept through him like a raging inferno and he 
slept. 
*** 
Soft, feminine laughter floated around him as Adrian 
opened the door. Lysira and Tempest were busy at the table, 
various herbs and oils arrayed before them. Neither woman 
noticed his entrance, and he had a moment to study them. His 
mother was a beautiful woman, he realized. Her golden mane 
was pulled back from her face and anchored high on the back 
of her head. Several tendrils had escaped their confines to curl 
around her face and down to her shoulder. Her surcoat and 
tunic were sky-blue and matched her eyes; the gold girdle 
encircling her waist enhanced her still slim figure. 
Tempest, in her forest green tunic, resembled a wood 
nymph, her red hair like a blazing sunset on a cool autumn 
day. It cascaded down to her waist in riotous abandon. He ached 
to run his fingers through it, to feel its silky softness, to feel its 
fire, to breathe deep of her own special scent of woman-child 
and violets. His heart beat faster and he felt a stirring in his 
loins, a yearning to bury himself deeply in her soft, warm body, 
to forget for a short while his misery. Tempest was a balm 
which could soothe his troubled spirit. 
She was looking at him, emerald eyes full of 

concern. ”Adrian?” Her hand reached out as she circled the 
table to stand before him. “You are in pain.” 
“Nay,” he answered. How is it she always knows when my 
spirit is sore? We are bonded but I do not know how. Humans 
and dragons do not bond. Except... He looked at Lysira. Father 
is human... Thought fled as Tempest’s hand lightly caressed 
his cheek. 
“Are you worried about what happened at the manse?” 
“Your father will come for you.” 
“Aye. He will find us eventually.” 
“Will you go with him? Will you leave me?” He held his 
breath as he awaited her reply. 
“I must return, Adrian. I am to wed William this spring.” 
“I will kill William,” he said flatly. “Then you will be free 
to be my bride. I love you, Tempest. Does that mean nothing to 
you? Is my love so unimportant?” 
“Your love means more to me than you will ever know,” 
she whispered. “But I must wed William. I made a promise.” 
“Promises can be revoked!” he said angrily. “You love me. 
I know you do. Can you not even tell me you love me?” 
She lowered her hand and turned from him, looking at 
Lysira. 
She could give him no answer. She could not tell him of 
her love. 
“Adrian,” said Lysira. “She has made her vow. She cannot 
break it.” 
“’Tis wrong, Mother.” The words tore from his throat, 
agony rang in his voice. “’Tis horribly wrong.” He stalked from 
the cottage. 
The hard slam of the door echoed through Tempest’s heart 
and she sank to a chair, head bowed in dejection. 
*** 
“We must kill William Mirabelle,” the woman 
stated angrily. “She loves A’dryan now. Get rid of the 
obstacles.” 
“William is a good man.” The man looked deeply into her 
angry eyes. “Would you kill a good man just to make them 
happy?” 

“Nay, ’twould be wrong.” The woman was contrite. “Find 
William someone else to wed!” she offered, eyes aglow. 
“And just where would we find another for him to wed?” 
“I know not,” she snapped. “You are the gamemaster. You 
find her.” 
“Well,” he said, rubbing his chin thoughtfully, “there is 
Lady Agatha of Cantaleer.” 
“She is betrothed to Devon of Mackabee.” 
“I must think upon this,” he said. 

TWENTY-EIGHT 
“Tempest,” said Lysira, “you must concentrate.” 
“I cannot.” Tempest looked at Adrian sitting nearby, idly 
whittling a piece of wood. He had not spoken to her since their 
argument the night before. She felt the pain of his hurt and 
anger but knew there was nothing she could do to assuage it. 
She did not want to marry William. She held no love for him, 
but she had no choice. Promises had been made, the decision 
was out of her hands. But William was old. Maybe Adrian 
could be convinced to wait... 
I will wait, said Adrian wordlessly. 
“What?” He could not have spoken the words aloud. Could 
he now read her thoughts as well as her pain? 
“I will wait for you to decide not to marry 
William Mirabelle,” he continued. “I will wait for you to realize 
your love for me. But I will not wait forever, Tempest.” The 
warning was clear in his eyes. He tossed the carving onto the 
woodpile and left the clearing in front of the cottage, tucking 
his knife securely into its sheath. 
Curious, Tempest retrieved the carving from the huge pile 
of wood. ’Twas a perfect replica of herself. Every curl of her 
hair was lovingly rendered. The unclothed body was 
voluptuous, making her wonder if this was how he saw her. 
She did not think her body so beautiful. He had carved her face 
with a soft smile, as if it were lit with an inner light, the way 
she wished she could look at him. ’Twas a token of love—and 
he had tossed it casually upon a woodpile. 
She held the exquisite carving next to her aching heart and 
whispered, “I do love you, Adrian. More than life itself.” With 
a sigh, she carefully settled the small figure deep inside her 

pocket. 
“If you let everything distract you, Tempest, you will never 
master your techniques.” Lysira’s voice brought her back to 
the task at hand. 
“I am sorry.” She tried to remember what lesson Lysira 
had been teaching. Lifting her hand, she pointed at a nearby 
tree and concentrated. A thin line of fire arced from the end of 
her finger. A tree branch began to smolder, then burst into 
flame. 
“Very good,” said Lysira. “Now put the fire out.” 
“I do not know how.” 
“Concentrate. Picture the element of water—soft, cool, 
soothing.” 
Tempest pictured water in her mind, a gently flowing 
stream, swirling around the branch, cooling it, dousing the fire. 
The branch smoldered, and the fire died. 
“Now heal it.” 
“Heal it?” 
“Aye, heal the tree. ’Tis a living thing, and you have caused 
it injury. You must heal that injury.” Lysira was patient. “The 
spirit within the tree is your friend, and you must cause it no 
harm lest that harm be returned to you.” 
“But how can that be?” asked Tempest. “We use firewood. 
We kill animals to eat and grow plants to feed ourselves and 
for healing. Is that not harming them?” 
“Trees are sacred to us, Tempest. We use only 
windfall branches for burning. If we needs must take from a 
living tree, we always ask the tree for permission and explain 
why we do what we do. The tree spirits are kind. They will aid 
us whenever possible. Go to the tree and touch it.” 
Tempest did as she was bid. 
“Close your eyes,” said Lysira. “Lean into the tree and 
empty your mind. Listen.” 
Tempest closed her eyes. A feeling of peace came over her. 
Her knees grew weak as she felt her worries drift from her, but 
she stayed against the smooth bark of the willow, and listened. 
A gentle breeze flowed around her. She felt the caress of 
the leaves as they brushed her face, felt the loving spirit of the 

tree embrace her. A sweet voice wafted into her mind. 
Learn, Child of Light. A loving mother’s voice filled her 
heart. Listen well to the golden one for you will soon be tested. 
“Who...what are you?” Tempest whispered. 
I am the spirit of the tree. I am the guardian of the forest, 
the friend to all humanity, would they but know and listen. We 
will always be here for you, Child of Light. You must only 
touch us and we will bring you peace. 
Tempest opened her eyes and looked at Lysira. “I spoke 
with her,” she said, her voice filled with wonder. “I spoke with 
the tree spirit. She is so kind and so loving. I...I must heal the 
hurt I have caused her.” 
Closing her eyes, Tempest ran her hands along the tree’s 
smooth bark. She opened her mind to the tree spirit once again. 
She felt the love but, this time, she also felt its pain and sorrow 
at what she had done. “I am so sorry,” she whispered, “I did 
not understand.” 
Tempest drew power from deep within her soul. She opened 
her green eyes, so like the moss growing on the branches of 
that gentle spirit. Slowly she let the power flow—gentle, loving, 
healing power. 
As she watched, the wounded tree healed. The branches 
again became green and healthy. New leaves sprouted and grew 
to maturity, to her wonder and delight. 
Thank you, Child of Light, for that is truly what you are. 
“There are many more lessons to learn, Tempest, and we 
have not much time. Come. Let me teach you.” Lysira held out 
her hand, and Tempest took it. 
*** 
Violets. Tempest loved violets more than any other flower. 
She always selected the sweet-smelling spring flowers for her 
own special scent. She cupped one tiny blossom in her hand. 
“Sweet flower of love,” she whispered, “may I pick you to 
make my perfume?” 
She waited, then, deep in her heart, she knew she had 
permission. She also knew that she must take only a portion of 
these flowers and move on to others so they would be able to 
make more blooms next spring. She nibbled on a few blossoms 

as she carefully picked them, enjoying their special flavor, 
knowing they would help keep spring colds at bay and maintain 
her vitality. 
The past seven days had been busy. Lysira taught 
her something new every day, and it was exciting to see just 
how far she could extend her natural abilities. 
The only blot on her happiness was Adrian. He had barely 
spoken to her, had not touched her nor teased her, though she 
had caught him watching her intently several times. He was 
waiting, she knew, but she could not yield. She was still 
betrothed to William and would not break that promise. 
She wished, oh how she wished, that she could just 
magically fly away with Adrian and leave the world and its 
troubles behind. 
But ’twas impossible. Witches could not really fly. Only 
birds and dragons flew and she was certainly neither— even if 
she had been called “Dragon Witch” by a few fearful servants 
and peasants. 
A snort nearby. A horse. They had long since sent Tristan’s 
horse home. There were no horses in the woods. She must hide. 
But where? She picked up her basket and fled from the sound, 
scurrying for the safety of the forest. Why, oh why had she 
strayed so far from the cottage? 
“Tempest.” ’Twas William’s voice. She ran faster, 
frantically searching for a way to escape, but suddenly there 
were horses all around her. She tried to dodge around a huge, 
piebald destrier but it would not let her by. She knew better 
than to touch a warhorse; they were extensions of the knights 
who rode them, and were trained to kill. She backed away 
slowly, her eyes filled with fear. 
Her foot hit a stone, and her basket tumbled from her hands 
as she tried in vain to keep her balance. As she struck the 
ground, she felt a searing pain in her head, then knew nothing 
as darkness descended. 
“Tempest!” Tristan vaulted from his horse. She was lying 
so still. He pushed steeds away, trying to reach her before she 
was trampled, but only caused more confusion as the men 
around him tried to control their mounts. He threw himself 

over her inert body, to protect her. 
“Is she hurt?” William asked as soon as the horses 
were under control. “Tristan?” 
Tristan rose to his knees and looked at his little sister. She 
was lying on her back, eyes closed, her face pale and lifeless, 
but he could see she was still breathing. Crimson blood covered 
a rock near her head. 
“Tempest?” He touched her face gently but there was 
no response. He checked her for broken bones but could find 
none, then turned her carefully to examine her head. 
She had a large, nasty-looking gash on the back of her 
skull. He tore a large strip off his tunic and wound it around 
her head, then lifted her in his arms. 
“If she dies, you will rue this day,” he vowed, glaring at 
the man whose horse had routed her. 
“Tristan,” William interjected, “you cannot fault the man. 
He had control of his steed. He is my knight. I stand for him.” 
“Then you too will rue this day,” Tristan said between 
clenched teeth. He carried Tempest carefully to his horse. 
“Let me carry her, Tristan,” said William. “I am stronger. 
‘Twill be easier for me to ride with her.” 
“The devil take you!” Tristan yelled. “’Tis your fault she 
was hurt. I will not have you touch her.” He recruited one 
of Wendall’s guard to hold her while he mounted, then 
cradled her gently in his arms as they rode slowly back to 
Castle Windhaven. 
*** 
“She has learned much from L’sira,” the man 
said thoughtfully. “Why did she not use her powers to 
escape?” 
“She was frightened,” answered the woman softly. “She is 
young and easily distracted.” 
“Young, aye.” The man rose and began to pace the floor. 
“But she is a witch with great powers—a dragon witch.” 
“She will use them. Just be patient. She does not yet know 
her true power.” The woman sat quietly in her huge carved 
chair, watching the man’s agitated pacing. ”You seem overly 
worried, my dear. Are you, by chance, becoming involved with 

your game pieces?” 
“They are living people,” he growled. “Or have you 
not noticed?” 
“I have long since noticed.” Her smile was wide. “I just 
wondered when you would.” 

TWENTY-NINE 
The pain was atrocious. Her head felt like an anvil suffering 
the blacksmith’s hammer. Lights pulsed behind her closed 
eyelids. Her body was being jounced, and water was dripping 
on her face. In all, it was a terrible way to wake up. She tried 
to retreat back into another, more comfortable place and 
groaned with the effort. 
“Tempest?” Tristan’s voice sounded worried, but she did 
not care. The pain in her head was more than she could bear, 
and she sought oblivion once again. 
“Tempest, wake up. Open your eyes. Please.” 
More pain. Pulsing lights. Tempest tried to brush the water 
from her face but could not move her arm; it was too heavy. 
She had to escape the pain, the pain that radiated from the 
back of her head to join with the pulsing lights behind her 
eyes. Darkness. The darkness would take her away. It had 
before. The darkness was her friend. It enveloped her in its 
loving arms. 
“Tempest? Little sister?” 
Again Tristan’s voice disturbed her, but she could not 
answer. Her head hurt abominably and the darkness was so 
soothing. For the third time she eluded her brother’s intruding 
voice. But this time the darkness held no peace. This time there 
was danger—menacing, threatening—looming over her. A 
distant red light grew in the blackness. It came closer. A shape 
formed in the light, a familiar, deadly figure. Sardon! She could 
feel his presence, smell the musty odor. 
But it was not Sardon di Mercia who stood before her in 
the velvet blackness. It was a dragon, black as a midnight sky, 
magnetic red eyes pulling her toward death, or something worse. 
Red eyes impaling her with their hatred. Red eyes draining her 
soul, her power... 

Her power! With great effort, Tempest lifted her arm and 
pointed at the beast. White flames shot from her fingertips, 
enveloping the evil before her. There was a scream of rage...and 
pain. Thick gray smoke emerged from the dragon. Its form 
faded, red eyes growing dim. A voice whispered from the 
darkness. 
“You have learned much, witch. You shall be a fitting 
mate.” 
“Never,” she screamed at the horror. 
“Tempest? Wake. Please.” The voice pulled her. Strong 
arms cradled her gently. She opened her eyes to see Tristan’s 
worried face. 
“Tris,” she whispered. “What happened?” 
He gently wiped her face with a soft cloth. She felt wet 
and looked to the gray skies above. A soft, gentle rain misted 
everything. She closed her eyes, relishing the soothing coolness, 
enjoying the gentle, rocking movements of the horse. 
“You stumbled and hit your head on a rock. We have been 
riding for two days and are almost home.” 
“Home?” 
“Aye. Home.” 
“But where is Adrian...and Lysira?” She was confused. 
“Why are we going home? I do not wish to go back to 
Windhaven, Tris. I want to stay with Adrian.” 
“You cannot. You are to wed William in a fortnight. 
Remember?” 
“Nay, I do not love him.” She struggled to be free of his 
encompassing arms, but he held her tightly. “LET ME GO!” 
“Stop it.” Tristan was having a hard time holding her still. 
“You will make the horse bolt.” 
Tempest quieted immediately, realizing the danger. 
William, hearing her angry voice, reined in his mount and 
waited for them to draw alongside him. 
“Tempest,” he said, looking at her pale features. “You are 
awake. It has been two days, and we have been quite worried 
about you, my dear.” 
“William,” she acknowledged. She did not want to talk to 
the man. She wanted to be with Adrian. She needed to tell 

him... No, she could not tell him... Goddess, how her head hurt... 
Gingerly she touched the bandage. 
“We will soon reach Castle Windhaven and have you safe 
in the loving arms of your family. You need to be well for our 
nuptials.” 
“I am very tired, William,” she murmured. Closing her eyes, 
she laid her head against Tristan’s strong chest. 
William watched her for a long time, then spurred his horse 
to the head of his entourage. 
*** 
Actually, it felt good to sleep in her own bed. Her father 
had been so worried, and Tempest regretted the heartache she 
had caused him. Just the same, she knew she would have helped 
Adrian to escape again, even though it had put a severe strain 
on her relationship with Wendall. Adrian had been imprisoned 
unjustly. There had been no other alternative. What she had 
done was right; she knew it in her heart. 
Christiana had not even deigned to make an appearance to 
inquire after her only daughter. Tempest dreaded her mother’s 
visit when the time finally came, but no more than William’s. 
Thus far she had been able to forestall any visits from him. 
How could she explain why she had helped Adrian? Would he 
simply accept the truth? He had not appeared to be angry when 
they brought her in. But she had been injured then... 
“Tempest?” William’s head peeked around the door. “May 
I speak with you?” 
“Of course, my lord.” She watched him enter the room, 
drag the heavy wooden chair to her bedside and then sit in it. 
She dreaded his first words. But he did not look angry. He 
looked sad, somehow. 
As usual, he wore brown. William’s nervous movements 
reminded her of a large brown squirrel. As he fussed with his 
clothing and looked around the room, he looked unsure of 
himself. Always before he had been assured and self-confident. 
Tempest wondered if he might possibly call off the wedding. 
Mayhap he would free her, and she could declare her love for 
Adrian. 
“I love you, you know,” he began, not looking at her. 

She was confused. This was an arranged marriage, not one 
of love. How could the man love her? He had encountered her 
rarely, and they had not been alone during those short meetings. 
Usually Sardon was somewhere, listening, watching. She 
shivered as she glanced at the open door, fully expecting to see 
Sardon lurking in the shadows, but they seemed to be alone. 
“William, I...” she began, trying to find the right words. 
“Please, my dear, let me speak for a moment,” he implored. 
“I need to tell you...To explain my heart and my life.” 
Tempest was quiet, waiting. 
Nervously, William cleared his throat. “I know not where 
to begin.” 
“Tell me of Clairesse du Monterre,” she prompted helpfully. 
She needed to know in order to understand this man. She needed 
to understand why the man she was to wed had had his lover— 
pregnant with his child—burned as a witch. 
“Clairesse?” He paused, looking surprised. Then his eyes 
grew sad with remembered pain, “I was wed to Marissa’s 
mother, Gwendolyn, when I met Clairesse,” he began. “It was 
an arranged marriage and, although Gwendolyn was a sweet 
child, I could not find love in my heart for her. 
“Clairesse was...” He cleared his throat nervously and 
continued. “She was the most beautiful, the sweetest, the wildest 
woman I had ever met. She was a healer, and she wandered 
from demesne to demesne, wherever her services were needed. 
Gwendolyn had been ill, and I asked Clairesse to stay to help, 
as our healer had died earlier that spring. Marisa was but two 
years, and I still had no son to be my heir. I needed Gwendolyn 
to be well, to be able to bear me the son I so desperately wanted. 
“Clairesse drew me as no other woman had. Her saucy 
smile, her sharp wit and even sharper tongue made my heart 
sing. I loved her, and I believe she also grew to love me.” He 
closed his eyes, rested his head against the high back of the 
chair and let the memories of Clairesse wash over him in sweet 
agony. He remembered making wild, yet gentle love to her. He 
remembered the softness of her body, the passion, the look in 
her green eyes when he entered her to spill his seed in a moment 
of pure rapture. He remembered how her hair had spread across 

the pillow in glorious abandon, like red flames, consuming his 
very soul. 
He remembered her death, how he had tried in vain to reach 
her. The locked door. William absently rubbed his hand as he 
remembered how he had pounded on that door until his hands 
bled, his throat raw from his anguished screams. He 
remembered her shrieks of agony as the fire surrounded her. 
He remembered the dying wail of her babe as it briefly entered 
a cruel world of pain and immediate death. He remembered... 
“William?” 
Tempest’s voice drew him back to the present. “You remind 
me of her,” he said sadly. 
“You say you loved her, yet you let them burn her as 
a witch,” she said harshly, unforgiving. 
“I had no choice.” His words came out flat and dull. “I 
could not stop them. Someone had locked the tower door. I 
could not save her.” 
“But I was told you had locked yourself in the tower.” 
“Nay,” he whispered. “I did not. I tried to get out of the 
tower. I tried to stop the burning.” 
“’Twould have done him no good.” Sardon’s words flew 
between them like a wall. “I wanted her dead, and the people 
were mine to control.” 
“You wanted her dead? ’Twas you who locked that door?” 
William rose to face his advisor, his face pale and angry. ”Why? 
She harmed no one. She was not even a true witch, only a 
simple healer. You took her from me. Why?” 
“She was a witch,” Sardon said, “a real witch, albeit a 
second-rate one, at best. She would not give me what I wanted, 
so I sent her to her death. Besides, she did not fit into my 
plans.” He scrutinized William, waiting, enjoying the anger he 
could see in his eyes. 
Now, he thought, now I can destroy this pitiful creature 
and take his intended. I have suffered with his weakness for 
too many years. Finally I shall add a true witch’s power to my 
own. Nothing will defeat me now. 
This witchling will give me her power. She will not be 
able to stop me. The hatchling is not here to protect her this 

time. She cannot escape the destiny I have chosen for her. 
“I will kill you for what you have done,” raged William, 
drawing his sword. “You took Clairesse from me. You 
murderer! You caused the death of an innocent babe. My 
child!” 
“William,” Sardon’s voice was smooth, like oil on water. 
“You must not disturb Tempest.” He raised his beringed hand, 
drawing on its innate powers, using it to calm, to control. “We 
will discuss this outside.” 
His black-red eyes looked at Tempest. “If you will excuse 
us, milady,” he said with an insidious smile. “We must take 
your leave.” 
Tempest stared, unable to speak as her eyelids grew heavy. 
A deep, unnatural sleep overtook her. 
Sardon was delighted with himself as he led a docile 
William from the room. Soon, Witchling, he thought, soon your 
powers shall be mine, then I will destroy L’sira’s son for all 
time. The hatchling’s death will be only the beginning of my 
revenge. Lysira shall pay dearly for her rejection. No one 
rejects S’rdonne. No one. 
William, sword now safely sheathed, obediently followed 
Sardon across the moat bridge, into the forest. Sardon had kept 
him under tight control while they saddled their mounts and 
left the castle. 
Sardon told the guard at the gate that he had been called 
back to Far Reaches to administrate while William remained 
for the wedding. William was going with him for a short 
distance to give him some last-minute instructions, he told the 
man, but would soon return. 
He had everything well planned out—leave the castle, kill 
William, return in William’s guise, wed Tempest and take her 
power on their wedding night. Aye, it would work well, but 
then again, his plans always worked well. 
Mayhap he would keep the witchling as a plaything after 
he killed the hatchling. It was an interesting thought. He 
wondered what the offspring of a black dragon and a witch 
would be like. Most likely they would be stronger than L’sira’s 
hatchling, especially after they had been given his great 

knowledge. He smiled in satisfaction, lost to dreams of the 
return of a powerful family of black dragons ruling over human 
and dragon alike. 
They soon reached a large clearing, and Sardon called a 
halt. He dismounted and walked to where William sat on his 
horse, a glazed look in his brown eyes. He reached up and 
touched William’s hand with his ring. William screamed and 
jerked away. His hand smoked where the ring had touched, 
and a blister grew, only to burst quickly. Clear liquid drained 
over his fingers. He raised his head and stared at his enemy. 
Sardon smiled at the look of pain and confusion on 
William’s face. “Are you ready?” 
“Ready?” Suddenly, understanding dawned on William’s 
face. He had taken this viper into his home, had allowed him 
to destroy the fragile happiness he had found with Clairesse. 
His own weakness and gullibility had aided this monster. And 
now...now his life would be forfeit if he could not find the 
strength within himself to defeat this evil creature. 
“You said you wanted to kill me.” Sardon watched closely 
as comprehension dawned in William’s eyes. “Let us get this 
over with. I have things to do.” Excitement animated his 
charcoal eyes. He jerked William from his saddle, tossing him 
to the ground in a powerful swoop. 
William fell, but he was a seasoned warrior; he had earned 
his golden spurs on the battlefield. He rose quickly and drew 
his long sword, battle ready. 
“You think to defeat me with that?” Sardon smirked, 
pointing derisively at the weapon. 
“I will kill you for what you did to Clairesse and our child,” 
said William, his eyes smoldering with hate. “You will pay 
with your life.” 
Sardon laughed, touched his glowing opal ring and began 
to change, to grow. His skin turned color, first brown then 
smoky gray, then deep, shiny obsidian. His eyes glowed red as 
the power surged through his body. Scales formed, and leathery 
wings—long and powerful—sprouted from his massive 
shoulders. The metamorphosis complete, he screamed a 
challenge, his mind no longer human but that of a beast, the 

dragon he had become. 
William recoiled in horror. But he was a knight; this would 
be a battle to the death, and he had no choice. This monster 
had murdered his Clairesse. It would die for what it had done. 
He would watch its life’s blood drain from its ugly body. 
Clairesse would be avenged. 
William raised his sword in both hands and charged. Sardon 
slashed him with huge talons, gashing his face and neck. In the 
heat of battle, William felt no pain. He knew the pain would 
come later—if he lived. 
The bloody claws slashed out again, this time ripping 
chunks of chain mail and flesh from William’s chest. Crimson 
blood flowed. Pain tore at his innards, but still he battled the 
great beast. He parried with his sword, slicing at the dragon’s 
belly but doing no harm. The sharp blade could not cleave its 
thick scales. He hacked at its legs, but again could do no injury 
to the immense beast. He fell back and retreated toward the 
trees. 
The dragon followed blowing white-hot flames, scorching 
his clothing, heating his mail, melting it until mail, clothing 
and skin were one. 
William turned to confront the dragon. Sardon di Mercia 
was no longer man but simply beast. The desperate knight raised 
his sword, aiming for the beast’s throat, and held his ground as 
his immense foe charged. 
But again the sword could not penetrate the thick scales 
and was torn from his hands when they clashed. His fingers 
were numb as he reached for his weapon. He could feel nothing. 
He could not grasp it. Something wrapped tightly around his 
chest. 
Razor sharp teeth ripped through his chain mail, his tunic, 
and into his body. Deeper and deeper the teeth sank, grinding, 
gnawing, rending flesh, crushing bone as they closed. He felt 
his body grow weaker and struggled to remain conscious, to 
free himself from that hot acid breath, that blinding pain, but 
to no avail. Blackness descended. 
Clairesse. His mind cried for her, for his love, gone from 
him forever. 

“William.” Clairesse’s soft voice was sweet and 
welcoming. “My love.” 
Sardon dropped the lifeless body. He nudged it with his 
talon, flipped it over and examined William’s face. He wanted 
to see agony forever stamped upon the features. He wanted to 
relish this puny human’s terror at his violent death. He wanted 
to savor the fear one more time. 
But William’s face was peaceful. A smile curved his lips. 
His lifeless eyes looked into a place of beauty, a place of peace, 
a place where S’rdonne, the black dragon, could not enter. The 
victor raised his glowing red eyes to the heavens and stared, 
then screamed his frustration. 
But there was no response. 
*** 
The raven-haired woman could not lift her gaze from those 
blood-red eyes as the dragon’s face filled the crystal. She 
could not speak. As she reached out and took the golden-haired 
man’s hand in hers, her fingers shook, her lips trembled. Her 
brown doe eyes could not draw away from the pulsating blue 
crystal. 
“Why?” she whispered. “You told me William would not 
be killed. Can you not control that beast?” 
The man stared at the scene of destruction that had evolved 
before them, at the hate-filled visage of the black dragon. His 
face was pale as he answered her. “I thought I had complete 
control over it,” he answered quietly. “This was not meant to 
be.” 
“You must regain control, dearest,” she said in a small 
voice. “If you do not, all our plans will come to naught.” 
Silence filled the room as each tried to understand why 
things had gone so dreadfully awry.. 

THIRTY 
Alone. Tempest had never felt more lonely as she sat on 
the narrow window ledge of her sleeping room, looking down 
into the inner bailey. She missed Miriam. She missed her gentle 
smile and even wished she could hear Miriam scold her again— 
just one more time. But it was not to be. Her friend was gone. 
Servants hurried to their appointed tasks; guards strolled upon 
the outer walls; children played amid the garden flowers. And 
Tempest was alone. 
Waiting. William and Sardon had been gone for hours. 
Night was falling, and she was worried. She held no love for 
William Mirabelle, but she did not wish to see him dead. He 
had been kind to her, and they would wed in just seven days. 
There would be no escape from the wedding. Her head hurt 
just thinking about it. If only there was a way to refuse 
William’s hand, to simply go far away and live forever with 
Adrian. 
Adrian. Goddess, how she loved Adrian. She loved the 
graceful way his big body moved. She loved his blue eyes that 
changed color with his quicksilver emotions: cobalt when he 
was angry, soft, winter-sky blue when he told her of his love. 
His eyes were truly the mirror to his soul. 
She loved his gentle touch, the way he kissed her, softly at 
first then deeper, demanding, bruising her lips, making her ache 
with a need for something indefinable, something too sweet 
for words. 
Heat built in her body, and her face flushed as she grew 
weak with longing. She missed him dreadfully, missed his sweet 
smile. 
Something brushed her leg. A tiny vibration and a soft 

meow attracted her attention. Monster jumped into her lap, his 
claws kneading her leg as his head butted persistently against 
her arm, demanding a soft, familiar hand to caress him. 
“Monster!” Joy filled her as she clutched the tiny kitten to 
her chest. Laughing, she held him up with both hands to look 
into his green eyes. “Oh, how I have missed you! How did you 
get here? I left you with Adrian.” 
“Have you missed me also, Tempest?” Adrian’s deep, rich 
voice filled the room and her heart. 
“Adrian? How...You should not be here. My father still 
believes you killed Miriam. He will throw you in the dungeon 
again. They will kill you. I have not yet had a chance to convince 
him of your innocence. I...How did you get in here? You could 
have been caught. If anyone saw you...” 
“Tempest,” Adrian laid his finger across her lips. “You 
talk too much.” He gently took Monster from her arms and put 
him on the window ledge beside her. “I have come to take you 
home,” he murmured, pulling her into his arms. 
“Adrian, I...How...” 
“Do not speak, little witch. I am here, ’tis all that matters.” 
His head bent to hers. “I need to kiss you now.” 
Their lips met, and her world spun out of control. Her legs 
trembled, and her arms circled his neck to keep herself from 
falling. Tempest did not care how he had gotten into her room. 
She only cared that he was here. Holding her, kissing her. 
Adrian’s arms tightened as the kiss deepened. His tongue 
touched her closed lips, seeking entrance. She gave him access 
and shyly met him, joining in the dance of passion. An 
unfamiliar heat coursed through her body, beginning at the tip 
of her tongue, racing downward, deeper and deeper, settling in 
her secret woman’s place. 
She wanted to get even closer, to melt into him, to become 
part of him. Her hips began to move in a gentle rhythm, wanting, 
needing. 
He groaned and pushed her against the stone wall, grinding 
his hard body into hers. His hand ripped her surcoat, then tore 
open her tunic, seeking, then finding, her breast. His callused 
thumb brushed across her sensitive nipple, and it hardened, 

sending jolts of passion deep into her maiden’s body. 
He released her lips, and his head bent to her breast. Taking 
it into his mouth he suckled, gentle at first, then harder, and 
she cried out in wonder as her body burned with longing. His 
hand trailed a blazing path down her belly, coming to rest on 
her mound. His finger entered her, and she recoiled. Panic took 
over. Nay, she could not do this. She must remain a maiden. 
She cried out, but he persisted, moving his large hands 
over her body, making her grow weak with desire. Heat built, 
burning its way deep into her soul. She could not, nay, did not 
want to stop him. 
“Tempest,” he groaned. “I want you. Now. I will make 
you mine.” 
“Adrian.” Her voice was harsh, heavy with need. Her throat 
was dry. Her lips burned, and she ran her tongue over them 
before they burst into flames and consumed her. 
Adrian ripped the clothes from her, picked her up and 
carried her to the bed. She watched through eyes blurred with 
passion as he quickly removed his clothes, staring at his 
magnificent body, hard and ready. 
“I love you Tempest,” he whispered, his voice hoarse with 
desire. “Always and forever.” 
She could no longer speak as her throat closed with 
emotion. 
“Say you love me,” he demanded, as he put one knee on the 
bed beside her. “Now.” 
“I cannot,” she whispered. “I must wed William in seven 
days.” 
“Then I will take your maidenhood, and you will not be 
pure for your wedding night.” He pushed her legs apart, ready 
to enter her, beyond all thought of William or anyone or 
anything else. His mind and body were on fire for her, and he 
wanted her—now! 
“Nay, Adrian.” Tempest put her hands on his chest. “I must 
be a maiden for William else he will put me aside.” 
“Good. Then you will wed me.” 
“Adrian,” sadness filled her voice, consumed her soul. “I 
cannot do this.” 

“You can.” 
“Nay, I have made a vow. I cannot break it.” 
“Curses upon your vows! And William, too!” Adrian’s blue 
eyes rapidly turned from ultramarine to cobalt. “You love me. 
Say it.” 
“Nay, Adrian,” she lied. “I love you not.” 
He closed his eyes and bent his head, his shoulders slumped 
in dejection, his long blond hair falling over his face, brushing 
her breast with its silky softness. 
She reached up to touch it, to brush it from his face but 
withdrew her hand. She yearned to touch him, to hold him, to 
tell him she loved him, but could not. She must do what she 
had promised. She must make him leave, forget her, go on with 
his life. Without her. 
Adrian raised his head and looked at her. His eyes glistened 
with anger, then dulled. “I know you love me,” he said flatly. 
“Nay,” she whispered, her heart breaking. “I do not.” 
He rose from the bed without another word, donned 
his clothes and stared at her for a long moment. He opened his 
mouth as though to speak but, thinking better of it, turned and 
left the room. 
He did not look back. 
She clutched her arms around her body and bent forward, 
rocking in her pain, pain at losing Adrian. There were no tears, 
there was no release from the agony in her heart, in her soul. 
Witches cannot cry. Her body trembled with emotion as she 
rocked back and forth, back and forth, back and forth. 
*** 
“Why does she persist in telling him nay?” the man asked, 
a frown marring his handsome features. “And why does she 
tell him she does not love him?” 
“She made a promise to wed William,” the woman 
explained gently as she laid her slim hand on his arm, trying 
to calm him. “She is an honorable woman, dearest.” 
“Bah!” the man snorted. “If she keeps on this path ,she 
will lose her power and just be a mortal female, old and 
unloved.” 
“But she will have her honor and her pride.” 

“Honor. Pride. What are they in the scheme of things?” 
“They are all for her,” the woman said softly. “’Tis what 
makes her whole, what makes her human.” 
The golden-haired man looked at her cynically. 
“Honor and pride do not keep you warm on a cold night. 
Besides, William is dead now. She is free.” 
“She is unaware of that fact, my dear.” 
“Well, A’dryan will not want her by the time she learns of 
William’s death. He will not wait long to find another mate.” 
“He will wait,” the woman smiled. “He loves her.” 

THIRTY-ONE 
William’s form was difficult to get used to. Sardon spent 
the rest of the day walking around the forest. His customary 
human shape was small and slight, whereas William had been 
several inches taller, well muscled, accustomed to wearing chain 
mail and riding a war horse. 
The stupid horse was another matter. It shied violently 
whenever he came near, not recognizing the strange odor of its 
master. In his frustration, Sardon cursed the animal and 
seriously considered just killing it and returning afoot. But that 
would raise questions, and he did not want questions. He wanted 
everyone to accept him as William Mirabelle. 
His scent. Tempest always seemed to know who he was, 
no matter what form he took. She had mentioned it on several 
occasions, had even known when he tried to mask it. If he 
could fool the horse by imitating William’s scent, he could 
also fool the witch. He must make William’s scent his own. 
Sardon strolled over to William’s body. He looked down 
at it in disgust. He had hated William’s kindness, his weakness 
when he was living, and he despised him even more dead. The 
look of utter peace on William’s face confused him and Sardon 
could not tolerate confusion. 
He had killed William, but in the end had not defeated 
him. Viciously, he kicked the body. 
“Damn you, William Mirabelle,” he snarled. “May you 
rot forever on the seventh plane of hell.” But the look of peace 
remained, mocking him. No one mocked S’rdonne. No one. 
His blood began to boil. The dragon, S’rdonne, began to emerge. 
Fire. The beast within grew. Blue flames flew from between 
dragon teeth and the mocking look on William’s face was 

burned away forever. The human was now unrecognizable. 
William Mirabelle was no more. His family could not mourn 
him. In fact, his family would never find him. S’rdonne had 
the final victory. 
Sardon, the man, was satisfied as he returned to human 
form. 
But this anger was wasting time. He bent to the corpse and 
inhaled deeply, drawing the scent of the dead man into himself. 
He held it for a long time, letting William’s odor seep into 
his pores, become part of his own substance. Sardon savored 
the essence of blood and death, but knew he must rid this form 
of that particular smell. He rolled the death scent into a palpable 
ball deep in his body, then drew it into his mouth. Loathe to 
release it, he held it on his tongue, rolled it around, savored it 
and let it slide down his throat; then brought it back to his 
mouth and spat it reluctantly upon the ground. 
Sardon walked over to William’s destrier. The animal 
looked at him calmly. He put his foot in the stirrup and mounted 
with no trouble. It had been an excellent idea to stash William’s 
clothing in the woods earlier. He had been well prepared, as 
usual. 
Feeling smug, Sardon di Mercia headed back to Castle 
Windhaven to complete his plans. As William he would be 
able to have everything he desired. No one would stand in his 
way from this time forward. It felt good. It felt very, very good 
indeed. 
*** 
“He has done what?” Shock filled Christiana’s voice. 
“William has gone to kill Sardon,” Tempest repeated. “He 
discovered Sardon was responsible for Clairesse being burned 
as a witch.” 
“Clairesse? And just who is Clairesse?” Christiana 
demanded. “Lord William is to wed you. Is this Clairesse some 
doxy he has on the side?” 
“’Twas long ago, Mother,” Tempest answered wearily. “She 
has been dead many years. I do not want to discuss it. I grow 
tired and wish to return to my room to rest.” 
“You can rest later. I want to know of this Clairesse. Now.” 

Christiana worried any new topic like a cat with a freshly caught 
mouse. 
Tempest sighed and looked around the great hall but could 
find no one to help. When William entered the room, she saw 
an escape from Christiana’s queries. 
“William has returned,” she noted. “Ask him about 
Clairesse.” She slipped from the hall while her mother was 
occupied with William. 
Tempest breathed a sigh of relief as she hurried up the 
narrow staircase. If William had returned, he must have defeated 
Sardon. She hoped Sardon was dead and in Hades where he 
belonged. He had murdered Miriam, and she hoped his death 
had been very painful. Miriam had tried to teach her not to 
hate, but Sardon had taken her trusted friend, the woman who 
was more than mother to her. Tempest loathed him. His death 
would be a blessing for everyone. 
She had forgone her early morning fire because she hoped 
for a warm spring day, but her room was cold, so she slipped 
beneath the furs on her big bed and snuggled into the deep 
feather mattress. She closed her eyes and tried to sleep. 
But sleep eluded her. She missed Adrian, missed his quiet 
smile, his innocent teasing, his touch. Gods how he made her 
blood hot with his kisses. If only she did not have to marry 
William. If only she could spend the rest of her life feeling 
Adrian’s kisses brand her body and soul with his love. If only 
Miriam were here to talk to. If only she had not lied to him, 
telling him she did not love him. If only... 
Sleep claimed her. She dreamed of Adrian. A soft smile 
spread across her face. 
*** 
Christiana was driving Sardon mad. Clairesse! He was sick 
of talking about the woman. The witch had been useless when 
she was alive and, he thought, mayhap Christiana would soon 
join her if she did not cease her prattling. ’Twould be an easy 
and enjoyable task. 
“Forgive me, milady,” he said. “I must speak to Tempest. 
We parted on uneasy terms, and I must make things right before 
we are wed.” 

“Of course, William. You will wed soon, and there must 
be no problems. Will Sardon be back in time for the nuptials?” 
“Sardon di Mercia is dead,” growled Sardon. “I killed him 
and left his body for the animals. I will hear his name no 
more.” He turned to leave, ignoring Christiana’s suddenly pale 
features. 
“But...” Christiana was shocked. Sardon dead? It could 
not be. 
She silently watched William walk toward the stairs, afraid 
to ask the many questions burning in her mind. Why had 
William killed his advisor? Had Sardon somehow unwittingly 
broke the knight’s code of honor? William had looked so angry. 
‘Twas so unlike the man. Goddess, she would miss her friend, 
Sardon. He had been such a genteel man. 
Christiana picked up her sewing, her thoughts already 
focused on the new dress she was making for herself. She would 
talk to Tempest later—after William and her unruly daughter 
had settled their misunderstanding.... 
*** 
Sardon watched Tempest sleep. Her red hair spilling over 
the pillows reminded him of the first time he had breathed fire 
as a hatchling. He smiled. Mayhap it would be no great chore 
taking the power from this witchling. He would keep her alive 
until he grew tired of her. He would need a female to help rule 
William’s demesne and to bear his hatchlings. Aye, she would 
be useful, at least for a time. 
After he killed L’sira’s git, he would be avenged. L’sira 
would pay for the past. She would be helpless against his power, 
she and that hulking black knight she called mate. He could 
almost smell victory in the air, taste its sweetness on his dragon’s 
tongue. 
Tempest’s green eyes were open, gazing up at him. Sardon 
blinked and stepped back. 
“William,” she queried. “Is Sardon dead?” Tempest sniffed 
the air cautiously, wondering. She wanted to make sure it was 
really William. She detected the soft scent of pine, clean and 
fresh. William must have brushed against a tree when he was 
out in the woods. 

“Aye.” Sardon bit back a smile, remembering 
William’s charred body, hidden in the forest. “He will bother 
us no more.” 
“He murdered Miriam.” Pain filled her voice. “’Twas not 
Adrian who cut her down but Sardon di Mercia. He deserved 
to die.” 
“Will you defend me so passionately after we are 
wed, witchling?” he asked softly, taking a lock of her long 
red hair in his hand and twisting it idly. “Will you love me as 
much as you love the hatchling?” 
“William?” A look of utter confusion crossed her face. “You 
use Sardon’s words. William?” 
“Do I?” Sardon drawled lazily. “I must have spent too much 
time in his company.” His fingers tightened on the lock of hair 
he held, pulling it just enough to make Tempest uncomfortable. 
“Sardon?” She took a deep breath, testing the air. 
“Breathe deep, witchling. You will not scent Sardon 
di Mercia, only William Mirabelle. Do you know, witchling? 
Can your witch powers help you now?” He watched her closely 
behind half-closed eyelids. Lazily, catlike he closed in. He 
pulled her closer, anticipating, feeling her fear grow, waiting. 
Waiting for the moment when she was sure, the moment when 
she would use her powers to defend herself; knowing she would 
again use fire and lightning; that which only added to his power. 
His hand touched her breast. It felt firm, like L’sira’s had 
been so many years ago. He squeezed, hard. His mouth watered 
as Tempest cried out in pain. She struggled to be free of him, 
and he savored her fear, tasted it in the air, drew it into his 
body, used it to make himself stronger. 
His eyes glazed; he pushed her back on the bed and spread 
his powerful body over hers, making her his prisoner. Her 
frantic struggles were useless against his strength. 
His weight on her body pushed the breath out of Tempest, 
and she could make no sound. She gasped for air and pushed 
futilely at his chest but could not escape. 
He felt himself stiffen as his lower body came in contact 
with her femininity. The covers were in his way. He could not 
feel enough. He wanted her. He would not wait for that wedding 

nonsense. He would take her. Now. She would yield to him. 
Her witch’s power would be his. 
Sardon tore the covers from between them and ran his hand 
up under her tunic, up her leg, coming ever closer to his 
objective. He would ravish her. He would not be gentle with 
this human. She would learn what dragon mating was like. 
Soon. Soon her powers would belong to him. He bent his head 
to take her lips, to draw her power, to ravish her body and 
soul. 
Tempest bit. Hard. Sardon struggled, trying to escape her 
sharp, human teeth. She would not release him. His hot, acrid 
blood began to flow from the wound in his lip. 
Pain screamed in his most vulnerable place as Tempest’s 
knee made contact. Never had he felt such agony, bruising, 
tearing, burning at his lower extremities until his ears rang. In 
his three hundred years upon Earth he had never felt such pain. 
Her knee again came in contact with his groin. He tried to get 
away, but her teeth held him fast. He tried to scream but the 
sound came out as a low croak. He tried to reach his ring, to 
return to his dragon shape. He tried to call up his anger to help 
him change to his rightful form but could not overcome the 
searing pain in his lip and in his groin. 
Then the power hit. Not S’rdonne’s dragon power, but 
witch’s power—angry, cold, defiant power—plumbed from the 
depths of Tempest’s being, drawn from the soul of a true witch, 
drawn from the souls of all witches from the beginning of time. 
Cold. Mind numbing, heart stopping, killing cold seeped 
into his body. He could not escape. He searched for heat, for 
some small warmth, but found none, as the cold crept slowly, 
inexorably toward his evil soul. 
*** 
“She has the power,” the man exclaimed, satisfaction 
making his deep voice ring. “She has her witch’s power.” 
“Aye,” the woman agreed, settling back into her chair. 
“She is stronger than I thought. L’sira has been a good 
teacher.” 
“’Twas not only L’sira’s teaching, m’dear.” He rubbed 
his strong, square chin thoughtfully. “She used cold to destroy 

him. She sensed heat was his power. She is a true witch. L’sira 
just harnessed it.” 
“Her power will be greater when she mates with the gold,” 
commented the woman thoughtfully, reaching for a crystal 
goblet circled with gold. “‘Twill be soon, methinks.” 
“Aye.” The man raised his goblet in a silent toast. “The 
game is going well.” 
“The game.” She touched her goblet to his, a soft ringing 
filled the air around them. “The lovers,” she whispered. 

THIRTY-TWO 
“What have you done?” Shock filled Christiana’s 
voice, making her words slurred and unintelligible. She cleared 
her throat, licked her lips and tried again. “You stupid slut,” 
she hissed, finally noticing Tempest’s torn clothing and 
disheveled appearance. “What have you done?” 
“I have killed Sardon di Mercia,” Tempest answered calmly, 
staring at her mother. 
“Sardon? You have killed Sardon? Tempest, have you gone 
completely mad? That is William Mirabelle who lies ‘midst 
the rushes...not Sardon di Mercia.” 
“Nay, Mother. ’Tis Sardon.” 
Christiana went to the body and turned it over. William’s 
eyes were closed, his lips open. His face had a bluish cast, and 
when she touched his skin, ’twas cold as death. “Look upon 
his face, you shandy simpkin,” Christiana spat. “Does this look 
like Sardon?” She grabbed Tempest’s hand and pulled her down 
closer to William. “Look at him!” 
“Mayhap it looks like William,” Tempest tried to explain 
to her distraught mother, “but ’tis still Sardon di Mercia. He 
had a ring which...” 
“Ring?” Christiana would not listen. “Of course he had a 
ring, you fool. All nobles wear rings. William was a knight, a 
very rich knight, and you have killed him.” She shoved Tempest 
away from her and the body of William Mirabelle, causing her 
daughter to tumble backward into the rushes. 
“Mother, I...” 
“He was rich,” Christiana continued, ignoring her 
daughter’s attempts to explain. “He offered a huge bride price 
for you. He asked for nothing to take you off our hands. Nothing. 

We would not have had to worry or do without ever again. I 
could have had new gowns, made of the finest velvets. New 
slippers. Jewels...” She glared. 
“Mother, he attacked me.” Tempest was filled with disgust 
as she remembered his hands upon her body, his lips, slobbering 
and wet against her skin. Her gorge rose as she tried to erase 
those terrible moments from her memory and it took an almost 
inhuman effort to keep from losing the contents of her stomach. 
“He tried to rape me!” 
“Rape?” Christiana screeched. “He was your betrothed. 
You were to wed in only a few days. He had every right to the 
use of your fat, ugly body.” She stood over Tempest, furious, 
hands on her hips as she continued her tirade. 
“If William wanted the use of your body, you should have 
acquiesced. He had the right. God, how stupid you are. Why 
was I cursed with such a child? Stupid. Stupid. Stupid.” She 
kicked out, but Tempest was ready as she rolled out of the way 
and rose quickly to her feet to stand against the tapestried wall. 
“Mother, you must listen to me.” She had to explain, 
to convince Christiana of her innocence. “I had no choice. He 
was an evil man. ’Twas not William who attacked me. ’Twas 
Sardon.” 
“Sardon is dead, I tell you!” Christiana screamed shrilly. 
“William killed him. He told me so before he came to you. He 
wanted to settle things with you before your wedding. Sardon 
is dead! Do you understand me, you imbecile? DEAD!” 
Christiana stalked closer, her face mottled and ugly, in her rage, 
her hands fisted at her sides. 
“William is dead. Sardon killed him and returned here. He 
used his ring to look like William. He was able to take any 
form he chose with that ring. Mother, you have to listen to 
what I am telling you.” Tempest was frustrated. She did not 
know how to make herself any clearer. “I had to use my power 
to stop him. I had no choice.” 
“Power? Choice?” Christiana was pale, her eyes wide as 
her hand flew to her mouth. “She told me,” she whispered. 
“She told me I would suffer. She said I was greedy and selfish. 
She told me everything would turn bad, just when I thought all 

was perfect. She cursed me with her dying breath. You are that 
curse!” 
“Curse? She? What are you talking about, Mother? There 
has been no curse.” 
“My mother. She had red hair like yours. She was a witch 
and they burned her for it.” Christiana rubbed her hand wearily 
across her forehead. “She had everything I wanted...jewels, 
beautiful clothes, love. My father loved her more than he ever 
loved me. I hated her for it and she knew. She would look at 
me and smile whenever he gave her gifts, as if to say. “He 
loves me more than you.” She enjoyed tormenting me, knowing 
how much I needed my father’s love. And I was glad, glad 
when they burned her. I was glad when my father gave me in 
marriage because I had grown to hate him, too.” 
“My grandmother was a witch? They burned her?” Shock 
made Tempest shiver, made her knees grow weak. She clung 
to a chair to keep herself from falling to the floor. 
“Aye, they burned her,” Christiana repeated, hatred making 
her eyes blaze with madness. “Just as they will burn you. Witch! 
And when they do, the curse will be lifted, and I will finally be 
free!” Christiana swung but not with her open hand as was 
her wont. She used her fist, and it connected painfully with 
Tempest’s eye before she fully realized her mother’s intentions. 
She tried to back away, to avoid those hard blows. She raised 
her hands to ward them off, but Christiana changed tactics. 
She shoved Tempest against the wall, momentarily 
knocking the breath from her. “I will destroy you! You have 
ruined my whole life!” she shrieked as she grabbed Tempest’s 
hair and began slamming her already injured head against the 
hard, rough stones. 
Tempest tried to push her away, to untangle those hurtful 
fingers from her hair, but failed. Christiana was extraordinarily 
strong in her rage and madness. Tempest began to fear for her 
life. 
She felt the power rising. From deep within her soul she 
felt her witch’s power, her birthright. She tried to dampen it, to 
put the flames of anger from her, but she met defeat as the 
power grew, consuming her mind and body with its fury. It 

grew, encompassing her, feeding her fear, changing it to anger, 
then to rage, as it stole her will, her rationality, and, like the 
true witch she had become, she used it. 
She could not stop the magic as it shot from her fingertips. 
She could not stop the lightning as it arced into her mother’s 
body. She could not contain it. She tried. The gods knew how 
she tried to stop those lethal bolts, but to no avail, and they 
slammed into Christiana’s body with ruthless force. Without a 
sound, her mother crumpled at her feet. 
Silence crept through the room, through Tempest’s mind, 
through her soul. 
“Mother?” 
There was no answer; Christiana did not move. There was 
only silence. 
Tempest knelt beside her mother and reached out to gently 
caress her cheek, but there was no reaction. She cradled 
Christiana’s body in her arms, rocking her. 
“Goddess, no,” she moaned. “I have murdered my mother. 
I will suffer damnation for eternity for this deed. Mother, please 
do not die. I did not mean to harm you.” But there was no 
response. The silent room became oppressive. Silence beat 
down upon her and she slumped, head bowed, wishing she 
could die, wishing to be anywhere but in this room holding 
Christiana’s lifeless body, wishing for the tears she could not 
shed. 
“Tempest.” Adrian’s beloved face came to her befuddled 
mind; his voice soothed her. “Come to me.” 
Adrian. She must to go to Adrian. He would help her. He 
would take care of her. She needed to get to Adrian. 
Tris...Tristan would help. 
*** 
She found Tristan with Marisa in the stables. 
“Tempest?” Tristan was shocked at his sister’s appearance. 
Her eye was swollen and rapidly turning black, her pale blue 
surcoat ripped, her dark blue undertunic torn from shoulder to 
wrist and her face and arms scratched. He pulled her over to 
the stable doors and touched her face gently. “What in the name 
of the gods happened?” 

“Tris,” she flung herself into his arms and clung to him, 
trembling violently. “I have killed them!” 
Tristan held her tightly, rubbing and patting her back to try 
to steady her. “Calm yourself, little one, and try to tell me what 
has happened.” 
“I killed them, Tris. I killed Sardon...and...Mother,” she 
whispered. 
“Sardon?” Marisa exclaimed in shock. “You killed our 
priest?” 
“You WHAT?” Tristan was sure he had misunderstood 
her. ”Tempest, you must calm down and tell me what happened. 
You are not making any sense.” 
“Sardon killed William.” Tempest took a deep breath, 
reluctantly left Tristan’s comforting arms and walked over to 
Marisa. “Marisa, I am so sorry. I did not want you to find out 
this way. I could not stop them. Sardon used his powers to 
control William and me. He...” 
“Nay! Not my father!” Marisa sobbed and turned to Tristan. 
“Tris, tell me ‘tis not so. Not Father!” 
Tristan took the distraught maiden into his arms. He lifted 
her chin and looked into her blue eyes. “Tempest never lies,” 
he said gently. He led Marisa to his workbench and lifted her 
onto his lap, holding her tenderly. “Tell us what happened,” he 
said to Tempest as Marisa leaned against him, sobbing in her 
grief for her dead father. 
“Sardon told William that he was responsible for 
Clairesse’s death. He told us how he had locked William in the 
tower so he could not save her. Sardon wanted Clairesse dead, 
and he made sure William could not stop it.” She watched 
Tristan gently rock Marisa as he rubbed her back and tried to 
calm her. 
“William was so angry, Tris. He said he would kill Sardon. 
They went into the forest and...” She could not continue. She 
pictured William’s death in her mind and it was too horrible to 
contemplate. 
“Sardon used his ring to make himself look like William 
and came to my room while I was resting. He...he...” Deep 
shudders wracked her body, and her voice trailed off.. 

“He what, Tempest?” Tristan took her hand, pulled her to 
the bench beside him. “What did Sardon do to you?” 
“He tried to rape me.” She was calmer now, her words flat 
and emotionless. “And I killed him. I used my power, and I 
killed him with cold. Freezing cold. He is dead and I am glad.” 
“Sardon di Mercia tried to rape you?” Tristan’s face grew 
red with anger as she nodded her head. “Then he was an evil 
man, and he deserved to die.” He hesitated, dreading his next 
question. Not really wanting to know the truth, but needing to 
know the answer. “Tell me about Christiana,” he continued, 
holding his breath as he waited. 
“She...” Tempest hesitated, trying to find the words, trying 
to swallow around the huge lump that suddenly formed in her 
throat. “She came into my room and saw Sardon lying on the 
floor. He still wore the guise of William and she thought I had 
killed William. I tried to explain, Tris, I really tried, but she 
would not listen. She raved about all she would lose because 
William was dead. She was so angry.” Tempest shuddered 
again, unable to continue. 
Tristan waited patiently for her to find the words. Christiana 
always was a greedy bitch, he thought. If she were truly dead 
he could find no remorse in his heart. She had belittled and 
mistreated Tempest all her life, and he would be glad to see her 
gone. He knew how much his father loved her, but at last there 
would be peace in Castle Windhaven. But, William...how would 
Marisa manage without her father? Who would be her protector 
now that William was dead? 
“Tempest,” he urged quietly, “tell me about Christiana.” 
“I...Mother...” She drew a deep breath, trying to find calm 
in the storm of emotions that filled her aching heart. ”She...she 
told me about her mother. About...about my grandmother’s 
death. Then she started hitting me. She shoved me and grabbed 
my hair and beat my head against the wall. She said...she said 
I was her curse. I...I... Goddess, Tristan, I used my power against 
my own mother. I hit her with the magic that was in me, and I 
killed her! I murdered my own mother. I do not deserve to 
live,” she wailed. 

“Nay! She meant to kill you, Tempest. You but protected 
yourself. You did what you had to. “Twas not murder.” 
“’Twas murder, Tris. At that moment I wanted her to die.” 
“Ah, sweet little sister, what are we to do? You cannot stay 
here. You will be convicted and burned. I feel it, sweetling. We 
must get you away. But where do we go?” 
“Adrian,” she whispered. “I will be safe with Adrian.” 
“Adrian?” he queried. “I do not know where he is.” 
“He is in the deep forest.” She looked into his green eyes, 
so like her own. “Lysira’s cottage is some distance from where 
you and William found me, but I can find it.” 
“If you can find the cottage, so can others.” 
“Nay, ’tis well hidden. She has magic and can keep others 
from finding it if she so desires.” 
“Then we go to Lysira.” 
“I must go alone. You cannot involve yourself in this. They 
will accuse you. And you must stay here to take care of Marisa.” 
“I cannot send you out there alone, and I cannot leave her 
here alone. Tempest, I—“ 
“Tristan?” Marisa had ceased her wild sobbing, but tears 
still streamed down her pale cheeks as she looked up at him. 
“Take me with you.” 
“’Tis a hard journey, Marisa. I fear for you.” 
“I am strong.” She lifted her tiny chin and gazed trustingly 
into his eyes. “I know you will care for me.” 
“Always,” he whispered, holding her tightly and kissing 
the crown of her head. “Always will I care for you, Marisa.” 
Tempest felt like an intruder as she watched the love flow 
between them, but she had to try one more time. She was afraid 
for her brother. “Father will need you. He loves you.” 
“Does he?” His voice was flat. “Does he love me, Tempest? 
He has not acknowledged me as his son and heir. He needs me 
not.” 
“He does!” 
“Nay. We will speak of this no more.” 
“But I still must go alone,” she said stubbornly. 
“You cannot. ’Tis too dangerous.” He released her, sat
Marisa on the bench and went to saddle three horses, effectively 

halting her protests. 
“Tris? I love you,” Tempest said softly. 
“I know, sweetling,” he responded, his voice choked with 
emotion. “I know, for ’tis no more than I love you.” 
*** 
“He cannot be dead.” The raven-haired woman looked 
at her companion, surprise mirrored in her soft chestnut eyes. 
”Her power is not that great.” 
“Witches have been known to destroy much more 
powerful creatures,” he said thoughtfully, “but I agree with 
you, m’dear. She has not yet come into her full power. She 
must mate with the gold.” 
“Will you let the mother die?” she asked as she leaned 
her head to rest on the tall back of the golden chair. “Tempest 
is a gentle child, and I do not believe she wanted her mother 
dead. She simply wanted to escape that madness.” 
“The mother needs to be dead, else the witch will not go 
to A’dryan. The game must proceed at any cost.” The golden-
haired man sipped at his wine and stared off into space. 
“The witch has a name, dear.” she reminded softly. “Her 
name is Tempest.” 
“I know the witch has a name,” he answered, his 
hand tightening visibly on the golden stem of his goblet. “She 
is our queen after all.” 

THIRTY-THREE 
“You said you could find it,” Tristan growled. “We have 
spent two days in the saddle, and I grow tired of it all.” 
“’Tis here,” insisted Tempest. “I can feel it.” 
“All I feel is a sore arse from sitting on this 
horse,” grumbled Tristan as he squirmed around, trying to find 
a more comfortable position. 
He glanced at Marisa. She reminded him of a wilting white 
rose and he was concerned for her. She had sobbed most of the 
first night of their journey and he had taken her onto his horse, 
afraid she would fall. Marisa had objected as he knew she 
would. He knew she was an excellent horsewoman but the 
shock of her father’s death had drained all of the life from her. 
The next day had been difficult for them all. Marisa was silent 
and withdrawn and had eaten very little. This journey must 
end soon; his sweet little flower was fading, and he did not 
know what to do for her. 
“I think we should just give up and go in another direction. 
’Tis obvious your friend has hidden her cottage with some kind 
of magick, for we certainly cannot find it,” he said softly. 
“Just a little farther. Please.” Tempest was just as weary as 
her brother, and as concerned for Marisa’s health, but she also 
knew that Lysira would be able to help them once they reached 
her. She knew Ravensnest was near. She could feel Adrian’s 
presence. She closed her eyes and mentally searched for 
something, anything which would give her a stronger sense of 
Adrian and Lysira. “I know ’tis near. I can feel it.” 
“Methinks you left your powers back at Windhaven,” 
snorted Tristan. “Else we would have reached it by now.” 
“You are being cruel.” Tempest was hurt. Tristan had never 
belittled her before; he had always been kind and loving. 
“Forgive me,” he said, his voice weary and apologetic. “I 

am hot and tired and hungry, but I should not have berated you 
for it.” 
He did not need to add that he was worried about Marisa; 
Tempest could see it in his eyes whenever he looked at the 
drooping girl. 
He reined in his horse. “Let us just stop for the night. We 
all need to rest.” He looked pointedly at Marisa. 
“But ’tis early in the day yet. We must go on.” Tempest 
was loathe to give up her search. She knew they had to find 
Lysira—and soon! “I know I can find it.” 
“Nay.” Tristan was firm. “We will rest the horses here.” 
To forestall any further protests, he dismounted and hurried to 
help Marisa. She sighed and sagged wearily against him. 
“Tris?” Tempest sat on the ground beneath an old oak tree 
and leaned back wearily. “If we cannot find the cottage...Where 
will we go? What will we do?” 
“I have been thinking upon that. I think we should head 
toward the sea.” He helped Marisa to a mossy patch under a 
nearby tree and removed his cloak so she could use it for a 
pillow. She was soon asleep, exhaustion making tiny lines 
around her sunken eyes. 
“The sea?” Tempest spoke quietly so as not to awaken 
Marisa. She was surprised; Tristan had never ventured that far 
from Castle Windhaven. “Do you know the way? You have 
never been there, Tris. How do you know which way to travel? 
What will we do when we get there? How will we live? What 
if they find us?” 
“Stop asking so many questions.” He put up his hands to 
ward off any more queries. “I know no more than you, little 
sister. I only know that if we do not find Adrian we must get as 
far away from Windhaven as we can.” 
“But...” 
“We will manage.” 
“’Tis of no import anyway,” she said, closing her eyes. “I 
cannot be without Adrian. He is my life.” She opened her eyes 
and leaned toward him. “I love him, Tris. More than life itself. 
He is near. I can feel him.” 
“I have waited a long time for your words, little witch,” 

Adrian’s deep voice rumbled from above her. “I was beginning 
to think ’twas something I would never hear.” 
“Adrian?” She looked around but could not see him. 
“Where are you?” 
“Here,” he answered swinging to the ground from a branch 
high above. 
“You were in a tree.” She suddenly felt silly stating the 
obvious. “Why were you in a tree?” Suspicion hit. ”Were you 
spying on us?” she asked, eyes narrowing. 
“Nay.” He raised his hands and took a step back. “I was 
but watching to make sure you were safe. ’Twas not spying, 
my love.” 
“Do not...” 
“Adrian,” Tristan interrupted before Tempest could say 
more and aggravate their guide. “We have been searching for 
you for days. How did you find us?” 
“’Twas not difficult,” he answered. “You have 
been blundering around like a lost dragon hatchling for hours. 
Anyone with any hearing at all could have found you.” 
“Have you seen a dragon hatchling, Adrian?” Tempest 
leaned forward, her aches and pains forgotten as the subject of 
dragons came up. She had been interested in them since she 
was four years old and had overheard a serving maid 
talking about a dragon witch. It was only much later that she 
learned they had been discussing her. “I have always thought 
dragons were very civilized and highly intelligent. Where did 
you see a lost one? You did not hurt him, did you? I hope not. 
Dragons are so...” 
“Tempest!” Adrian reached out and touched the bruised 
eye gently. He raised his eyebrows in a question, but did not 
ask it aloud as he put his arms around her. “We will discuss 
dragons later. And bruises,” he added. “Mother is expecting 
you. We must go now. And I earnestly hope to hear more of 
this great love you profess for me,” he whispered softly into 
her ear. 
It felt divine having his strong arms around her, holding 
her so closely. Tempest snuggled into his embrace, laid her 
head against his chest and sighed in contentment. She could 

smell his own particular odor of sandalwood and cedar. She 
breathed deeply and sighed. I wish he would kiss me, she 
thought. She wanted to stay right where she was—forever. She 
had not realized just how much she had missed him. 
“Well? Are you two going to stand there all day? I would 
like to put an end to this journey sometime soon.” Tristan’s 
words startled them and they reluctantly broke their embrace. 
*** 
Tempest felt more at home in Lysira’s cottage than she 
ever had at Windhaven. She watched Lysira bustle around, 
preparing a hot meal of venison, tiny new peas with baby 
onions, winter squash from the well-stocked root cellar, spicy 
applesauce, and freshly baked bread. The warmth from the 
hearth and the aromatic smells made her drowsy. Her head 
nodded, and she leaned back in the tall-backed oak chair. Its 
cushions eased her sore bottom and she dozed as the gentle 
atmosphere of the cottage relaxed her tired body. 
“Tempest.” Adrian’s deep voice intruded on her 
sleep. ”Supper is ready.” 
She opened her eyes, startled for a moment, wondering 
where she was, then remembered her mother lying ‘midst the 
rushes on the floor of her sleeping room, cold and lifeless. She 
also remembered Sardon, still looking like William, lying close 
to Christiana. She had killed them both with her power. She 
was no longer a white witch. She had taken lives and entered 
into the darkness. 
But she did not feel like an evil person. She had taken the 
life from Sardon because he threatened her. He attacked me, 
she thought. He would have forced me to be his slave. Besides, 
he killed William. He was a truly evil man and had deserved 
what had happened. But her reasoning did not assuage her 
feelings of guilt. Christiana was not evil—just a selfish, jealous 
woman. True, she had attacked Tempest, but she had not 
deserved to die for it. 
“Little witch?” Adrian called again. 
“Aye, Adrian,” she answered as she rose stiffly from the 
chair. ”I am coming.” 
She had little appetite. Her mother’s face haunted her. Her 

throat closed with emotion, and she could not swallow the tasty 
food in front of her. She rested her head in her hands and once 
again wished for the healing tears she so badly needed. Marisa 
had cried for William, and now she was able to join them and 
to eat heartily. But Tempest wished she could just crawl into 
bed and sleep until... 
“Tempest.” Lysira’s soft voice drew her from her 
reveries. ”Come with me.” 
“What?” She looked into Lysira’s azure eyes. ”I...” 
“I need to show you something,” Lysira interrupted, 
somewhat impatiently. “’Tis important, child. ’Tis something 
you need to see now. Come with me.” She rose from the table, 
and Tempest obediently followed her. 
Lysira raised the lid of her mahogany chest and carefully 
removed a small bundle wrapped in a sapphire blue cotton cloth 
entwined with golden threads. The gold threads wove a pattern 
in the cloth, but Tempest could not discern the details. 
Lysira led her into a small alcove separated from the rest 
of the cottage by a heavy green curtain. When she let the curtain 
fall they were not enclosed by darkness as Tempest expected. 
A soft muted glow emanated from the walls. It reminded her of 
the walls of the tent where Lysira had read her future from the 
tarot cards so long ago. 
Lysira said nothing as she laid the bundle gently on the 
table in the heart of the tiny room. She unfolded the cloth, 
spreading it carefully across the table, smoothing it as she went. 
She stepped to a chair, and Tempest finally saw what the bundle 
had contained. 
On the table rested a glowing, azure crystal ball. It was 
centered in a golden pentagram, surrounded by a field of tiny 
stars that seemed to have a life of their own as they twinkled in 
the muted light. 
Lysira passed her hands slowly over the crystal and, each 
time they crossed, it grew brighter, throbbing with arcane life. 
Tempest held her breath in awe as the crystal glowed more 
and more brightly. She was enthralled. Never before had she 
seen a thing of such beauty. 
“Lysira,” she began. 

“Speak not. Only gaze into the orb and see.” 
Tempest’s eyes moved over the crystal, watching it glow, 
watching it pulse with life. Her heart slowed and began to beat 
in time with the crystal. The room seemed to recede as she felt 
herself drawn into its depths. 
She was at Castle Windhaven, in her sleeping 
room. Christiana lay in Tempest’s bed, eyes closed, her chest 
rising and falling in deep slumber. Wendall sat by her side, 
head bowed, tenderly holding her slim hand. Tempest wanted 
to reach out, to touch her father, to offer him solace, but she 
could not move. She felt like an outsider. Pain rose in her chest 
as she heard her father’s words. 
“Christiana, please wake,” he whispered brokenly. “I miss 
you so. I need to know where our daughter is. I am so frightened 
for her. William can tell me nothing except that you did 
something to anger her, and she left. I need to know, beloved. 
Wake. Please wake.” He sobbed quietly as he lifted Christiana’s 
hand to his cheek. 
A figure began to form behind Wendall. It grew from a 
smoky mist, then slowly took shape. Sardon. He was still alive! 
She had not killed him! She had failed again. Why, oh why had 
she not been strong enough to remove his evil presence from 
the Earth forever? Hatred for him coursed through her body as 
she watched the scene unfold. 
Sardon watched Wendall for a long time, his saturnine face 
impassive. He listened to Wendall’s heartbroken pleas to 
Christiana and a small satisfied smile crossed his face as he 
lifted his hand and caressed the opal ring on his left hand. 
As he stroked the glittering black ring, his features began 
to alter. His long face shortened and became fuller, became the 
familiar face of William Mirabelle. His hair grew longer and 
became lighter. His onyx eyes changed color, became the color 
of newly turned earth. His body grew taller and muscular as it 
fleshed out. He was once again William—Tempest’s betrothed. 
He reached out to touch the grieving Wendall’s shoulder. 
“Nay. Father,” Tempest cried out, trying to warn him, trying 
to help. But Wendall did not hear her. He turned to Sardon. 
“William,” he said, “Thank goodness you are here. We 

must find my daughter. Tempest can help Christiana. I know 
she can. I am afraid she will die without Tempest’s healing 
powers. Miriam is dead, and there is no one else.” He bowed 
his head in despair. 
“I shall find her,” promised Sardon. “Have no doubt, 
Lord Wendall. I shall find her.” He looked away, across 
the room. 
His eyes, hidden from Wendall’s view, began to change, to 
distort—first scarlet, then ruby, then deep maroon. As they 
metamorphosed, they glowed, brighter with each shade of red 
until they took on a malevolent essence. Sardon’s foul gaze 
blazed across time and space into Tempest’s chaste emerald 
eyes, and he smiled. 
Lysira’s crystal ball turned black. 
*** 
In the far distance another crystal ball quivered with life. 
It too, glowed with soft blue radiance. 
The raven-haired woman and the golden man stared into 
their crystal. They seemed frozen in time as they silently waited 
for those malicious red eyes to depart. They neither moved 
nor spoke. They held their breath in anticipation—and fear. 
The crimson eyes turned to the motionless twosome. They 
burned stronger; they grew larger, until they encompassed the 
crystal ball. 
The blue crystal shuddered, vibrated, thrummed 
with malevolent energy. A small crack formed on its 
surface, then healed, then appeared again. 
The woman cried out in anger, in pain. The man circled 
the crystal with his large, calloused hands. Agony flashed 
across his face, but he did not release the crystal. 
The woman’s hands joined his as they fought the vile force 
together. 
Gradually the crystal calmed. The vibrations ceased, and 
a soft blue light peeked from their entwined hands. 

THIRTY-FOUR 
Tempest’s scream of horror pierced Adrian’s heart, and he 
flung open the curtain to Lysira’s private sanctuary. He could 
not fathom any reason for her scream. Lysira’s cottage was 
the safest place he knew. There could be no danger here. 
His mother was seated at the small, round table. Her 
hands stretched toward a throbbing black crystal as if to ward 
off great danger, her face ghostly white, her outstretched hands 
trembling. A pale blue light surrounded her. She did not look 
up when he and Tristan bolted into the room. 
Tempest’s soft moans drew Adrian’s attention from his 
mother. She stood across the table from Lysira; a radiant white 
light emanated from her raised hands, pointed at the pulsating 
crystal ball. She, too, was pale and trembling. Sweat beaded 
on her forehead as she strained against an unseen force. 
Eyes dilated and full of fear, she stared intently at the crystal 
ball. She did not lower her arms. Neither woman moved as the 
room grew deathly cold and quiet. 
“Mother? Tempest?” Adrian broke the oppressive silence. 
He felt a visceral lurch deep within. He swallowed and tried to 
speak, but he could not open his mouth as his eyes were drawn 
inexorably to the malevolent black crystal ball. 
He had found little to fear in his one hundred years, but 
deep foreboding found a foothold in him as he stared at 
the malevolent object in the center of the table. He could not 
tear his eyes away from the orb. His body quivered with effort 
as he fought to withdraw, to break the ensorcelment upon them 
all, but he was powerless. 
The blackness throbbed outward, pushed against 
Lysira’s palms, curled seductively around her fingers. The foul 

smell of death, of sulfuric hellfire, permeated the small room, 
and Adrian could hear Tristan retching behind him. Still he 
stood, immobile. 
He tried again to speak. 
“Mother,” he croaked. “Dragon.” It was all he could 
manage as the room, the crystal, his reality, swam before his 
misting eyes. 
He fought. He struggled. He felt himself changing, growing. 
His golden eyes focused on Lysira. Matching eyes locked with 
his. As one, they turned again to the crystal. As one, those 
golden dragons’ eyes glowed, burned, pushed. 
The vile blackness receded, became muted charcoal, faded, 
then flared like a comet blazing across a midnight sky. 
Identical pairs of golden eyes burned like hellfire into the 
comet’s light, and a howl of rage shook the cottage. 
The crystal ball cracked. Thunder crashed and 
lightning flashed. Darkness descended. 
Tempest crumpled to the floor. Lysira sprawled 
unconscious across the cloth-covered table, her hand touching 
the crystal ball as if in supplication. Adrian’s knees buckled 
and Marisa screamed. Adrian felt Tristan’s hand clutch his 
shoulder in desperation as his knees hit the floor. 
*** 
Tempest’s head pounded, her heart beat erratically, and 
she was thirsty. She tried to lick her lips but found no moisture 
in her mouth. She groaned and opened her eyes. 
She was lying on Adrian’s bed near the hearth. A warm 
fire sent its cheery heat into the room, but she was cold—colder 
than she could ever remember. She shivered and drew the heavy 
fur closer. Her entire body felt drained and powerless as she 
sat up and looked around the cottage. 
Adrian was slumped dejectedly on a small bench next to 
Lysira’s carved oak bed, his head in his hands. The green velvet 
canopy was drawn back, and she could see Lysira lying 
motionless under a soft fur cover. Her skin was pale and waxen, 
her chest barely moving with each labored breath. She looked 
so small and helpless it frightened Tempest. Lysira had always 
seemed like a stronger person than most, someone who could 

solve all problems, heal all wounds. 
Marisa hovered at the foot of the bed watching Adrian and 
Lysira anxiously. 
“Adrian? Marisa?” Tempest moved slowly across the room. 
“What happened? Why...” Memory returned in a flood of 
images. Red eyes, terrible pain, hellfire. She remembered it all 
and shuddered. 
Adrian looked at her but did not speak. His eyes were filled 
with pain as she walked unsteadily to him. 
“I cannot help her, Tempest,” he whispered brokenly as 
she laid her hand on his shoulder. “I fear she is dying.” 
“Nay. She cannot die. I will not let her.” 
“Can you help her?” Hope was reborn in his eyes as he 
released Lysira’s hand and stood. “Tell me what you need. I 
will get it. Help her, Tempest. Please. I cannot lose her.” 
“Get Tris,” she said, her strength returning as she tapped 
into her inner resources and analyzed the difficult task before 
her. “He has been with me many time when I have gathered my 
healing herbs. He will know what to get for me.” 
“He is not here.” 
“Where is he?” Suddenly Tempest was worried. She knew 
they had all been in the room with the crystal. “Is he all right?” 
“Aye. He fares well.” 
“Then why would he leave when Lysira is so ill?” she asked 
in confusion. “He would know that I will need his help.” 
“I sent him after my father,” Adrian said quietly. “He must 
be here if she dies.” 
“I will not let her die!” 
“Father needs to be here, Tempest.” 
“Aye, he needs to be here.” 
“Tempest?” Marisa spoke for the first time. “I know a little 
about herbs. May I help?” 
“Aye, Marisa,” she spoke grimly. “We have much to do, 
and I would welcome your help.” 
*** 
“Damien.” Lysira’s weak whisper drew Tempest quickly 
to her side. 
“Lysira?” Tempest called her name but there was no 

response. The woman lay pale and motionless, her long, dark 
eyelashes almost hidden by the sooty circles under her eyes. 
She had neither moved nor spoken for six days. Her body was 
wasted, and she looked like an old, old woman. Death hovered 
near, and Tempest was powerless to stop it. 
She bent her head and prayed. She could think of nothing 
else. She had exhausted her knowledge and knew it would take 
an intercession from the gods to save Adrian’s mother. 
“Goddess, please,” she whispered brokenly. “Do not take 
her now. We need her.” 
The heavy wooden door to the cottage was flung open with 
a bang, propelling Tempest hastily to her feet. In the 
doorway stood the largest man she had ever seen. She moved 
to stand between Lysira and the intruder. Lysira must be 
protected! 
Adrian. She glanced frantically around the cottage. Where 
was Adrian? He must be dead. She knew he was dead. He would 
have been here beside her to keep this intruder from his 
mother...from her...But she had not felt his death. She would 
have known if he were injured or dying. 
She raised her hands, preparing herself. She had failed when 
she had attempted to destroy the wicked Sardon. Would she 
fail again? 
Nay. She was Lysira’s last defense. She could not fail. She 
would use her power to her utmost ability. She was strong. For 
Lysira she would be invincible. 
“Move aside, woman,” the intruder growled. 
“Nay,” she answered breathlessly. “You shall not harm her. 
She is ill, and I will burn you to cinders if you come any closer.” 
She felt the power began to rise from deep within her, felt 
it flowing up, up into her arms, centering itself in the palms of 
her hands, curling around her fingers. She cradled the power 
like a newborn child and waited. 
“You would do battle with me to keep me from my wife?” 
the man asked in surprise. 
“Your...your wife?” Tempest stammered. 
“Aye,” he answered, gentler now. “My wife.” 
“Adrian? Where is Adrian?” She was shocked and 

skeptical. 
“Caring for my steed. You had better release that power, 
little witch, or return it to whence it came. ‘Tis a dangerous 
weapon you hold there.” 
“Power?” Tempest looked at her hands. Tiny blue sparks 
arced from fingertip to fingertip like fireflies on a warm summer 
night. “I do not...” 
“Visualize,” he said. “Lead the power slowly back to its 
origin.” 
“I cannot.” Tempest realized she had never had to withdraw 
her power. Whenever she drew it from within her she always 
released it. Lysira had never taught her how to dampen it, to 
return it to its source. 
“Like a lost child,” he explained, “take its hand and lead it 
home.” 
Tempest closed her eyes. She could see the power 
flickering illusively before her. She envisioned her body, 
reached out a hand to the shining light of her power, felt its 
force cling to her hand in loving trust. She gathered it close to 
her breast, carried it gently to the core of her being and released 
it. She opened her eyes and looked at the tall man waiting 
patiently in the doorway. 
“Damien Westbrooke,” said the dark man who stood before 
her. “Mate to Lysira and father to Adrian. May I see my wife 
now?” 
*** 
“So,” the man observed, “Damien has returned.” 
“Aye,” said the woman with a small smile. “He still looks 
as handsome as ever.” 
“Humph. He is still a large, overgrown boor as far as I 
can tell.” 
The woman raised her eyebrows, and her smile grew. 
“Large, aye,” she said softly, remembering times past. “But 
never boorish. There has always been a tenderness deep within 
the man. It took Lysira to tame the Devil Knight.” 
“Tame him?” the man snorted as he raised his goblet for a 
sip of sweet red wine. “The only time he has ever resembled 
‘tame’ is in her presence.” 

“He has been compassionate with Tempest.” 
“Our Queen is a true witch,” he said solemnly. “He would 
do well to be gentle with her. ’Tis within her power to destroy 
him.” 
“Is it?” The woman’s dark eyes gazed into the distance. 
“I wonder...” 

THIRTY-FIVE 
Handsome was not a word one would use to describe 
Damien Westbrooke. Rugged? Mayhap. Ferocious? Definitely. 
But he did not have the chiseled, golden features of his son. 
Tempest wondered fleetingly what had drawn Lysira to him. 
Damien was extraordinarily tall; he bent his head as he 
entered the cottage so he would not hit the door frame. Dressed 
in black, from his starkly black tunic to his shiny leather boots, 
Damien looked every inch the Devil Knight. Black hair, grown 
well past his shoulders, and ebony eyes completed the picture. 
She had grown up hearing stories of the Devil Knight but 
they had simply been stories to scare children—until the 
moment she met Damien. She also remembered a dragon in 
those tales. A golden dragon. 
“May I go to my wife now, little tiger?” Damien interrupted 
her reveries. His eyes filled with pain as he stared at the still 
form lying on the bed. 
“Of course.” She stepped aside. “I did not mean to keep 
you from her.” 
His dark eyes flickered to her momentarily. “You could not 
have stopped me had I not been willing,” he stated firmly as he 
brushed past her and knelt by the bed. 
“’Sira,” he said softly, taking her limp hand in his. “Wake, 
my love. ’Tis Damien.” He gently brushed a lock of flaxen 
hair from her forehead. 
Lysira’s head turned toward his deep, gravelly voice. Her 
eyes opened, and her hand fluttered to caress his jaw. 
“Damien,” she breathed. 
“Aye, my love. I am here.” Tenderly, he kissed the palm of 
her hand. Lysira smiled softly and closed her eyes, her breathing 

easier than it had been in days. 
Tempest’s eyes clouded as she stumbled from the cottage. 
Such love was a private thing and not for her to witness. She 
needed to find Adrian and tell him his mother had finally come 
out of her deep sleep, thanks to the arrival of her mate. Love 
was a powerful medicine. She just hoped it would be powerful 
enough to heal Lysira. 
*** 
’Twas an idyllic day. His mother was on the mend and his 
father was...well, Damien still wore his mantle of Devil Knight 
proudly. He had not changed in the years since Adrian had seen 
him. Nor had the deep love his mother and father held for each 
other. It had been almost miraculous how Lysira had rallied 
after Damien’s arrival. True love was surely a magical thing. 
His father had always been a harsh and demanding man 
who had earned the respect of everyone with whom he came in 
contact. Adrian was no exception. Damien only gave an order 
once and he assumed unquestioning obedience. Adrian had 
learned that lesson early in life. 
Memories of childhood flooded back. His father had been 
a hard taskmaster. Damien had taught him to respect and value 
others. Sometimes the lessons had come at the end of a fist, 
sometimes with a quiet explanation, sometimes with a heart-
wrenching look of disappointment or exasperation. Adrian had 
learned, and learned well, to respect his father. 
But he also had learned how much Damien loved 
him. Damien had been livid with anger after that first dragon-
battle. Adrian remembered how badly he had been hurt and 
how upset and worried Lysira had been. But he would never 
forget his father’s rage at the black that had wounded him. 
Damien had gone hunting. He had killed every black dragon— 
except one. He had not been able to defeat S’rdonne; as a matter 
of fact, he had almost lost his life in the process. ’Twas then 
that Adrian had realized just how much his father loved him. 
Damien’s gentle manner with his wife had a magnetic effect 
on Tempest and that bothered Adrian. There was no reason 
for him to be jealous. But he was. There was no getting around 
the fact. Every day for the past week, when Adrian looked for 

her, he found her at Damien’s feet, listening to some tale of 
old. ’Twas beginning to bother him more than he cared to 
admit. Marisa was not so fascinated by Damien, why was 
Tempest? 
This day was no different. Her happy laughter rang out as 
he rounded the corner of the cottage. Adrian dropped the freshly 
killed buck by the step. 
“I killed it,” he grumped, looking at his father. “You and 
Tristan can dress it out.” He turned and stalked off, his back 
stiff and unyielding. 
No one offered any comment or followed him as he headed 
to the pond to bathe. Mayhap the water would cool his temper. 
The icy water felt good, and soon he was splashing and 
humming tunelessly to himself. His ablutions finally finished, 
he climbed to a large flat rock and lay down to let the warm 
spring sun dry him. The air smelled fresh, the scent of pine, fir 
and wildflowers flowed around him, and birds sang in the 
treetops high overhead. He closed his eyes. Tempest’s face 
swam before him, her unruly red locks, her sweet smile, the 
sparkle of mischief that came so rarely to her emerald eyes. 
Gods how he loved her. His heart felt as though it would burst. 
Soon she would belong to him. In his mind, everything 
was prepared. All he needed to do now was ask her to 
become his mate. It made him nervous, but he had rehearsed 
his proposal many times. He only hoped he would not become 
tongue-tied and embarrass himself. He should go through it 
again—just to make sure... 
“Adrian?” At the sound of her voice his eyes flew open. 
She stood about ten feet away, gazing up at him, that rare 
twinkle in her eyes. “The sun will burn you if you lie there 
much longer. What are you daydreaming about? You look 
awfully smug. I do believe your skin is beginning to turn a 
nice shade of rose—all over.” She giggled. 
“Tempest!” He felt his face burn with a newfound 
embarrassment. “I have no clothes on. You should not be 
standing there staring at me, much less making comments upon 
my state of undress.” He had finally become reaccustomed 
to wearing clothes and, for some strange reason, felt 

uncomfortable having her look at his naked body. Am I 
becoming too human? he wondered. 
“Turn around so I can dress.” He moved his hands to cover 
himself. 
“Why?” A small smile played at the edges of her inviting 
lips. 
He imagination took flight as he remembered the silky feel 
of those sweet lips. He remembered his tongue meeting hers. 
As he remembered his body began to respond. It was becoming 
very difficult to keep the lower portion of his anatomy 
concealed behind his hand. He grimaced. 
“Are you in pain, my love?” Tempest asked sweetly, 
running that tormenting pink tongue over her dusky lips. 
He could not take his eyes from her tongue as it glided 
slower and slower. He felt an ache deep within and groaned 
softly. 
“Tempest,” he said between clenched teeth. “You 
are torturing me. I beg you, please stop.” 
“Stop?” she asked with feigned innocence. “I am but 
standing here conversing with you. Do you wish me to leave?” 
“Nay. Leave me not, little demon. ’Tis sweet torture, but I 
can relieve it if you but say the word.” Using one free hand, 
Adrian slid awkwardly from the rock. He also scraped about 
two inches of flesh from his tender buttocks. 
He yelped and reached for his bottom. The pain 
accomplished two things—-it took his mind completely from 
her delectable lips and solved his problem of trying to cover 
his erect manhood, for it no longer stood proud and ready but 
seemed to be trying to shrivel up into his body. 
All levity ceased as Tempest hurried to him. ”Are you 
hurt?” she asked, concern filling her eyes. “Let me see.” 
“Nay!” He backed away from her, too humiliated to let her 
tend to the inconsequential scrape. “’Tis nothing.” 
“You are hurt,” she insisted with a frown. “I must see how 
badly. Are you bleeding? I see blood. Let me see to your 
wound.” 
“Just...leave...me...alone!” he rasped. “I do not need you 
to look at anything. I am just fine.” 

“I just wanted to help.” Her lower lip trembled. “You do 
not have to yell at me.” 
“I did not yell.” 
“You did so!” 
“Tempest. My dearest love,” he pleaded, raising his hands 
in a conciliatory gesture. “I but scraped my backside on the 
rock. I am fine. Really.” 
“You are certain?” She grew calmer. 
“Aye,” he said, smiling. “Now will you please turn your 
back so I can dress?” 
“Adrian,” her tinkling laughter warmed his heart. “I 
have seen you without your clothes before. You are being 
foolish about this.” She reached for his tunic and handed it to 
him. “You have even seen me unclad. Why this modesty of a 
sudden?” 
“I just...Tempest will you marry me?” Oh Gods above, 
that came out all wrong. I did not plan it this way. What an 
idiot I am! he thought with disgust. Well, no matter how poorly 
I did it, the words have been spoken. He waited expectantly 
for her reply. 
A raucous birdcall caught their attention. A lone crow flew 
high over head. 
“One crow for sorrow...” Tempest began. Two others joined 
it in its circle dance. Tempest smiled. 
“Aye, my love, I will wed you, for the crows are never 
wrong.” 
“What do you mean?” he asked, confused. “What have 
crows to do with our being wed?” 
“’Tis an old saying,” she recalled, “handed down from 
mother to child.” 
“But I have never known you to be superstitious 
before. Why now?” 
“’Tis not superstition. ’Tis a truth, handed down from 
mother to daughter from times long ago. Miriam taught it to 
me when I was but a babe. 
One crow for sorrow, 
Two for mirth, 
Three for a wedding, 

Four for a birth.” 
She caught her breath as four more crows joined the group, 
circling lazily overhead. 
“Is there more?” asked Adrian. He watched the circling 
crows. Their raucous cries invaded his senses. 
“Aye,” she answered softly. She watched him intently as 
she quoted the rest of the childhood verse. 
“Five for silver, 
Six for gold... 
Seven’s a secret that’s never been told.” 
He swallowed, looking into her eyes. They drew him deeper 
into a sea-green pool of love and trust. His secret...’twas not 
yet time... 
“What secret, Adrian?” she whispered. “What secret do 
you withhold from the one you would wed?” 
“Secret?” He swallowed again. “I...what do you mean?” 
“’Tis a sign,” she explained. “The crow sign never lies. I 
shall wed you, for ’tis what the gods wish, and what I wish 
also. But the crows tell me you have a secret. I would know 
this secret, Adrian. I cannot be your wife unless you tell me 
your secret. ’Tis as simple as that.” 
“I cannot.” He bowed his head in dejection. 
She walked away without another word, leaving 
him standing alone and miserable. “What am I to do?” He shook 
his fist angrily at the sky. “Tell me what to do. I cannot live 
without her.” 
*** 
They watched the anger drain from his handsome 
face. They watched dejection set it. They could feel his 
misery like a physical force. 
“We must help him,” whispered the woman. Her 
raven tresses curtained her eyes as she bent toward the 
softly glowing orb. She pushed them back impatiently. 
In the crystal, the figure of the young man lay back upon 
the stone, his arm flung over his eyes. She realized he had 
made his plea and was waiting for an answer—a sign. 
“Tell him he may speak the truth to her,” she pleaded. ”’Tis 
cruel to let him suffer so.” 

The golden-haired man reached out and, without a 
word, moved his hand gently over the crystal ball 
and disappeared. 
A shadow passed over the young man in the crystal. 
He lifted his arm and looked toward the sky. Wonder filled his 
eyes, then joy, then pure elation as he leaped from the stone 
and headed into the forest. 

THIRTY-SIX 
“Mother! I saw him! I saw the Great Wyrm!” 
Adrian’s elation made him breathless as he raced into the 
clearing. He was so excited he could scarcely speak. The Great 
Wyrm had not been sighted in centuries! Rumors hinted of his 
death, but nothing had ever been proven. 
Damien and Lysira were sitting on the steps to the cottage 
and leaped to their feet at his words. 
“You saw T’bor?” asked Damien, incredulously. 
“Was Angeline...was my mother with him?” Lysira’s voice 
trilled with hope. 
“Nay, Mother. ’Twas only Grandfather I saw.” Adrian felt 
an almost physical pain at the look of disappointment on 
Lysira’s face. “But she must have been nearby. You know he is 
never far from her.” 
“I must go to them.” Lysira’s body began to change. Her 
pale skin ripened into gold, her eyes glowed, then changed 
from azure to burnished gold. Her body trembled as it began to 
grow. 
“’Sira!” Damien cried loudly. “You cannot. You have been 
too ill. To change now could kill you.” He pulled her changing 
body into his strong arms, trying to stop her, trying to keep her 
safe. 
“Damien, please. I must. It has been too long,” she said 
brokenly. “I must know.” 
“Nay,” he said as he held her tighter. “You will obey me in 
this.” 
Lysira acquiesced as she returned to human form and laid 
her head on his broad chest. “I miss them so,” she sobbed. “I 
just wish to see them one more time, Damien. Can you not 

understand?” 
“I do understand, my love,” he replied, rubbing her back 
gently. “You must rest, ‘Sira. You are still too weak.” 
“Nay.” As she pulled away from Damien, Adrian could 
see her gathering strength. “I would hear our son tell of this 
thing.” 
“Speak, son,” Damien ordered as he and Lysira sat back 
upon the stone steps. “Tell us what you saw.” 
*** 
Tempest had almost reached the creek when she realized 
she had forgotten to bring soap. She was just about to round 
the corner of the cottage when she heard Adrian’s excited voice. 
She bent to retrieve her dropped stocking, and she heard the 
phrase “great wyrm.” She froze and listened. 
It could not be. Adrian...Lysira...Dragons? Nay, 
’twas impossible. She would have known. Tempest’s head 
reeled as she listened to them. She leaned against the cottage 
wall, her face paling as Adrian told his parents what he had 
seen. The clothes she had readied for washing lay forgotten at 
her feet where they had fallen from her suddenly nerveless 
fingers. 
She knew she should not stand in the shadows listening 
like some thief in the night, but she could not move. 
“I wished for an answer, Mother,” she heard Adrian say, 
“and he was there. He flew high overhead, circled thrice then 
was gone. ’Twas him. I know ’twas Grandfather.” 
“There is only one Great Wyrm,” agreed Lysira. “The others 
were defeated in the dragon wars. The bards used to sing of it, 
of how the Great Wyrm is the most powerful, the most magical 
and the oldest of all dragons. But I have not heard the dragon’s 
song for many years. I believe the humans have forgotten it.” 
“I had thought you two were the last of the golds,” Damien 
mused. “But if you saw a Great Wyrm and it was a gold, then 
it could only have been T’bor. I wonder why he was there. Do 
you suppose he was sending us a message?” 
“Aye,” answered Adrian. “He was a messenger from the 
gods, commanding me to tell Tempest what I am, before we 
are wed.” 

“She is too young, Adrian. She will be frightened.” 
“She is strong, Mother, and she loves me. I remember well 
the night of her birth; I was there, remember? We are soul joined. 
She will wed me.” 
Tempest had heard enough. ’Twas time to face the dragons. 
She straightened her back and marched around the corner of 
the cottage. They did not notice her at first, so intent were they 
upon their conversation. 
“Adrian,” she interrupted loudly, then cleared her throat 
and continued in a softer voice. “I would speak with you.” 
He advanced toward her. “Aye, my love, ’tis time 
we spoke.” He reached for her hand, but she held it stiffly at 
her side and moved away from him. He glanced back at Lysira 
as they walked into the woods. 
“Tempest? Are you feeling ill?” 
But she could not yet speak. She could not answer. Was 
she ill? Aye, she felt ill, but ’twas something else... 
She must think. Her sweet, handsome Adrian—a dragon? 
’Twas beyond belief. Could she spend the rest of her mortal 
life with him? Dragons lived for centuries. She was human; 
their time together would be so brief. And what if she were to 
bear children. What would they be? Human? Dragon? Images 
swam through her mind as they walked deeper into the woods, 
images of herself seated in a chair, tiny dragon children at her 
feet, playing happily with tiny human children while a golden 
dragon circled high overhead. She felt her heart overflowing 
with love for this, her family. But they were dragon children, 
different, alien. How could dragons and humans mate, beget 
offspring, live together in harmony? 
Then another image flashed before her. She was seated in 
the same chair, but this time she was shriveled and gray. There 
were no children, there were no flashes of a golden dragon as 
he soared majestically overhead. She was alone, her heart dead 
in her chest. She was unloved, desolate. 
Tempest knew she was bound to Adrian forever. She loved 
him. 
She shook her head to clear it. ’Twas an easy decision to 
make. She loved him, and they could face anything so long as 

they had each other. She would not end up an old woman, alone 
and unloved, never bearing the children of the man she loved. 
Instead, she would love this dragon man, would bear his 
children, would spend her short time on Earth loving and being 
loved. She knew with certainty that even a short time with 
Adrian would be infinitely better than an eternity without him. 
They reached the clearing where she had watched Adrian 
sun himself on the huge granite boulder. 
“Sit,” she commanded, pointing to a smaller rock. 
Adrian sat. 
“I would hear your secret now.” She stood before him, 
hands clasped demurely in front of her. She locked eyes with 
him and waited for him to speak. She held her breath, hoping, 
praying, he would tell her the truth. 
“I...” he cleared his throat nervously. “I am a dragon.” He 
stopped and waited for her to speak. Now it was his turn to 
hope, to pray. 
“And?” 
“And? And what? I have just told you that I am not a man. 
I am a dragon.” 
“Show me.” 
“Show you? Show you what?” Adrian was confounded. 
She was not reacting as he had expected. She showed no 
surprise. She asked him no questions. Did she already know 
the truth? Nay, she could not know. 
“If you are truly a dragon, prove it. Turn into a dragon here 
and now.” 
“I cannot.” He bowed his head in dejection, clasped hands 
between his knees. 
“Cannot or will not?” She was relentless. 
“Cannot,” he whispered. “I have tried.” He raised brimming 
eyes to hers. “I cannot become what I so need to be. I cannot 
become a dragon.” 
“Why? Have you forgotten how? Are you cursed, mayhap? 
Are you ensorcelled?” She worried and chewed on the idea 
like a mastiff with a haunch of fresh venison. 
“Cursed?” He thought back but could remember nothing 
which would make him think he was cursed. “Nay, I think not. 

I cannot recall anything between the time I battled the black 
and the time you found me under your tree.” 
“Black? Black what?” she asked in confusion. Then the 
truth of his statement dawned on her. “You fought a black 
dragon? Is that why you were hurt? Goddess, Adrian. You could 
have died fighting a black dragon!” 
“You forget I was a golden dragon at the time, little witch,” 
he pointed out with a grin. “I have fought the black many times 
in the past, and one day I shall defeat him.” 
“I will not have my husband fighting dragons,” she 
said firmly. “He will stay at home and help me raise our 
children.” 
“Your husband? Did you say your husband?” Adrian 
was stunned. “Does this mean you will marry me even though 
I could turn into a dragon and fly away? Well, that is if I ever 
remember how to turn back into a dragon. 
“I told you we would marry when you told me your secret.” 
Tempest grinned at the look of shock on his face. “I know it 
now, so we can wed any time.” 
“Now!” Adrian grabbed her slight figure in his arms and 
twirled her around. Her green woolen skirts flew around them, 
and she wrapped her arms tightly around his neck. Their happy 
laughter rang through the ancient forest. 
“I will tell Mother,” he shouted in ecstasy. “She is a dragon 
queen and a priestess of the Old Path. She can marry us.” 
“Lysira is a...dragon?” Vague memories of golden scales, 
of shining golden dragon’s eyes. But where? When? When she 
had been poisoned? Aye. Adrian was a dragon. His parents 
would be dragons, also. “Damien...is he also a dragon?” She 
was almost afraid to ask. Damien was ferocious enough to be 
a dragon. 
“Nay,” he answered, grabbing her hand. “My father is as 
human as you, although some might say he is mostly demon.” 
He grinned. 
“We must hurry home and speak with them, my 
love,” Tempest whispered in his ear, her husky voice doing 
all sorts of wonderful things to his body. “For I do not believe 
I can wait much longer.” 

***
She smiled and leaned back in her chair. “Finally,” she 
exclaimed. “Now Tempest shall come into her full powers. This 
has been a wonderful game, dearest. I am so glad you began 
it all.” She turned to him, but he was not looking into the 
crystal ball. 
He stared at nothing, the look in his eyes showing a mixture 
of pain and awe. “It felt good,” he whispered. ”It felt right 
somehow, that form. I remember a time, long ago...a time of 
freedom, of soaring across the heavens...of great battles. ’Tis 
as though I were truly a golden dragon. Mayhap...” 
A look of concern crossed her face. She drew his hand to 
her lips and kissed it gently. “What do you remember, my 
darling?” she asked, looking deep into his golden eyes. “Do 
you remember Before?” 
“I remember,” he replied as a tear trickled down 
his rugged cheek. “Gods, how I remember Before.” 

THIRTY-SEVEN 
Beltane. Tomorrow would be the last of three fertility 
rituals. Imbolc, celebrated as winter grew milder; Ostera, 
celebrated in the early spring; and Beltane, celebrated as spring 
grew and bloomed in wild abandon. Tomorrow they would 
celebrate the union of the God and Goddess. Tomorrow he 
would wed Tempest. 
Lysira had made them wait to wed, made them wait 
until Beltane. But she had been kind; she had kept them busy. 
Adrian and Tristan trudged deep into the woods to find the 
perfect tree for a maypole. They found a tall, straight fir tree, 
felled it easily, and began stripping the limbs—all but the 
topmost branches. Those they left, like a crown of glory to 
hold the circlet of flowers and red and white ribbons which 
would be tied securely to the pole. Tonight they would erect 
the maypole and tomorrow... 
“Adrian, did you hear what I just told you?” 
“Forgive me, Tristan. I was thinking about tomorrow.” 
“Aye. And I was speaking of tomorrow.” Tristan sighed. 
“Did you hear a word of what I just said?” 
“Nay.” Adrian had the good grace to look sheepish. 
“I have asked Marisa to be my wife.” 
“And her answer?” 
“She has agreed.” A huge smile spread across Tristan’s 
face. “I still cannot believe she has agreed to wed me. She is so 
perfect, so gentle and loving and I am...” His voice trailed off 
as he remembered how happy Marisa had been. 
“Beltane,” she had said with a gentle smile. “Can we marry 
on Beltane? Would you ask Adrian if we can wed when he and 
Tempest have their ceremony? Tempest is my best friend. 

‘Twould be wonderful to have a double wedding.” 
“You are?” 
Tristan looked confused. 
“You did not finish what you were saying. You said ‘I 
am”....” 
“I am a bastard, Adrian. I have no title nor holdings. My 
father has not acknowledged me, and may never do it. I am not 
nearly good enough for one such as she. She is so beautiful 
and so perfect. Mayhap I should not have asked her to be my 
wife.” 
“Nay, Tristan, you will make her a good husband. But is it 
not too soon after the death of her father? Should you not wait 
for her mourning period?” 
“She is alone now. She needs a protector. I do not think I 
can wait, Adrian.” Tristan’s face grew red with embarrassment, 
and Adrian grinned. 
“I will speak to Tempest and my mother. I am sure they 
will agree. A double wedding! Aye!” He threw his arm around 
Tristan’s shoulders. “A double wedding!” 
“Now let us get this maypole back to the cottage! There is 
still much to be done!” 
They sang loudly as they carried the newly cut maypole 
through the woods, each man happier than they had been in a 
long while. 
*** 
Adrian’s thoughts were on the coming day. Tomorrow 
Tempest would be his bride, and he was afraid—more afraid 
than he had ever been. He had lived a hundred years, fought 
dragons to the death, seen man battle man for such paltry things 
as a piece of land or a rich treasure and had even faced his 
father down in a contest of wills—but he had never bedded a 
woman. He remembered how close he and Tempest had come 
that day at Windhaven but... 
Adrian knew what men and women did to procreate. He 
had all the information, but he was afraid, afraid he would hurt 
the woman he loved, afraid he would disappoint her, afraid he 
would somehow destroy her love by being inept. Afraid he 
would fail. 

He sighed as he wrapped the long, white silk ribbon around 
the small bundle of wood. 
“Adrian?” Damien sat on the step beside him. “You look 
worried.” 
“Aye, Father,” he answered, looking at Damien, a frown 
on his face. “Tomorrow...” He cleared his throat, tried to speak 
but could not find the words to voice his misgivings. 
“You are prepared for the Beltane celebration?” Damien 
gave his son an obtuse look. “You and Tristan found a fine 
maypole, and I see you have your bundle ready for the fire. 
Have you other concerns? I am sure your mother will be happy 
to help you.” He smiled encouragingly. “I am aware of how 
you feel. I felt much the same way upon the eve of my marriage 
to your mother.”. 
“Nay, Father,” Adrian answered impatiently. “I have seen 
too many Beltane fires to count. ’Tis Tempest. I cannot...” he 
swallowed, dropped his bundle to the ground, rose to his feet 
and began pacing. “I love her, Father.” 
“I know that, son.” 
“But she is a maiden.” 
“Aye.” 
“The pain. I cannot hurt her.” Adrian stopped his pacing 
and looked at Damien, desperation in his blue eyes. ”She will 
hate me.” 
“’Tis a small pain, son. ’Tis a necessary thing. You will 
find the control within yourself.” 
“But I do not know what to do!” 
“You have never bedded a woman?” 
“Nay!” But he remembered—remembered the day he had 
nearly made love to Tempest. Remembered how he had ripped 
her clothes from her and...Great Gods, he had almost hurt her 
then. He had waited so long, wanted her for so long. What if 
he could not control himself on their wedding night? What if 
he hurt her? What if...What if he turned into a dragon? 
“Walk with me.” Damien rose from his seat on the moss-
covered stone step. “I believe there is much we must discuss.” 
*** 
“Lysira?” Tempest finished tying the small nosegay 

of flowers to her Beltane bundle. She had carefully selected 
the nine different woods for her bundle: birch to symbolize the 
Goddess; oak for the God; fir for birth; willow for death; 
rowan—her favorite—for magic; apple for love—for Adrian, 
her sweet, strong, dragon love; grapevine for joy; hazel for 
wisdom; and hawthorn for purity. 
“Aye, Tempest?” Lysira laid her beribboned bundle on the 
trestle table in front of her. “You worry about the coming 
events?” 
“He loves me,” Tempest stated firmly. 
“Aye, Adrian loves you.” 
“Has he loved others before me?” There, it was out, her 
deepest fear. Would she be enough for him? Would he still love 
her after...She was only human after all. And he, well, Adrian 
had soared the skies on golden wings, had fought mighty battles, 
had lived much longer than she. Could she keep him happy for 
the time they would have together? 
“He has loved only you, Tempest,” answered Lysira gently. 
“You were soul joined at birth and promised to each other.” 
She tied a small nosegay of flowers to the bundle of wood she 
had been working on. “He has loved no other.” 
“But how do you know? He has lived long.” 
“Aye. He has lived a hundred years. He was born on Beltane 
Eve.” 
“Tomorrow is his birthday?” 
“Aye.” 
“He was born,” Tempest hesitated, “not hatched?” 
“Adrian was born a human child,” Lysira said with a small 
smile. “His father is human, and I was in human form when he 
was born.” 
“But...” Tempest searched her mind, trying to take it all 
in, trying to ask Lysira the important questions without hurting 
her, without seeming too nosy. 
“Damien is his foster father?” she finally ventured. But 
Adrian had told her Damien was his father. ’Twas all quite 
confusing. Damien looked to be no older than thirty or thirty-
five. He could not be Adrian’s blood father. 
“Damien is Adrian’s true father.” 

“But you just told me that Adrian is one hundred years 
old!” 
“Aye.” 
“The oldest human I have ever heard of was ninety years 
old. Is Damien not truly human then? Is he demon, as they 
say?” 
“He is as human as you, Tempest.” 
“But...’tis not possible. No person lives that many years. 
Unless...” Nay, thought Tempest in confusion, ’tis not possible. 
The Damien Westbrooke she knew could not be so old. But 
Lysira had never lied to her, neither had Adrian. They both 
claimed Damien to be Adrian’s father. “How?” she whispered. 
“Damien is not like other men,” Lysira explained, taking 
Tempest’s hand in hers, turning it to touch the lines of her palm. 
“This line,” She traced the line from Tempest’s thumb, across 
her palm and around to its beginning, “is your lifeline,” Lysira 
said softly. “’Tis a circle. It has no beginning and has no end. 
Damien has the same line. Your lifeline began joining the 
moment your soul soared with Adrian’s. Damien’s lifeline met 
when we were mated. He was twenty five years old. Yours 
began when you were newly born. 
“This has happened only three times—the first time when 
my mother, Angeline, became one with the Great Wyrm T’bor, 
the second when Damien Westbrooke finally declared his love 
for me, and lastly when you joined Adrian in his battle to defeat 
the black dragon S’rdonne.” 
“S’rdonne? The dragon battle at my birth?” Tempest looked 
closely at the line. It lacked only a hair’s breadth ‘til it was 
joined. The circle was not complete. 
“’Tis not joined,” she said brokenly. “Does this mean 
Adrian and I are not meant to be? Will I lose him?” 
“You and A’dryan are not yet joined, child. ‘Twill meet 
when your marriage has been consummated. Fear not, for it 
will come to pass. ‘Twill be a wondrous thing, Tempest.” Lysira 
gently stroked Tempest’s cheek. “’Tis a rare and magical thing, 
this mating between dragon and human. We are all truly blessed 
by the gods.” 
*** 

’Twas a beautiful night. The stars hung in the heavens like 
sparkling jewels, a warm breeze ruffled Tempest’s hair as she 
waited with Lysira and Marisa for the men to bring the maypole. 
The trees whispered their contentment, the flowers 
lowered their fragrant heads in respect to their creators. The 
air was filled with love and peace and the scent of late spring. 
Tonight the pole would be joined with Mother Earth 
to symbolize the joining of the God and Goddess in the 
divine marriage. 
Tempest sighed. ’Twas all so romantic. ’Twas her favorite 
celebration and more so now that she accepted her powers, 
knew what and who she really was. “I am truly blessed,” she 
whispered. “I have my love, my new family, and Tris and Marisa 
will be wed with Adrian and me tomorrow.” But not my father, 
she thought sadly, nor Miriam. And my mother, is she still alive? 
Did the crystal ball tell me true? 
She bowed her head and said a silent prayer for the mother 
who had never loved her, for the father whom she had always 
loved, for the brother who had always been there for her, and 
for Miriam, her servant and mentor, who had been her strength 
and protector. 
Until Adrian. Adrian. Her man, her dragon, soon to be her 
mate, her husband and forever her love. 
They came into the clearing carrying the maypole, singing 
and laughing in their joy of life. Damien was in the lead, 
carrying the heaviest part of the tree, his broad shoulders bearing 
the weight easily. Tristan carried the center part of the tree and 
Adrian was last. They laid the pole down carefully and stepped 
away. 
Lysira, in her long, shimmering gown of deep scarlet silk, 
walked regally toward them. She carried a small earthen jar 
full of oil, scented with precious myrrh and sweet woodruff. 
She dipped her finger in the oil and drew symbols on the 
maypole. 
“Blessed be this tree of fir,” she chanted as she drew 
the symbols. “Implement of our great Lord which shall soon 
enter our Mother Earth in consummation of love and fertility 
in this, their divine union.” She stepped back and nodded to 

Tempest. 
Tempest walked slowly to the hole they had dug earlier, 
the skirts of her creamy white silk gown rustling as she moved. 
She carried a small jug of salted water. 
“Mother,” she intoned as she poured the water into the 
hole, “may this offering prepare you gently for the entrance of 
our Lord, Your Consort. May you dwell together in love and 
bring a fertile year.” She stepped quietly to Lysira’s side and 
watched as the men placed the tall pole in its earthen home. 
The world seemed to sigh as the fir tree stood erect and proud 
against the midnight sky. The red and white ribbons glowed 
with a life of their own and danced excitedly in the gentle 
breeze. All was quiet as the small group watched the moonlight 
filter through the branches to rest like a halo upon the 
beribboned pole. 
They turned as one and reverently left the clearing, the 
lone maypole left to wait in silent majesty for the next day’s 
Beltane celebration. 
*** 
The raven-haired woman watched the erection of the 
maypole in silence. Her memories were so near and yet so far 
away. Vague images of times gone by nudged at her but refused 
to emerge for closer scrutiny. She tried, oh how she tried, but 
the images faded and were soon gone from mind and sight. 
“Lysira called you ‘Great Wyrm’,” she noted, looking at 
her golden-haired companion. “She named you Father.” 
“Aye,” he answered heavily. “I have tried to recall, but 
the images seem to elude me every time I try. Why can I not 
remember? If I was Dragonkind, why can I not remember? 
Why can I not recall my own child?” He looked at her, anguish 
suffusing his face. 
“But you said you remembered something when 
you returned from giving Adrian his sign. Tell me what you 
remembered, dearest. Mayhap I can help.” 
“Flying,” he said with wonder. “I remember soaring 
through the clouds. I remember how the wind felt as it rushed 
by, how soft the clouds were upon my skin, how the raindrops 
tasted. I remember the smell of pine and cedar and newly 

turned earth.” He leaned forward in despair, his head resting 
in his large hands. “Is it possible?” he asked, his voice heavy 
with emotion. “Could Lysira be my child? Why, oh why can I 
not remember?” 
She stood by his chair, pulled his head gently to her flat 
stomach and ran her fingers slowly through his long, golden 
hair. “I cannot remember either, my darling golden one,” she 
said softly. “But the knowledge is there. He would not keep it 
from us. ’Twould be too cruel.” 
“But what if ’tis all true?” He looked up at her. “Why can 
we not remember? What have we done?” 

THIRTY-EIGHT 
Tempest picked another sweet-smelling branch of apple 
blossoms and laid it gently in her basket. As she carried them 
back to the cottage, she thought about the coming day, or rather 
what was left of it. 
Adrian had risen early and gone off on some 
mysterious errand. He had been gone most of the day, and she 
missed him. Why pick this day of all days to disappear? There 
was so much left to do before they were wed. Just like a man, 
she thought. He may be a dragon—or so he claims. I have 
never seen him change—but his actions are all too human. 
Nay, what he told me was true. She recalled bits 
of conversation, flashes of golden dragon scales, when she had 
lain so ill from Sardon’s poisoned wine. Had Lysira been there 
to help? She recalled a name, mandragora, dragon’s bane. The 
poison had been meant for Adrian. 
“Tempest,” Lysira called from the cottage doorway. “Come 
here, I have something for you.” 
She followed Lysira into the cottage and put her basket of 
apple blossoms on the long trestle table. Lysira stood by the 
bed, holding something in her hands. 
“This,” she said as Tempest walked toward her, “is your 
wedding dress. I began making it when you were born.” 
“You made it for me? But how could you have known? 
Adrian and I met only a few months ago. I mean... What if I 
had died, or what if Adrian did not love me? What if I had 
been ugly or deformed, or...What if we had never met?” 
Lysira laid her finger gently over Tempest’s lips. “You 
question too much, child,” she chided. “There are things I have 
seen of the future. I knew you would be beautiful, and I knew 

my son would love you. Miriam and I pledged the betrothal at 
your birth. Remember, I read the cards, and they never lie to 
me. 
“Come now, ’tis time to dress for your wedding. I must 
ready your circlet while you dress.” 
“Where is Marisa?” Tempest started toward the door. “She 
needs to prepare herself for her wedding, too.” 
“Tempest.” Lysira’s voice stopped her. “Marisa will be 
back soon. She is with Tristan. Now, we have much to do to 
get you both ready. Do not worry so.” 
Tempest obediently took the gown from Lysira and laid it 
carefully on the bed. She removed her clothing while Lysira 
busied herself twining the apple blossoms through the woven 
circlet made from the pliable young branches. She was glad 
she had taken time to bathe earlier. 
On the bed lay a white chemise, white stockings and a pair 
of golden slippers. 
Tempest picked up the chemise. It was made of cotton so 
light and gauzy it seemed to float in her hands. Tiny pink apple 
blossoms were embroidered around the bodice and hem. She 
pulled it on and let it float sensuously down her slim body, 
almost like the silk chemise Miriam had made for her. Miriam, 
her friend and teacher. She missed her sorely. If only Miriam 
could have been here to see her wed. But she was gone forever, 
to live only in memory. 
“Bless you, Miriam,” she whispered. “You will always be 
in my heart.” 
The white cotton stockings were next, then the golden 
slippers. She hesitated, almost afraid to touch the beautiful 
gown. 
“Tempest,” Lysira urged as she came to help her, “the gown 
will not bite you.” She picked it up and lowered it gently over 
Tempest’s head and buttoned the long row of gold buttons at 
the back. “Now we must do something with your hair.” 
*** 
’Twas almost twilight, almost time to light the Beltane fire. 
Where was Tempest? Adrian fidgeted as he stood by the stone 
altar, waiting for his bride. It seemed like he had waited for 

hours. His new cobalt blue tunic itched from the gold thread 
his mother had so painstakingly embroidered on it. He ran his 
finger under the edge of the velvet tunic and scratched his neck. 
The oak leaves looked nice, but the heavy gold thread 
irritated his skin. His matching hose felt way too tight and 
restrictive. 
Where was she? Had she changed her mind? Had telling 
her the truth of his heritage been a mistake after all? Had she 
fled Ravensnest? He could not lose her now. Tempest was his 
life, his salvation. She could help him find his dragon wings 
again, help him regain that which he missed so much. 
Nay, there was Tristan, dressed in Damien’s clothing— 
black of course, his father never wore anything but black. It 
looked good on Tristan, though, with his blond hair. Worry 
raced through his mind as he watched Tristan walk to the altar 
to stand beside him. Where was Tempest? Gods, he could not 
wait much longer. Mayhap he should go look for her. Mayhap 
she had been kidnapped. Mayhap... 
“Adrian.” Damien’s pleasant baritone voice interrupted his 
panicked thoughts. “Your bride approaches.” 
Adrian’s mind stopped its frantic scurrying, and he felt an 
almost physical blow to the pit of his belly as he watched 
Tempest walk slowly toward him. The late afternoon sun 
surrounded her with a nimbus of golden light. Her flame-red 
mane hung loose and flowing; it covered her shoulders like a 
living cape of fire. Her hair curled in riotous abandon around 
the circlet of apple blossoms which proudly wreathed her head. 
In her hands she carried a bouquet of apple blossoms and shiny 
new oak leaves. 
Her golden gown glittered in the sunlight as she walked, 
swaying with each step, flashing golden light and sending shock 
waves throughout his body. She was a golden goddess and soon 
she would be his—a golden goddess to wed a golden dragon. 
Marisa, in a gown of pale blue velvet, followed behind 
Tempest. Her light blue eyes met Tristan’s green ones. A soft 
smile of pure joy crossed her lovely face as she went to stand 
beside him. 
Tempest stood beside Adrian, and Lysira approached the 

front of the altar, which was covered with freshly picked spring 
flowers spread over a cloth of gold. Three tall tapered candles 
stood proudly in the center. 
“May the gods bless these unions,” Lysira began as she lit 
the candles. She turned to the two young couples. “May the 
Earth Mother bring you fruitfulness and may the Sun God bring 
you strength.” 
Reverently, she raised her hands to the heavens and 
continued. “As the Sun God and the Moon Maiden meet in the 
heavens, may they bless the union of these souls in marriage.” 
She lowered her hands, and they all watched silently as the sun 
set and the moon rose, a silver glowing circle in the twilight 
skies. 
“Who gives these maidens?” asked Lysira. 
“I do,” Damien responded, stepping forward. He 
took Tempest’s hand and laid it in Adrian’s, then laid Marisa’s 
hand in Tristan’s and stepped back. 
“Adrian, Tristan what is your pledge?” Lysira 
asked solemnly. 
Adrian and Tristan turned and looked deeply into the eyes 
of their brides as they vowed their love. 
“By Oak and Ash and Thorne, 
I take you as my bride. 
To love, protect and cherish, 
forever at my side. 
The Gods above bear witness 
to my eternal vow. 
Bless our love this gentle day, 
with love our hearts endow. 
This vow I make to you my love, 
Forever shall I be 
Your lover and protector, 
through all eternity.” 
“Tempest, Marisa,” Lysira continued, “what is your 
pledge?” 
Tempest’s and Marisa’s eyes glowed with happiness as they 

spoke their vows. 
“By Oak and Ash and Thorne, 
I pledge my love to you. 
My heart, my life, my lover 
I always shall be true. 
The Gods above bear witness 
and look into my heart. 
See the love within its depths 
and tear us not apart. 
This vow I give to you my love, 
always shall I be 
Close by your side 
to be your mate 
For all eternity.”
“Your vows spoken,” Lysira concluded, “your pledges 
made, I declare, with the approval of the Gods, these to be true 
and blessed marriages. May you live always in peace and 
harmony.” 
She kissed the cheek of each newlywed. “Kiss your brides 
my sons.” 
*** 
’Twas a wonderful celebration. Tempest closed her eyes 
and leaned back into Adrian’s strong arms as they stood by the 
bonfire. She was contented and thoroughly happy. 
Damien, being the elder male, had lit the fire. They all 
ceremoniously threw their small bundles on the blazing bonfire, 
then each took one of the long streamers connected to the 
maypole and danced around it. As they danced, the long satin 
ribbons wound tighter and tighter down the middle of the pole, 
and the crown of flowers slipped slowly to its final destination. 
It settled finally upon the earth, and the ritual was complete. 
They all stood in silent reverence, knowing they had done their 
part to ensure a fertile season for another year. 
Tristan broke the silence. “I am hungry,” he announced as 
he took Marissa’s hand and started back toward the cottage. 
“Besides,” he added with a leer, “I am sure Adrian wishes to 

hurry things up so he can show Tempest his surprise.” 
“Tris,” Adrian growled in warning. 
“Surprise?” asked Tempest. “What surprise?” 
“You will know soon enough, my love.” 
And, no matter how much she wheedled and cajoled, he 
would say no more on the subject. 
Supper was wonderful fare. The three women had been 
cooking for days and the table was piled high with food. 
Succulent pheasant—stuffed with wheaten bread, seasoned with 
spicy herbs and last Autumn’s acorns—parched corn made into 
a steamy pudding, new peas in freshly churned butter sauce, 
walnut bread still warm from the skillet, smoked fish on a silver 
platter and roasted venison surrounded by breaded mushrooms 
made it a feast fit for a royal family. 
Lysira went to the hearth and brought the crowning glory 
of the Beltane feast to the table. She uncovered a steaming pot 
of freshly picked asparagus, grown in a special covered mound 
especially for the celebration. The thick white stalks floated in 
a creamy sauce. The aroma made Tempest’s mouth water and 
her knees go weak with hunger and anticipation. 
Soon they were seated around the table, their plates piled 
high, their goblets filled with May wine. 
Adrian raised his precious glass goblet in a toast. “To 
Beltane,” he said, “and to my beautiful new bride. May she 
give me many sons.” 
Tempest blushed and raised her goblet. “To Beltane,” she 
agreed, “and to my new Dragon Lord. May he give me many 
daughters!” 
Everyone laughed and raised their goblets as Adrian smiled 
enthusiastically at her comment. He whispered in her ear. “I 
cannot wait to start making those daughters you requested, little 
witch. You have me under your spell, now and always.” 
She choked on her wine and he pounded her on the back. 
“Do not hurt her, Adrian,” Tristan said with a sly smile. 
“’Tis your wedding night. Remember? I am sure you would 
not want to spend it alone.” 
“Aye.” Adrian stood up and took Tempest’s small hand in 
his. “I would give you your wedding gift now, my sweet.” 

Tristan and Damien sniggered, and Lysira, who was 
seated between them, poked them hard in the ribs. They both 
gave her pained looks, and Damien returned silently to his meal. 
Marisa blushed and slipped her small hand into Tristan’s. 
They looked at each other and quietly slipped from the table 
and out into the night. 
Adrian and Tempest walked hand-in-hand out to where 
her horse was tethered near the cottage. He helped her mount, 
leaped into the saddle behind her, and they rode into the dark 
forest. 
*** 
The man reached out and gently touched the softly glowing 
crystal ball. As his finger caressed it, the crystal glowed 
brighter, the images inside becoming more distinct with each 
gentle, tapping caress. 
They watched Tempest and Adrian mount a horse and 
head into the ancient forest. 
“You would watch them on the night of their 
wedding?” Disgust was evident in the woman’s voice. “For 
shame.” 
“Not shame, my dear,” he smiled, a twinkle in his sparkling 
blue eyes. “Just interest. This was my doing after all, you 
know.” 
“Do I?” she questioned, her enormous brown eyes 
staring steadily into his. “Would not their love have 
grown without our meddling?” 
“It probably would have,” he answered 
begrudgingly. ”But if Adrian is my grandson, then I have no 
regrets. I would see him happy. I only wish I knew for certain. 
I wish I could remember.” 
“Cover the crystal, dear,” she chided gently, handing 
him a green silk scarf taken from around her neck. “This night 
must belong to them alone.” 
“But if I cover the crystal ‘twill become dark,” he 
complained as he took the scarf from her slender fingers. 
“Aye, ‘twill be very dark.” She watched the scarf float 
from his hands to veil the bright crystal orb. Darkness 
descended rapidly upon them. 

“Aye,” his voice whispered from the darkness. “I believe 
I am beginning to remember something...” 
“Oh,” she sighed in answer, “and such lovely memories 
they are!” 

THIRTY-NINE
“Adrian. Where are you taking me?” 
“You will see soon, my sweet,” he answered, kissing the 
top of her head, then her ear, then her neck. 
She sighed and leaned against his muscular chest. She loved 
riding horseback with him. The feel of his strong body pressing 
against her, his legs molded to hers, his arms around her, holding 
tightly, his kisses...Gods how his kisses burned her, made her 
body go all weak and trembly. 
“Adrian?” 
“Aye.” 
He nibbled at her shoulder, sending delicious shudders 
down her spine. 
“We...” She swallowed, momentarily losing her train 
of thought. “We had better get there soon.” 
“Why is that?” he asked as he slowly moved his hand from 
her waist to cup her breast. “Are you not enjoying the journey?” 
“I do not think I can stand much more of this journey, my 
love,” she answered breathlessly. “I think my body will melt 
before we reach our destination.” 
“Would you like me to stop touching you?” 
“Nay!” she moaned softly. “But ’tis torture, just the same.” 
“Torture?” He nibbled at her ear. 
“Aye. Sweet torture.” 
By the time they reached their destination, Tempest was 
more alive than she had ever been in her life. Adrian made her 
skin tingle, her mind whirl, her insides feel like jelly. Her heart 
fluttered like a bird in a cage, and yet she wanted more, 
something intangible was missing. She needed... 
“Tempest? Are you asleep?” 

Asleep? Goddess no! She would never sleep again. She 
opened her eyes and looked around, unable to focus completely 
on her surroundings. 
“What is this place?” 
“’Tis where we are to spend the first days of our marriage, 
my love.” Adrian dismounted and reached up for her. He helped 
her off the tall gelding and let her slide sensuously down the 
long length of his lean, hard body, setting her already sensitive 
body aflame with new desire as she came in contact with that 
part of him which had grown the hardest. Her legs were so 
weak she would have fallen had he not held her close. 
“Are you ill, my love?” he asked. 
She looked up into his eyes and saw a twinkle of mischief. 
He knew full well what he was doing to her. She would pay 
him back in full measure for this sweet agony! 
“Aye,” she retorted with a grin. “I believe I am dying.” 
“Can a maid die of desire?” 
“Aye.” She wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled 
his head down. “And this maid is sworn not to die alone.” 
She kissed him then. Kissed him as he had never been kissed 
before. This time Adrian saw stars, his insides knotted, and his 
already hard manhood began to throb with anticipation. If death 
was to be the result of this kiss, then he was ready. He was 
more than willing to follow this innocent temptress into eternal 
rest. Rest? Nay, rest was not what he wanted. Adrian picked 
her up in his arms, their lips never breaking contact. He wanted 
this kiss to be timeless. To last forever. 
Neither spoke as they paused, gasping. They could not 
speak. Their breaths shuddered, their bodies shook with desire, 
their minds whirled, and they clung to each other, unable 
to move. 
“Tempest,” Adrian finally whispered, his heart full to 
bursting. “I love you. I meant every word I spoke of our vows. 
I promise, my love, I will never leave you. I will love you 
forever, in this life and all the others to follow. You are mine— 
my life, my heart, my love.” He kissed her tenderly on the 
forehead. 
She clung to him for a long time, unable to put words to 

the love that consumed her very soul. She lifted her hand and 
brushed a stray lock of golden hair from his cheek. 
“I love you, my husband. Now. Forever. Eternally, Adrian. 
Eternally.” ’Twas not enough, but words could not express what 
was in her heart. 
“Do you not wish to view our love nest, my sweet? I worked 
very hard on it.” He wanted to change the subject. He needed 
some respite to recapture his thoughts. 
Tempest turned from him and gazed around her. The bright 
moonlight filtered through the trees, making everything glow 
with soft iridescence. 
Adrian had, indeed, worked hard to create a place of beauty. 
He had hung bolts of costly silk from the trees, creating a silken 
love nest, a private sanctuary. Each panel was a different color 
brilliant scarlet, pale blue, creamy white, deep forest green, 
shiny saffron—all hung to create a fluttering carousel of beauty 
in the soft breeze. He had visited a great many fairs looking 
for just the right colors to create this special place. He wanted 
his wedding night to be perfect for his bride. 
He drew a panel aside. “Your new home, milady.” He 
bowed, ushering her in. 
Tempest gasped when she entered their cozy nest. The 
ceiling was open, and moonlight filtered down, giving 
everything a quiet, muted light. He had cut new grasses and 
leaves and piled soft furs on them to make a bed. He had spread 
wildflowers from wall to wall and over the bed and, as she 
walked toward it, the crushed blossoms beneath her feet exuded 
the sweet scent of newly picked flowers. Honeysuckle, lilacs 
and wild rose petals created a heady perfume of love. 
On the bed was a gold velvet blanket. She lifted a corner 
of the cover and found it to be thick and light. “How..?” 
“Mother made it. She filled it with goose down and sewed 
it together. It was on her wedding bed, and she gave it to us to 
ensure our marriage would be as happy as hers has been.” 
“Adrian,” Tempest spoke hesitantly, afraid to break the 
beautiful mood which surrounded them. “Make me truly your 
wife.” 
He needed no other encouragement. He began to unbutton 

her golden wedding gown. 
“I will never understand a human’s love of clothing,” he 
muttered as he undid the last button. “You always have to take 
them off, then put them on, then take them off again. It would 
be so much easier if a person never bothered to put them on in 
the first place.” 
“Aye,” Tempest laughed. “Let us pledge to never don 
clothing so long as we are here in this beautiful place.” 
Smiling, he slid the gown from her shoulders. It drifted 
down her lush body, creating a lake of molten gold at her feet. 
Her white chemise and stockings glowed silver in the 
moonlight as he gently slid the straps over her shoulders. The 
chemise quickly followed the same path her gown had taken 
and he bent to remove her stockings. He rolled them slowly 
down her legs, planting tiny kisses in their wake. She stood 
before him in all her curvaceous glory. The moonlight danced 
upon her curls, turning them a fiery red; her skin was so pale it 
was translucent. He drew a deep breath at the beauty of the 
woman before him. He quickly reached to remove his tunic, 
but she stayed his hand. 
“Nay,” she said. “Let me.” 
He obediently lifted his arms as she drew the tunic over 
his head and cast it aside. He gasped when she planted tiny 
kisses across his chest. She flicked her tongue over his nipple, 
and he moaned. “Tempest...” 
“Aye,” she giggled, “’tis sweet torture, is it not?” She bent 
to remove his boots. “Adrian. Where are your boots?” 
“They hurt my feet. I left them at the cottage.” . 
“No matter,” she said, “‘twill make my task easier.” She 
ran one finger around the waist of his breeches, and he gasped 
at the wildfire that traveled from her fingertip right to his groin. 
“Tempest!” he could not breathe. Surely his body would 
explode if she did not cease. He could not take much more of 
this. But, gods, it felt so good. 
“Aye?” She looked up at him, a sparkle in her green eyes. 
“Finish quickly. You are killing me!” 
She lowered his breeches slowly, then gasped and stopped 
when his engorged member sprang free. 

“’Tis too big,” she whispered. “I cannot do this.” She turned 
from him. 
Adrian quickly finished what she had begun, kicking his 
discarded clothing aside. “Tempest,” he said softly. “’Tis not 
that big. I do not want to hurt you, my love but it must be. I 
promise I will be gentle. ‘Twill hurt only a little. Tempest? I 
love you.” 
“I...” 
The look of fear in her eyes almost tore the soul from him. 
“Shhh,” he whispered as he lifted her soft body in is arms. 
“‘Twill be only a small pain, my love.” He carried her to the 
bed, laid her down and knelt beside her. 
He kissed her lips. Gently, tenderly he wooed her, tried to 
make her relax, to forget what had frightened her. He laid his 
hand on her flat stomach, and she recoiled, drawing her belly 
in, but did not move away from him. He trailed soft, hot kisses 
down her neck and across her breasts. 
“Adrian, I think we should talk about this. I mean, there is 
no need to hurry is there? We have all night, do we not? I can 
build a fire and we can eat and...” Coherent thought fled as his 
lips claimed her breast. His tongue burned around and around 
her nipple, then flicked the hard nubbin, and she almost 
screamed with pleasure as sparks shot from her breast to the 
center of her being. 
He suckled, gentle at first then harder. Her hand seemed to 
move of its own accord as she pressed his head against her, 
wanting more, wanting to quench the wildfire raging through 
her body. She moaned deep in her throat, a guttural moan of 
pure passion. 
Adrian’s hand moved lower, and her legs fell helplessly 
open to his questing fingers. She gasped as his finger touched 
that tiny rosebud, that most sensitive of all places. Then his 
finger was inside her, and she felt her hips jerk involuntarily. 
She could not think, only feel. This was paradise. This was 
hell. 
He could not wait. He needed her now, needed to feel her 
surrounding him, needed to be one with her. She was wet and 
ready. He settled himself between her long, velvety thighs and 

entered her slowly. Gods she was tight and hot. So hot he felt 
consumed. He plunged, unable to wait any longer. His father 
had told him to be gentle, to go slowly, but he could not. He 
needed, he wanted, he had waited so long. 
Tempest felt a sharp pain but it was less than the pain of 
wanting. He did not move but lay tense, gasping for air, the 
sweat running from his face, and she felt it drip onto her lips. 
She touched her tongue to the droplet. It tasted salty, like sea 
water, and sweet, like love. 
He moved. He was leaving her! But he did not leave her 
completely, instead he plunged deeply again. Her hips rose to 
meet him as their bodies and souls synchronized in passion’s 
wild dance. Her body coiled tight as a spring as she felt herself 
rising to the apex of her existence, felt a warmth, a raging 
inferno begin deep where they were joined. Her heart beat 
wildly as the fire consumed her. 
Tempest felt as though her body would fly apart as the 
moment hit. She felt her soul soar to the heavens as he grew 
even larger inside her. She felt him explode, felt his seed lave 
her womb. 
She screamed. The pain was too much. It burned like acid, 
into her womb, coursed through her blood, into her brain, into 
her very soul. Dragon seed and human soul met, battled, merged 
and became one. Her hands grew numb, then she could feel 
every line in them as feeling returned ten fold. She could feel 
her lifeline lengthening, moving slowly, inexorably, to its final 
destination, could feel it meet, feel it circle her thumb. The 
power surged through her. She became the power and, as she 
conquered it, the power became hers, eternally hers. 
The pain was suddenly gone, replaced by an aching warmth, 
by lassitude, as she closed her eyes and sighed contentedly. 
“Tempest?” Adrian sounded worried. “Little witch? Are 
you all right? What have I done to you?” 
“You have given me my power, Adrian,” she 
murmured. ”Now go to sleep, dearest. We will discuss this later. 
I am so very, very tired.” 
*** 
In the dark silence there was a sigh, a rustle of clothing, a 

giggle. 
Gentle words of love were murmured, and the blue 
crystal glowed softly under its covering. 
But no one watched the scenes that floated hazily through 
the crystal. At that moment no one cared what story it had to 
tell. 

FORTY
Tempest did not want to open her eyes. If felt absolutely 
delicious lying on the sweet-smelling bed with Adrian’s arms 
encircling her, her head pillowed comfortably on his chest. 
She felt so safe, so loved, so...powerful? 
Nay, not powerful exactly, but something was definitely 
different. Her body felt lighter, stronger. In fact, she felt 
downright exhilarated. 
“I know you are awake, wife.” Adrian’s deep voice rumbled 
in her ear. 
“Mmmm...” She did not want to talk; she just wanted to 
feel. Adrian’s hand stroked her neck, her back, her bottom. 
“Mmmm,” she repeated, snuggling closer to his warm body. 
She felt his breath fan her hair, and his hand found her breast. 
“Mmmm,” he agreed. 
Her giggles quickly died as she looked up into his 
smoldering blue eyes. “Adrian...” She could say no more as 
his lips claimed hers in a long, sultry kiss. His hands branded 
her as they roamed, searching, learning every part of her, leaving 
trails of fire and ice in their wake. 
“Tempest,” He groaned as he rose above her. “Gods, how 
I love you.” He entered her gently, determined not to hurt her 
again as he moved slowly, rhythmically inside her, savoring 
her sweetness. 
She met his every thrust, urging him with her body to move 
faster. “Adrian,” she gasped, her eyes closed tightly. “Please...” 
“Nay, my love. There is time.” The first time he had 
forgotten what Damien had told him. He would not forget again. 
So many things to learn, so many things, he could not remember 
them all. “Count,” Damien had said. Count? Count what? 

Her tight, hot body was driving him to the brink of madness! 
Count. 
One. So sweet, so good... 
Two. He could hardly breathe. His heart was pounding so 
much it hurt... 
Three. He was on fire! His body felt as if he would burst 
into flames and burn to ashes... 
Four. 
“Tempest!” 
“Adrian!” 
Her soft wail of ecstasy sent him plummeting over the edge. 
So much for counting, he thought, as his body joined hers in 
fulfillment. So much for counting... 
*** 
“Hungry.” Adrian exclaimed as he reached for the basket. 
“Marriage makes me hungry!” 
“Nay.” Tempest was quick as she laid her hand on his. 
”We cannot eat until we bathe.” 
“Bathe? You sound just like my mother. Is that all women 
ever think about?” 
“Not all.” She giggled as she patted his bare behind with 
her other hand. 
“Mmmm.” He released the basket, put his hands around 
her waist and lifted her onto his lap. “Food can wait.” He was, 
indeed, ready for her. 
“Ugh!” 
“Ugh? Did you say ‘ugh’?” 
“Aye.” 
Adrian’s lower lip quivered as he looked at her in shock. 
“Was I that bad?” 
“You were wonderful, my sweet, golden dragon; but you 
stink.” 
“Nay.” He lifted his arm and sniffed under it. “’Tis but a 
little sweat.” 
“I do not sup with sweaty, smelly men—especially if they 
are my husbands.” 
“Husbands? You have not had more than one husband.” 
“Adrian.” There was a warning in her tone. “You know 

what I mean. We need to bathe.” 
“I love you, Tempest, and if you want to bathe,” he stood 
with her cradled in his arms, “then bathe we shall.” 
Tempest enjoyed being carried in his strong arms and she 
snuggled her head in the hollow of his neck contentedly. 
“My husband,” she murmured, enjoying the sound and feel 
of the words. “My love.” 
*** 
“Adrian?” 
“Aye?” 
“Are you full yet?” 
“I am full of food, aye.” He looked appreciatively at her 
lush, naked body. He was glad they had decided not to don 
clothing while they were in their love nest. He did not think he 
would ever get his fill of gazing at her lovely curves. He reached 
out and stroked her thigh. It felt so soft and smooth, like silken 
velvet. His body responded instantly, and he grinned as his 
hand traveled slowly up her leg touching her love curls. 
“Tempest?” 
“Again?” 
“Aye.” 
“But...You have eaten all our food. We must replenish our 
supplies.” 
“Food can wait....” 
*** 
Damien was chopping wood and Lysira was washing 
clothes when Tempest and Adrian rode into the clearing. Tristan 
and Marisa were nowhere in sight. 
“Mother,” called Adrian. “We ran out of food.” 
“I sent enough to last you for at least seven days.” Lysira 
wiped her hands on her apron and rubbed her lower back as 
she stretched. “It has been only four. What did you do with all 
that food?” 
Tempest slid from the horse and ran to give Lysira a hug. 
“Your son ate most of it by the second day,” she explained 
with a giggle. “He eats like a starving dragon. I had to gather 
berries and nuts and anything else I could find just to feed him. 
He complained that I was spending too much time foraging, so 

we came here. Besides, we missed you.” 
“I thought you would be too busy to miss us,” Damien 
said with a smile as he walked toward them. 
Tempest blushed and Adrian grinned, but they were spared 
any further comments as Tristan and Marisa came around the 
corner of the cottage. 
“We ran out of food,” announced Tristan. 
“Good grief,” Lysira exclaimed. “Have you children done 
nothing but eat for the past four days?” 
Marisa hid her blushing face in Tristan’s shoulder, and 
Tempest giggled. “We bathed in the hot springs,” she answered. 
Damien roared with laughter. Wiping his eyes, he bade 
Tristan and Adrian follow him into the storage room to get 
meats for the next few days and Lysira led the blushing brides 
into the cottage. 
After they had packed the baskets, the women sat at the 
long trestle table to wait for their men. 
“How do you feel, Tempest?” she asked, looking deep into 
the young woman’s eyes. 
“I feel wonderful. Why do you ask?” 
“Have you tried your new powers yet?” 
“New powers?” 
“Your witch’s powers, child.” Lysira took Tempest’s hand 
in hers, turned it over and traced the lifeline. “’Tis a full circle 
now.” 
Tempest looked fearfully at her hand. “Nay,” she whispered, 
pulling away. “I cannot have powers. I promised my father.” 
“It does not matter what you promised, Tempest. You are a 
true witch now. There is nothing you can do to change that. 
You knew before you mated with Adrian what would happen.” 
“Nay, I did not.” 
“I told you, right here at this table, what would happen. 
Remember?” 
Tempest hesitated, trying to recall that day. She 
remembered, remembered every detail of what Lysira had said. 
“But I do not feel any different. How...What will my father 
say? Will he turn from me because I am now truly a witch?” 
“Nay.” Marisa reached for Tempest’s hand. “He loves you. 

It will not matter if you are different now. He will never turn 
from you.” She took Tempest’s hand in both of her hands and 
looked lovingly into her eyes. 
Tempest felt the love radiating from her friend, and 
something else—something new, created with love and 
gentleness. 
“Marisa?” Her power reached out, reached deep into 
Marisa’s soul, and she knew the truth. “You are with child!” 
Marisa turned pale. “But it has been only four days. How 
can you know?” 
“The power,” answered Lysira. “She knows it because of 
her power.” 
“Aye,” Tempest agreed. “’Tis true.” 
“I must tell Tristan!” Marisa’s face glowed and her eyes 
sparkled as she went to find her husband. 
“Lysira?” Tempest watched the happy Marisa skip from 
the cottage. “’Tis not a bad thing being a witch if I can give 
such happiness. Mayhap my father was wrong. I cannot, no, 
will not, deny this wonderful thing any longer.” 
*** 
They watched Adrian and Tempest make their way slowly 
back to their love nest. 
“She has finally accepted her true self,” the woman 
observed, contentedly. 
“Aye, and ‘tis about time.” The man leaned back in his 
golden chair, lifted his goblet, and peered over its rim at the 
raven-haired woman . “Her father was a fool to stifle her 
abilities for all those years.” 
“Nay, not a fool; only a loving father, concerned for his 
daughter’s safety.” 
“She will need those powers soon.” 
“Aye, very soon.” 

FORTY-ONE
Dragon scream pierced Adrian’s heart. A wail of pain, of 
warning and rage swept through his mind and brought him to 
his feet. He knew L’sira needed him. Now! 
Instinctively he answered her, his human voice becoming 
dragon scream in that instant. He waited for an answer, but all 
was silent. 
His scream jarred Tempest from a sound sleep. 
“Adrian?” She searched the silk-lined chamber for her 
husband, finding him standing tensely beside their bed, staring 
at nothing. His face was pale, and his hands shook. 
Adrian bellowed again, beginning with a low growl, rising 
in pitch and volume until Tempest had to cover her ears. Fear 
coursed through her, centering in the pit of her stomach. At 
that moment she feared him. For the first time she realized 
what she had done. This was no ordinary man she had married, 
had given her body and soul to, but a dragon. She had known 
he was a dragon, accepted that he was not like other men, but 
the reality was far different from just knowing. Dragons were 
fearsome beasts, capable of hurting her, nay, capable of crushing 
her into oblivion. 
The sudden silence was almost more deafening than 
his screams. She stared at him, afraid she would see him change, 
become a dragon. But he did not; he was still her beloved 
Adrian. 
“We must leave,” he said hoarsely. He picked up her gown 
and handed it to her, waiting impatiently for her to don it. 
“Hurry,” he added, “there is not much time.” 
She did not bother with her chemise or stockings but slipped 
the gown over her head and turned for him to button the back. 

He finished quickly and pulled one of the long silk streamers 
aside to leave. 
“Adrian.” She stood beside their rumpled bed, hands on 
her hips. “You have forgotten something.” 
“What? We do not have time, Tempest. We must hurry.” 
His face showed his impatience, although he spoke calmly. 
“Your clothes,” she said. “You cannot go off without your 
clothes.” 
“Clothes,” he muttered through clenched teeth. 
“Always clothes. ’Tis all you humans think about.” 
“Nay. ’Tis not all we think about, dearest. But ’tis necessary 
if you are not to be scratched by branches and chafed by riding 
the horse. You will not be of much use to anyone if your bottom 
is sore from riding.” 
He growled with impatience but quickly yanked on his 
breeches and tunic. 
“Now can we leave?” 
“Aye. But why must we hurry? Where are we going? What 
has happened?” 
“Woman,” Adrian growled impatiently, then sighed. “My 
mother is in trouble. She called to me. I know no more than 
that. Now can we go?” 
They did not speak on the ride to the cottage. Adrian feared 
what he would find when they arrived, and Tempest was worried 
about his fit of temper and more than a little afraid to question 
him about his strange actions. She worried about Lysira. Was 
she all right? What about Tristan and Marisa...and Damien? 
*** 
Silence met them as they rode into the clearing in front of 
Lysira’s cottage. Tempest gasped at the scene before her. 
Damien was lying on the ground near the forest path; Lysira 
sat beside him, cradling his head in her lap. He was splattered 
with blood, but she could see the steady rise and fall of his 
chest, so she knew he was alive, although badly hurt. 
They quickly dismounted and ran to help the older couple. 
“Mother?” Adrian touched Lysira’s shoulder, but she did 
not move nor answer him. Her eyes were locked with Damien’s, 
and he could feel the power flowing between them. 

Damien’s eyes closed, and he gasped as his body sagged 
into unconsciousness. Lysira sobbed and looked at her son. 
“I cannot do it. I do not have enough power this time.” She 
lowered her head and wept, her sobs shaking her slender body. 
“I cannot live without him.” 
Tempest knelt on the ground beside Damien and took his 
limp hand in hers. “Damien,” she called softly. “Come to me.” 
She reached out and took Lysira’s hand. 
“You must help me, Lysira. We can do this together.” 
“Mother?” Adrian’s voice cracked with emotion. “I know 
the bond you have with Father, for Tempest and I have the 
same bond. She is my mate. You must trust in her healing. She 
has dragon power now.” He stroked Tempest’s hair as she 
looked up at him in surprise. 
“You knew?” she asked. “You felt it, too?” 
“Aye,” he answered with a tight smile. “I felt it.” 
Lysira took Tempest’s hand. “My daughter,” she said, ”help 
us.” She closed her eyes, trusting, loving, feeling the power 
course through her body as Tempest channeled it. Healing 
power flowed through her and into her beloved. 
Damien opened his eyes. “’Sira,” he said. “What..?” 
“Hush, my darling.” Lysira put a finger to his lips. “Let 
our new daughter do her work.” 
Tempest tapped into her newfound power, drew it up from 
deep within and let it flow into Damien. Her body trembled 
with the effort, but she did not cease the healing. He must be 
saved. She watched as his bleeding slowed, then ceased oozing 
from his many wounds. She felt his strength return, felt his 
wounds began to close, to heal. 
She could do no more, for her own strength was failing. 
She sighed and leaned back against Adrian. Just a moment to 
rest, she thought, then...Tris...Marisa! Where were they? 
“Adrian? Where are Tristan and Marisa?” Frantically she 
looked around the oak-lined clearing. “Where are they?” 
“The cottage,” Lysira answered. “’Twas Sardon. I do not 
know if they are still alive, Tempest. I could not help. 
I...Damien was so badly hurt...I...” A tear slid down her cheek. 
Tempest embraced her and kissed her cheek. “I understand, 

Lysira, for I love Adrian as you love Damien. I do understand. 
Stay here with Damien, for he will be too weak to move for 
some time yet. I will find Tris.” 
Tempest and Adrian found Tristan sitting on the steps, 
holding Marisa in his arms. They, too, were splattered with 
blood. Marisa clutched feebly at his bloody shirt; her eyes were 
closed, her breathing labored. 
Tristan looked up at his sister, his face stark with fear. 
“Tempest,” he gasped weakly, “you must help her. The babe...I 
cannot lose them.” Blood poured freely from a gash in his head, 
and his white shirt was rapidly turning crimson. His face paled, 
and he visibly grew weaker, yet still he implored Tempest to 
save Marisa. 
“Tris!” Tempest cried. “Goddess, no. Please...” She knelt 
by his side. She knew she had only enough strength to, perhaps 
save one of them. Tristan—her brother—she could not let him 
die! But he loved Marisa. She carried his child. She slowly 
reached toward Marisa, then hesitated as Tristan gasped with 
pain. 
“Nay...” 
The faint whisper stayed her hand. Tempest looked into 
Marisa’s open blue eyes, finding the answer to her dilemma, 
seeing that gentle soul ready to take flight. 
Marisa looked at Tristan, a soft smile crossed her face as 
she spoke her last words. “Tris...I love you...” A soft breath 
escaped her lips, and she was still. 
“Marisa!” Tristan’s wails filled the glen as he clutched her 
to his chest, rocking and keening in anguish. “Marisa...” 
Suddenly his sobbing ceased, his arms and body grew lax 
and he slumped over his dead wife. 
“Tris, please do not die. I cannot lose you. Tris,” Tempest 
cried. But her brother did not respond. 
She had to save him, had to find the power somewhere 
within herself. “Adrian.” She reached for his hand. “Help me.” 
“I cannot give you power, little witch,” he said softly, “but 
I can give you strength and all my love, if that will help.” 
They carefully removed Tristan from the step onto the 
ground. His breathing was labored, his face pale and waxen. 

Tempest held Adrian’s hand tightly and laid her other hand 
gently on Tristan’s chest. She once again searched for power, 
searched to the center of her soul and found a tiny spark. She 
nurtured that spark, held it, fanned it, felt it blossom like a 
blood-red rose. She felt it began to flow, up, out, to her heart, 
into her fingertips. She let it go, let it begin the healing process 
for her brother. She felt the sapping of her strength but would 
not stop. She could not let him go. ’Twas not the time for his 
death. Tristan had only twenty-two years, too young to die, too 
beloved. 
“Tempest,” Tristan moaned. “’Tis a small wound, 
little sister. Do not use all your power. Please... I will 
live. Sardon...” His eyes closed in pain. 
“Indeed, witchling. He will live only if I deem it.” 
“Sardon!” Adrian released Tempest’s hand and rose to his 
feet. “I will destroy you for what you have done this day.” 
“Will you?” Sardon mocked as he sauntered out of the 
cottage. “What can you do against me, hatchling? You cannot 
even change to your true form. How can you hope to defeat 
me?” He lovingly caressed the opal ring on his finger as he 
spoke. 
“I have human hands that can crush your scrawny neck,” 
Adrian bellowed as he gathered himself to leap at Sardon. He 
could not move. His body would not obey his commands. He 
struggled, felt his muscles strain, but he could move only his 
eyes. He was powerless. His mind called to his mother, and 
her desperate answer brought terror into his heart. 
A’dryan... Sardon has us in his power. We cannot aid you. 
Despair washed over Adrian as he watched Tempest rise 
to confront Sardon. 
“Hellspawn!” she hissed. “Release him from your 
ensorcelment!” 
“Nay,” he said, smiling lazily. “He is like a bothersome 
gnat, my dear. I shall make you my mate while the pup watches.” 
“Never.” She launched herself at him, hands raised. “I 
would die ere such an atrocity happens.” 
She hit him hard with her body and tried to claw at his 
face, but it was like hitting a wall of stones. He easily caught 

her wrists in his powerful hands, pinned them behind her back 
and pulled her to his chest. 
Magnificent, he thought, her anger makes her eyes glow 
almost golden. Her struggles felt good, her fear would feel even 
better, but her defeat would feel best of all. He would take her. 
Here. Now. While the hatchling watched. He bent to kiss her. 
Tempest struggled to break free, but he was too strong. He 
smelled of decay, and her stomach rebelled. She swallowed, 
fighting the nausea that threatened to overwhelm her. Then he 
kissed her. His breath smelled like rotten carcasses, even worse 
than his unwashed body. His tongue pressed against her lips 
and forced its way into her mouth. It tasted blood-salty, milk-
soured, spoiled-meat-rotten. 
Adrian’s anguished mind screamed in agony at the scene 
unfolding before him, but his struggles were in vain. He could 
not close his eyes, could not look away, could not protect her. 
All he could do was moan with helpless frustration. 
With one hand, Sardon held Tempest’s wrists behind 
her back; she struggled harder but to no avail. He ripped her 
beautiful wedding gown, and she felt his hand on her bare 
breast. His hand felt cold and clammy, his thumb, as it rasped 
across her nipple, felt like wet sandpaper. He pulled her even 
closer and deepened his slimy kiss. His tongue probed wildly. 
She gagged. He released her lips and bent to her breast. 
Hot, wet acid filled her mouth, and she could no longer control 
her body as the contents of her stomach spewed over his head 
and onto his shoulders, dribbling down his chest. 
Tempest giggled hysterically at the look of disgust on his face 
as he raised his dripping head and glared at her. 
Sardon released her hands and pushed her violently to the 
ground. “Bitch,” he screamed as he wiped futilely at the vomit. 
“You will die for this!” He kicked her hard in the abdomen, 
then grasped her hair and jerked her back to her feet. 
Tempest had used up her power, drained herself to save 
Damien and Tristan. This time she could find no spark to fan. 
She was empty. 
A soft breeze touched her cheek, the newly born oak leaves 
rustled on the trees around her, a pebble under her slipper caught 

her attention. The elements—earth, air, fire, water. She closed 
her eyes and listened to her heart, to her surroundings. 
Tempest knew then where her true power lay. She 
caught the breeze, drew it into herself. She drew strength from 
Mother Earth and fed it to the raging wind within her. 
The trees whispered, and she let them speak to her in their 
own language. She felt them unite, heard the message travel to 
her giant oak. She felt the love, the strength, the power. Her 
mind and heart knew the moment when the beloved old monarch 
of all trees gave its all to her, knew then that its power and 
strength had come from her caul, buried under it so many years 
ago. She drew upon its sacrifice, its strength, and felt its death 
as her body was flooded with elemental power. 
Sardon felt the power rise from deep within her, felt it 
struggle to grow as, fearlessly, she faced him. He knew then, 
knew that he had been too late. Adrian had taken her 
maidenhead, had given her his golden dragon power, a true 
witch’s power was now hers. She would be of no further use to 
him. She could not bond with him if she was now bound to the 
golden hatchling. 
Rage boiled through him as he shoved her into the clearing. 
He raised his hands and let black dragon power rise from his 
midnight soul, felt it surge up into his arms, felt it grow until 
he could no longer contain it. Fire, dark as deepest night, hot 
as the blazing sun, shot from his fingertips. 
Tempest lifted her hands, palms facing him, as he threw the 
bolts. He saw a shield surround her, a pale blue shield of 
glittering energy. His magic hit the shield and fell harmlessly 
to the ground before her. 
Sardon threw darkness at her, a deep, smothering blackness. 
But there was a glow at the center of the calignosity, a soft 
blue glow. It grew, expanded, defeated the murky gloom and 
sent its brilliant tentacles toward him. He tried to escape. He 
tried to send greater destruction at her but failed as the blue 
glow buffeted him and finally surrounded him. 
Coldness enveloped him, crept under his skin, continued 
its path toward his evil heart. Heat slowly left his body as his 
legs grew numb. His knees buckled, and he staggered but did 

not fall. He called on his great strength, trying to escape. But 
the icy chill pursued him like an avenging angel. 
Sardon howled with frustration as he called upon the 
powers of his glowing opal ring, trying to destroy the witch 
who dared to defy him. But his ring alone could not bring him 
the magical power he needed. 
He knew then that he must use more mundane powers to 
accomplish his task. Reaching into his robe, he pulled out a 
black crystal dagger and threw it. 
Tempest’s magic could not deflect the sharp blade of the 
dagger. Its earth magic combined with the ring’s wild magic 
easily penetrated her shield. She felt it sink deep into her chest, 
felt it pierce her heart, felt her life-force ebb as she sagged 
slowly to the ground. 
She heard Adrian scream but could not answer as oblivion 
captured her spirit. Her eyes closed as she moved slowly toward 
the softly glowing blue light. There was no pain, only sweet 
lassitude as she neared the light. She heard voices. Soft, musical 
voices floated to her on a cloud of love. A man. A woman. Her 
hands reached out as her heart stopped beating.... 
*** 
“She has died.” The woman’s voice trembled with anguish. 
“This is wrong. We must help her.” 
“But we can do nothing, my dear.” The man’s words were 
soft, his deep voice a rumble of despair. 
“There is a way,” said the woman. “We can intervene. We 
can make her live again.” 
“What can we do? She is human. We cannot interfere in 
the deaths of humans. We can change nothing.” 
“We saved Adrian. We changed him to human. We have the 
knowledge, the magic.” 
“Adrian is Dragonkind. That is our domain. She is human. 
K’ronos will destroy us if we are so bold.” 
“Nay,” she argued, her mouth set stubbornly. “We 
can change her to dragon.” 
“Only K’ronos can create a dragon, dearest. Only He 
is the true Great Wyrm because He is the dragon of time,” 
the man explained patiently. “I may not remember much, but 

this I know to be true; we must not anger K’ronos.” 
“Do not forget, my darling, Adrian may be your 
grandson.” She took his large hand in hers and looked deeply 
into his golden eyes. “If she is allowed to die, he will have no 
mate. You know dragons mate for life. Your line will end with 
him.” 
“Will you help?” he asked, knowing the truth of her words. 
“You are my mate. That I do remember. If Adrian is my 
grandchild, then he is yours as well.” 
“We will help them together.” 

FORTY-TWO
Lysira and Damien were still held immobile with Sardon’s 
evil magic, but Adrian was no longer powerless. Sardon’s magic 
had faded, but Adrian was too late to stop the crystal blade as 
he watched it sink deeply into Tempest’s heart. He tried to 
reach her, but Sardon was closer. 
Sardon yanked the dagger from her lifeless body. He aimed 
for Adrian’s chest, but the lethal weapon missed its intended 
destination and buried itself in Adrian’s shoulder instead. Blood 
poured from the wound as he yanked the dagger out and flung 
it. But Sardon deftly stepped aside and it flew harmlessly to 
land in the bushes growing by the steps. 
Adrian knelt beside Tempest, ignoring Sardon. 
“Tempest?” he whispered, afraid to touch her, afraid not 
to touch her. “Please my love, answer me.” 
But there was no answer. She lay still as death. He touched 
her face, ran his fingers down her cheek. Her body was already 
turning cold. Death had claimed his mate. He had not stopped 
it, he had not protected her as he had promised. He raised his 
head to the heavens and wailed his anguish as the tears coursed 
down his cheeks. He cried out her name, but there was no 
answer. 
He cradled her lifeless body in his arms and rocked, 
miserable and lost. He sobbed helplessly, unable to do anything 
else, so great was his pain. He had lost his mate; his soul 
shriveled and cried out in agony. His blood mingled with hers 
as their wounds touched. Pain left his shoulder as he felt his 
wound began to heal. Even in death Tempest was a true healer. 
He looked around the clearing, searching for help, for 
answers. His eyes met Lysira’s, but he could see only his own 

despair mirrored there. His mother could not help him this time, 
for she and Damien were still held fast by Sardon’s 
ensorcelment. He bent over Tempest’s body, holding her, 
rocking her, sobbing out his grief. 
“She is dead, hatchling,” the sorcerer said sardonically. 
“You could not protect her. You are too weak. You cannot 
protect yourself or your family. I have wounded your pitiful 
Devil Knight, and I will destroy your helpless mother. I shall 
be the Great Wyrm and you will kneel to me before I spill your 
life’s blood upon the ground.” He took a step forward, lifted 
his sandaled foot and stepped on Tempest’s lifeless hand. He 
ground it into the dirt, then smirked. 
“See,” he mocked, “you cannot protect her even in death.” 
“Nay,” Adrian growled as he shoved Sardon away and laid 
Tempest gently on the ground, folding her hands across her 
bosom. “You will never touch her again. You will die, Sardon 
di Mercia. I will kill you or die trying. You will never live to 
be what you most desire. You will never be the Great Wyrm. 
T’bor is the Great Wyrm, and he still lives!” 
“T’bor is dead,” Sardon said, but a look of confusion began 
to grow deep within his onyx eyes. “And so is she!” He knocked 
Adrian to the ground with one sweep of his powerful arm, then 
kicked Tempest, making her hands fall to lie palms up as if in 
supplication to his great strength and power. ”See? Even your 
mate bows to me in death.” He laughed then, a wicked, gleeful 
laugh. 
“Nay!” Adrian crawled to Tempest, replaced her hands 
across her chest and kissed her cold lips. 
“I love you, my darling wife,” he whispered. “I will join 
you soon.” He rose and faced his nemesis. ”Sardon di Mercia,” 
he grated, “prepare to die.” 
“Puny hatchling masquerading as a man,” Sardon said with 
a foul grin, “‘Twill be a pleasure to kill you as I killed yon 
bitch.” He twisted the glowing ring on his finger and began to 
change. His skin darkened, became a deep, black obsidian. 
Scales formed on his body as he grew larger. His face became 
saturnine, demonic, as his teeth began to lengthen. Sharp, 
pointed horns emerged from his head, and he bellowed a 

challenge as he launched himself into the sky. 
Adrian heard a gentle voice in his mind. You also can 
change, my love. Let me help you. 
“Tempest?” Adrian glanced to where she lay. Her eyes were 
open, and she was looking at him. 
Look into my eyes, her lips did not move, the words were 
in his head. Mindspeak! Only dragons used mindspeak! But 
she was mortal, human! 
As our souls were joined, as our hearts met and became 
one, so did our blood mingle, she spoke silently to his heart. 
You are dragon. Become what you are, my love. Picture. Smell. 
Feel. Feel the wind under your wings as you soar the skies, 
feel your might, feel your power. Smell your victory. 
Adrian closed his eyes as he listened to her words. He felt 
her power as their minds joined, became one, just as their hearts 
and bodies had joined on their wedding night. 
He felt his body begin to change, to grow. His muscles 
elongated to fit his powerful legs. His arms grew stronger, his 
body larger, turning golden as scales formed. Long, leathery 
wings sprouted from his massive shoulders. He curled his 
fingers as huge, curved talons began to emerge from their tips. 
Small sharp horns of white bone began to sprout from his head. 
His teeth became sharply pointed, and he smiled a dreadful 
dragon’s smile as he reared his huge, golden head to answer 
S’rdonne’s challenge. 
I am with you A’dryan. He cannot defeat us. 
Her whispered words gave strength to his body and spirit 
as he rose to meet his archenemy. 
They met, soared higher and higher, then clashed again as 
they whirled in their dance of death. Golden dragon struck black 
dragon high in the sky over the clearing, looking like tiny black 
dots to the watchers far below. Hour after hour, dragon scales, 
gold and black, rained down upon the earth. Dragon screams 
reverberated across the land, screams of rage and screams of 
pain. Still they fought, neither gaining an advantage as the day 
wore on. 
A’dryan was weary. It seemed as though he had been 
battling S’rdonne all his life. He needed to make an end to this 

battle, here and now. But he had tried everything he knew, and 
still S’rdonne could not be vanquished. As he circled high over 
S’rdonne, the midday sun flashing brightly on his golden scales, 
he saw an opening. 
The black’s wing was torn from shoulder almost to tip. If 
he could just lengthen that tear, he would disable him. One 
more slash with his talon should do it. He dove for the black, 
head extended, teeth and talons ready. 
S’rdonne could not allow A’dryan to win this battle. 
He would exact his revenge upon L’sira and Damien for their 
rejection so many years ago. He would destroy their son, then 
he would destroy them. He could already taste victory, and it 
was sweet. 
He, S’rdonne, would be The Great Wyrm. All dragons 
would bow to him. They would worship him as the most 
powerful of all dragons. The deaths of his mother and father 
would be avenged. All blacks would be avenged. 
But his thoughts of revenge and greatness distracted him, 
and he did not see A’dryan until it was too late. He felt the 
pain as the gold’s talons tore at his wing, severing the tip from 
his body. He howled his rage as he plummeted toward Earth. 
A’dryan dove at S’rdonne for the final killing blow. Too 
late, he realized that he had flown too close as the black slashed 
at him, opening a huge gash in his vulnerable underbelly. 
Weakness hit hard as he too plummeted earthward. 
Die, hatchling, S’rdonne screamed. You are nothing 
without the witch. I destroyed her. I have won! 
Did you destroy me, S’rdonne? 
Female dragon mindspeak? Tempest? Nay! It could not 
be! She was dead. He had killed her, drove his crystal dagger 
deep into her witch’s heart. S’rdonne watched A’dryan pull out 
of his dive, watched him soar again, watched him come closer 
and closer, watched dragon fire erupt from his open maw. He 
tried to maneuver out of the line of that fire, tried to soar once 
again toward the heavens, but his injured wing made him 
clumsy, and he felt the flames hit him, felt cold fire burn into 
his thick hide, felt pain—profound, mortal pain—deep in his 
gut. He shrieked but could not evade it. His wing was too 

severely injured. He could no longer control his flight. He could 
not get away from the fire, the pain, his death. 
You cannot escape us. A’dryan’s mindspeak this time. 
We are one now, hellspawn. Soft, female mindspeak. 
Tempest? His mind screamed in rage and confusion. 
T’mpest now, Her words tore into his mind with chilling 
force. A’dryan’s forever mate. Granddaughter to T’bor and 
A’ngeline. 
S’rdonne looked down and wailed in rage and terror at 
what he saw. Tempest was standing in the center of the clearing. 
She was staring up at him, her hands raised, fingers pointed at 
him. Lightning streaked from them, aimed at his heart. 
“Nay!” he screamed, trying to evade the bolts, trying to 
avoid the inevitable, wanting, needing to avoid the death fast 
approaching. But he could not control his flight. Without his 
wingtip he could not move fast enough. 
He heard A’dryan howl, then the hiss of fire again released. 
Nay! This cannot happen! I am S’rdonne, most powerful 
of all dragons. He felt for his ring. He would use the power of 
the ring. T’bor’s ring. Its magic would save him! 
But he felt nothing, no power, nothing. The ring was gone, 
lying somewhere on the forest floor, still on the talon of his 
severed wingtip. His power was gone for the first time since 
he had picked up the ring in the deep woods eons ago. It had fit 
him then, changed when he changed, given him magic, given 
him power. Without the ring, he was merely a five-hundred-
year-old black dragon. He had no special powers, no special 
magic. 
The glacial lightning hit him first. It tore deep into his chest, 
like his crystal dagger had torn into Tempest. It burrowed, 
spiraled, cut its way toward his heart as it tossed him higher 
into the air. 
Then icy fire hit, numbing, flaming, penetrating his massive 
body. Lightning and fire struck his evil heart simultaneously, 
burning, freezing, and killing, as he plummeted, screaming his 
death cry, to earth. 
*** 
A tear slipped from the golden man’s eye, followed quickly 

by another as he watched the black dragon fall lifelessly to 
earth. He winced at the sound of the mighty dragon’s body as 
it hit the ground. Dragons were so few, his heart broke at the 
death of one, at the loss of such strength and majesty. His 
mind opened. Memories flooded in. He remembered, knew 
what he was, knew what he had done. 
The raven-haired woman sobbed. “He was mad,” 
she cried, swiping at her tears. “He wanted revenge and power. 
’Tis what all dragons want in the end.” Then she too, 
remembered, remembered the past. 
“He would have destroyed A’dryan.” 
“Aye. He would have.” 
“The ring,” the man said quietly. “I remember the ring.” 
“You truly are T’bor,” she said softly. “You are the Great 
Wyrm.” 
“I am,” he agreed. “I killed his father in the great dragon 
wars. I did not realize... But which one? Which one was his 
father? I remember no blacks.” 
“I do not know, dearest. There were so many of them.” 
“Too many.” He put his hands over his eyes. ”The ring...” 
he whispered. 
“The ring made you human,” she said, touching his golden 
head. “I found it and gave it to you.” 
“’Twas a gift from K’ronos,” he recalled wearily. “I 
never knew exactly what it could do.” 
“S’rdonne knew. He knew of the magic. Mayhap ’twas that 
which made him mad.” 
“Nay. I do not believe that. ’Twas life—and death—which 
made him mad.” 
“And the loss of his mother and father,” she added, as a 
tear trickled slowly down her cheek. 

FORTY-THREE
A’dryan settled heavily in the clearing, close to where 
Tempest stood. His huge body began to shimmer, grow smaller, 
and he began to change. As he turned human he fell, naked and 
bleeding, at her feet. 
“Adrian?” She carefully turned him over. Small cuts and 
scratches covered his arms and legs, his chest was gouged and 
bleeding. There was blood everywhere—on her hands, seeping 
into her gown where it touched his body, staining the ground 
around him, too much blood for the wounds she could see. She 
tore a strip from her gown and gently swabbed his chest. Then 
she saw it. A long, jagged tear traveled from his ribs across his 
stomach to his groin. ’Twas the source of all the blood. She 
tore more strips from her already mutilated wedding gown and 
tried to stanch the flow. “Lysira,” she screamed, “help me.” 
They quickly bound his wounds, but when they tried to 
move him into the cottage he cried out in pain, and his 
abdominal wound worsened. 
“Tempest.” Adrian weakly raised his hand to caress 
her cheek as she bent over him. “Do not move me,” he gasped. 
“I am dying. Let me die here, under the blue skies.” 
“Nay!” she exclaimed. “We will not let you die.” 
“’Tis time, little witch.” 
“Nay,” Tempest whispered. She looked at Lysira. “You can 
heal him, Lysira. You have done so before.” 
“I can no longer heal him, Tempest,” replied Lysira. “You 
are his mate. ’Tis within your power to heal him.” 
“But how? I know nothing of dragon healing.” 
“Look inside yourself. You will find the answer.” 
Tempest looked. She searched. She drew upon her witch’s 

power, pulling it from deep within her heart. Laying her hands 
carefully on his stomach, she tried to recall her healing 
knowledge. She tried to fuse power and healing. But nothing 
happened. His eyes were closed, his skin pale and waxen, his 
breathing labored as he gasped for air. 
“I cannot do it,” she wailed. “My healing power is gone. 
‘Twill not work.” 
“You must do it,” Lysira urged. 
“Nay,” she moaned. “Adrian will die.” 
“Aye. Without your help he will die,” Lysira exclaimed 
angrily. “Is this what you wish?” 
“Never.” Tempest yelled, growing angry. “If he dies, so 
shall I.” She lifted her eyes and looked to the heavens. 
“You shall not take him from me,” she screamed, her 
clenched fist raised defiantly. “I will not let you take him. He 
is my love. My life.” 
She grew suddenly calmer as she raised her hands in 
supplication. “Take me instead,” she whispered. “I give my 
life gladly for his.” She lowered her head, waiting, praying. 
A deep melodious voice filled her head, answering her. 
Witch’s tears and dragon’s blood,
Together they must flow. 
A true love’s heart ,
A prayer to gods
The answer you shall know. 
“Tempest?” Adrian’s faint whisper brought her back. “Help 
me.” 
“Adrian.” Her fingers trailed across his brow, down his 
cheek. “My love.” Her tears began to form, tiny tears, witch’s 
tears, blood-red tears. She sobbed. The tears flowed faster, 
harder, until they were large drops, cascading from her eyes, 
bathing his face, pooling on his chest, overflowing onto his 
wounds. Into his wounds they flowed, healing, closing, giving 
him strength. 
Tempest could not see, could not speak, but she felt his hand 
on her face, gently wiping away her tears. 

“Are these tears for me, little witch?” he asked. ”Witches 
do not cry, remember?” 
“I guess they do,” she sobbed, “when tears are 
truly needed.” 
“Do not weep for me, Tempest.” He sat up and took her 
into his strong arms. “I do not believe I like seeing you cry. It 
makes me feel all funny inside.” 
She laughed and sobbed as she planted tiny, loving kisses 
all over his face. “I love you, my wonderful golden dragon. I 
love you so much it hurts.” Her heart felt like it would burst 
with joy as she snuggled into his arms. She inhaled deeply, 
drew his spicy sandalwood scent deep into herself and sighed 
happily. 
“Tempest?” he wondered. “Do you realize what happened 
to you?” 
“Of course,” she answered, wrapping her arms around him. 
“Sardon stabbed me, you healed me, you killed Sardon and I 
cried. ’Twas what the voice in my head told me to do.” She 
hesitated. “I think.” 
“No, little dragon,” he said slowly. He knew he needed to 
tell her, needed to explain. He had felt the difference when he 
took her in his arms. He had seen the beginning when she joined 
with him, when they used mindspeak. But how? How do you 
tell the one you love that her life was completely changed? 
Now and forever. 
“Little dragon?” she teased. “What happened to 
`little witch’?” 
“You died, Tempest. When Sardon stabbed you, the dagger 
pierced your heart, and you died.” 
“Nay. I am alive, Adrian. See?” She moved her arm, patted 
him gently on the cheek. “I move, I breathe. I am alive.” 
We are joined now. We are dragon. He used dragon 
mindspeak. 
“We have always been joined, dearest,” she answered, 
unaware of how he had spoken to her. “You are dragon. I am 
simply human. Nothing more.” She looked into his blue eyes, 
trying to make him understand. This was difficult. Was he mad 
from the battle? From his wounds? She sat up and leaned back, 

laying her hand on his head. ’Twas cool to the touch. He was 
not feverish. 
Adrian moved her hand from his head, turned it over and 
kissed her palm. He uncurled his long length from the ground 
and stood, reaching to help her up. 
Look at me Tempest, he mindspoke, tilting her chin to lift 
her head. Can you understand what I am saying? Remember, 
my darling. 
Tempest was confused. She heard what he had said, but his 
lips had not moved. How? ’Twas not possible. She shook her 
head. “Nay,” she stammered, trying to ignore what she had 
seen, what she had heard. “I cannot.” But she did remember 
past times when they had called out to each other when danger 
was near. Why had she not noticed it then? And why were his 
words so clear now, so much like spoken words? 
You hear me, Tempest. Admit it. 
“Nay.” She tried to pull away from him, but he would not 
release her. “I will not. I know not of what you speak.” She 
could not accept this. ‘Twas simply not possible. 
Tempest. 
“Adrian. Please,” she pleaded. “Do not make me do this. I 
am frightened. ’Tis wrong. I am human, not dragon.” 
Mindspeak, Tempest. 
I cannot. I am not dragon. Her hand flew to her lips as she 
realized what she had done. A’dryan? 
He smiled and kissed her. Fly with me, my love. Soar the 
heavens as my true mate. Be T’mpest. 
But how can I be dragon? How did this happen? 
“The gods hold dragonkind in a special place in their 
hearts,” Lysira spoke quietly. “They watched your blood and 
A’dryan’s meld and, they gave you new life. ’Tis great love 
they hold for you.” 
Adrian and Tempest had forgotten her presence, and 
they turned to her now for advice. 
“What do we do now?” asked Tempest. “Can I truly become 
dragon? Will I be a golden dragon like Adrian?” 
“You can and you will, Tempest. What the gods ordain 
must be.” 

“Try it,” said Adrian, stepping back and waiting 
expectantly. 
Tempest closed her eyes and concentrated. She tried, but 
she could not picture herself growing so huge, growing large 
teeth and horns...Her eyes flew open and met Adrian’s. “I 
cannot. I will be so ugly,” she cried. 
Adrian smiled. “Do you think me ugly, Tempest?” 
“Nay, oh nay,” she replied, feeling the heat flow into her 
cheeks with embarrassment. “You are beautiful, Adrian. I love 
you. You are more beautiful than anyone has a right to be.” 
“Even when I am A’dryan?” 
“Aye. Even more so.” She reached out her hand. “But I 
have never been a dragon. I cannot imagine how it feels. Help 
me, Adrian. Please.” 
He took her hand. “Close your eyes,” he said, “feel with 
your heart. Be T’mpest.” 
Tempest tried again. She pictured Adrian, saw him change, 
grow larger, become A’dryan. Then she saw herself beside him, 
saw herself grow, change. 
It felt strange. Her body became heavy, ponderous, then 
cold, then warm, then hot. She was frightened and tried to stop 
the change. 
T’mpest. You are my mate. You are my love. ’Tis your right 
to take to the skies with me, to fly to distant lands, to become 
a golden dragon. 
A’dryan, help me! 
I am here, my love. Join with me. Feel it, Tempest. Feel 
the dragon power. 
And she could feel it. She felt stronger than she had ever 
felt before. Tiny shivers chased themselves up and down her 
spine as her skin became coarse, then smooth, then pliant. And 
she grew. She felt larger than life, filled with life. ’Twas good, 
very, very good. 
T’mpest reached out, touched A’dryan’s mind, touched his 
heart, his soul. Goddess, could she feel it! Deep within her she 
felt the power grow, not witch’s power, nothing like witch’s 
power. This was dragon power, the strongest of all. 
This time she was not frightened as her body began to 

change. This time A’dryan was with her, guiding, 
helping, protecting. She relished the feeling of strength as she 
felt her scales form, felt her wings sprout and, like a newly 
emerging butterfly, she left the cocoon of her human body. 
The smells! She could smell every wildflower, every tiny 
new blade of grass. She could smell the trees, their needles, 
their leaves. 
The sounds! She could hear the trees whispering to each 
other, hear the sap flow. She heard the rustle of tiny mouse feet 
running across the clearing. She heard the sound of newly 
hatched birds as they broke through their shells to freedom. 
She tasted the wind, the scents surrounding her, and she 
cried out in wonder and joy. She heard her voice, deep, 
melodious, strong. 
She lifted her wings and felt the touch of a gentle puff of 
air as it playfully batted at her leathery wings. 
Tempest opened her eyes. A’dryan was with her. L’sira was 
with her. Tristan and Damien stood on the steps of the cottage. 
They looked so small! Light surrounded them. Tristan’s light 
was pale blue, almost white as it glowed and pulsed. Damien 
was surrounded by a brilliant golden light. Tiny pinpoints of 
color danced merrily through his aura. 
And she tasted freedom. A freedom such as she had never 
known. Freedom to be, to fly, to soar the skies with her love. 
Laughter bubbled up from deep within her. She cried golden 
tears of pure joy as she looked at A’dryan. Come fly with me, 
my love, her mind called to him. 
They flew. They danced the heavens in exultation, dove, 
soared, proclaimed their love and joy to the world below. 
T’mpest and A’dryan...golden dragons...mated pair... forever. 
“So beautiful,” the woman sighed as she leaned back in 
her golden chair. “Such a great love.” 
“As great as ours, my sweet Angeline?” T’bor raised her 
hand to his lips. 
“You great beast,” Angeline smiled in reply. “Never has 
there been a love such as ours. But did we do right by them? 

The Prophesy...we were not given the task of fulfilling the 
prophesy.” 
“Not to worry, dearest. Who ever pays attention to us 
anyway? I am...” Thunder interrupted him as it roiled across 
the heavens, shaking their heavy chairs, nearly throwing 
Angeline to the green-tiled floor in its fury. 
A blinding light filled the room, and they had to look away, 
unable to tolerate its brilliance. 
“I PAY ATTENTION.” The heavy masculine voice boomed 
in their ears. “AND I AM NOT HAPPY.” 
“K’ronos? We...ahh...” T’bor tried to speak in 
their defense. 
“SILENCE!” roared K’ronos, shaking the heavens with 
his wrath. “YOU HAVE MEDDLED ONCE TOO OFTEN. 
THERE WILL BE PAYMENT FOR THIS MISDEED. ONLY I 
MAY CREATE A DRAGON.” 
“But we were just trying to help,” Angeline squeaked in 
terror. “We...” Her lips moved, but words failed. She tried to 
swallow to relieve the sudden dryness in her mouth. Tears 
cascaded down her porcelain cheeks, and her body began to 
tremble. 
T’bor tried valiantly to reach out to her, to offer 
her comfort, but he could not move, so great was his 
trepidation. He watched in horror as her body began to waver 
and slowly fade from sight. 
“NAAAY...” His scream of despair echoed through the 
chamber as, he too, began to shimmer, then fade. 
Silence reined in the empty chamber. K’ronos, the first 
dragon, the dragon of time, of infinity, spoke softly from within 
a luminous golden light. “You are the most beloved of my 
children. Your punishment must be a lesson to all. ’Tis 
unfortunate you did not realize the story has two parts—The 
Legend and The Prophesy—and the wheel of time must always 
turn.” 
The light faded and was gone. The chess pieces turned to 
dust. The chessboard and table fragmented, became cinders 
which drifted slowly to the floor. The heavy gold chairs faded 
and were soon gone from sight. 

The lonely crystal orb danced in midair then turned to 
ebony blackness. Lightning flashed from its center as starlight 
coruscated through the darkness. The crystal flashed a bright 
silver and was no more. 
*** 
’Twas a time before time. A time before humans 
strode boldly upon the earth, a time when dragons reigned 
supreme. 
Deep in the mountain caves of Ashtorath, the huge golden 
dragon lay dying amid the ruins of her clutch. Her unborn 
hatchlings had been destroyed by a rampaging black 
dragon, intent upon wiping out the last of the golden dragons. 
But the black had failed in his evil task. One egg, smaller 
than the rest, moved, then cracked open as a tiny newborn 
dragon emerged. His mother reached out one wicked-looking 
claw toward him, lovingly caressed his golden head, whispered 
the name ‘T’bor’, then quietly left the mortal realms. 
T’bor screamed his rage at the world around him, but 
there was no answer in that cold cave of death. 
*** 
’Twas a time of peace and strife, a time of long before. 
In the tiny village of Northmarch, a girl-child came 
screaming her anger into the world. 
“Angeline,” her mother crooned, then smiled tenderly as 
she put her newborn daughter to her breast. “My sweet 
Angeline.” She gently caressed the downy black hair on the 
babe’s head. 
Thunder laughed in gleeful abandon as it tumbled its way 
across the heavens, then all was silent. 

EPILOGUE
Tristan watched Adrian pace the floor. “You are going to 
wear a path into the flagstones,“ he said with a grin. “’Twas 
the same four years ago when Rowan was born. Tempest will 
be fine, Adrian. Lysira is a good midwife.“ 
“Aye,“ Adrian answered as he stopped and stared out the 
window. “But I do worry over her.” The wail of a newborn 
filled the air, and he hurried from the room with Tristan close 
behind. 
They found Tempest ensconced in the big four-poster bed 
with her baby cradled in her arms. She smiled at him. “We 
have a daughter, my love,“ she said proudly as she peeled the 
blanket from the babe’s face 
Adrian sat on the bed, took Tempest’s hand in his and 
kissed the palm. “You are well?” he asked with a worried frown. 
“It took so long this time.” He reached over and tenderly 
brushed her hair back from her cheek. 
“It took Rowan longer to enter the world,“ she answered 
as she kissed his fingers. “You worry over much, husband. 
Look at her. Is she not beautiful?”. 
Tristan quietly left the room. Tempest had fared well, and 
she and Adrian needed this time for each other and the new 
babe. He would visit them later. 
*** 
Sitting alone in the Great Hall, Tristan raised his flagon of 
mead in a silent toast to his sister and her family. He was glad 
he had stayed for the birth of their second child. A girl this 
time and a truly beautiful babe. Would she be like her brother, 
Rowan, he wondered, changing from human to dragon and back 
again on a whim, mercurial, quick to laugh, slow to anger, like 

his father? Or would she be sweet and loving, like her mother, 
changing into a dragon only when the need arose? Only time 
would tell. 
Would his child have been like its mother—blond and 
beautiful? Nay, he would not think of Marisa; even after four 
years, the pain was too intense. Marisa—would he never stop 
missing her? He quietly closed that door into his mind; it would 
not do to dwell on the past. That way led only to misery and 
heartache. 
“Tempest wishes to see you, Tristan,” Lysira said, touching 
his shoulder to get his attention. She was wearing her cloak, 
and he knew she would soon be returning to Damien. “Adrian 
has taken Rowan to his room, so you can have a quiet visit 
with her. That boy can be rather trying at times.” She smiled to 
soften her words. Lysira and Damien were very doting 
grandparents, spoiling Rowan as often as they could get the 
chance. She would do the same with her new granddaughter. 
Tempest had just finished feeding the babe when Tristan 
entered the room. She gave him a quick smile and patted the 
edge of the bed in invitation for him to sit. “She is already fast 
asleep,“ she said quietly. “Would you put her in her cradle for 
me?“ 
He carefully carried the baby to her cradle, laid her down 
and carefully covered her. He watched her sleep for a long 
moment and smiled as her tiny lips twitched in a smile. Just 
like her mother, he thought. 
“Tris,“ said Tempest. “Come talk with me. It has been so 
long.“ 
Tristan settled back on the foot of the bed, leaning against 
the tall post. “Aye. Another year has passed much too quickly. 
I have missed you and Adrian.“ 
“Rowan, too?“ she asked with a big grin “I am certain 
you also missed my wild, half-dragon son.” 
“Aye,” he laughed. “Even him.” 
They sat for a while in companionable silence, listening to 
the new babe smack her tiny lips while she slept.. “’Tis a shame 
Christiana has refused to see her grandchildren,” Tristan finally 
said. “Mayhap they would bring some joy into her life. She 

has become a hopeless shrew since you married Adrian.” 
“She never forgave me for using my magic against her. 
She was ill for a long time after that. I regret what I did to her 
but...” She sighed, a look of deep sorrow on her face. 
“You only did what you deemed necessary,“ he said. “And 
she did recover with time. Besides, she was often cruel to you. 
‘Twas no less than she deserved.” 
“No one deserves what I did, Tris.” 
“Do you remember the look of shock on her face the first 
time she saw you turn into a dragon? I had a difficult time 
hiding my laughter. ’Twas nice to see her speechless. That does 
not happen often enough. I wish she had not banned you from 
the castle, though. It still angers me that Father conceded to 
her will. He does that all too often now.” 
“He loves her, Tris. Mayhap he hopes she will return to 
being the woman he first married. He is getting older, and I 
know he does not wish to be alone. Besides, I have my own 
life to lead now—far away from Windhaven. And you know 
how happy I am.” 
“Still, he misses you dreadfully, Tempest. In the past five 
years he has aged so much and is almost feeble now. The only 
times he shows any liveliness is when we make the trip to 
Lysira’s cottage for a visit; or when we come here to Dragon‘s 
Dome.” Wendall had not been able to come this time. He had 
not been strong enough. Tristan wondered if his father would 
ever make the trip again. 
“I am so glad that Father has finally acknowledged you as 
his son and heir. ‘Tis a shame Mother had to throw such a 
tantrum when she discovered what he planned. I know it must 
have taken much of your joy when she did it.“ 
Tristan smiled at the memory. “I survived it intact, which 
is more than everyone thought Father would do. Christiana 
screamed and raved and threw everything she could get her 
hands on. Everyone had to run for cover until Father could 
calm her down. But her tantrum accomplished nothing. In that 
matter Wendall was firm. “He told her I was his son and that 
he needed a male heir.. He even told her I would see to it that 
she was well taken care of after he is gone.” 

Tempest giggled. “Did she throw another tantrum when he 
said that? Tell me what they said. Every single word.” 
Tristan laughed as he repeated what he had heard: “’I can 
see to myself,’ she shrieked. ‘I do not want your bastard living 
in my castle.’ 
“ ’Tis my castle, Christiana, and ‘twill be as I say.’ he told 
her. Then he led me before his people and made his 
proclamation. Then I left to come here.” 
“I hope she calms down before you return, at least for 
Father’s sake.” 
“Aye, but I did so miss you, little sister and, I wanted to 
see the new babe.” 
“I am so happy that you came, Tris.. But you need to get 
back to Father before Mother pulls Windhaven down around 
him. Just make sure you come back before another year has 
passed this time.” 
“You will tell Adrian and Rowan farewell for me?” He 
rose from the bed, gave her a kiss and a long hug. 
Tempest wiped tears from her eyes. “Of course I will. Now 
go before I really do start crying.” 
Tristan left quickly. He could not stand to see a woman 
cry—especially his beloved sister. He envied Tempest. It was 
obvious she and Adrian loved each other very much. If he and 
Marisa had only had a chance. If she had lived... 
*** 
He had been riding through the deep forest for about an 
hour when something caught his eye. It was lying in the middle 
of the path, glittering in the warm, summer sunlight. He 
dismounted and walked over to it, drawn by the shiny object. 
Bones. But bones did not reflect the sunlight. There it was. 
A ring. He picked it up and held it in his hand. There was a 
large bone through the center of the ring, and he strained to 
remove it, but he could not separate the ring from the bone. 
’Twas too large to be a finger bone. Why was the bone so hard 
to remove? If it had been a finger, there would have been flesh 
and muscle on it. The ring would have slipped easily from the 
bone when there was no longer any flesh on it. 
He tugged harder, then tried tapping the bone on a large 

stone lying beside the trail. Still the ring would not budge. He 
tried to snap the bone, but ’twas as though it were made of 
iron. It would not break. Was this some kind of magic? 
He turned the bone so he could see the ring better. Its silver 
band was not tarnished and there seemed to be a stone set in it 
but he could not tell for sure because it was covered with dirt. 
He rubbed at the stone. 
Suddenly the ring felt hot in his hand, alive. It felt wrong 
somehow, wicked. Nay, not wicked just...different, powerful. 
Tristan tried to throw it down but could not. The white bone 
grew soft, then liquid as it flowed over his hand and dripped 
onto the path. The ring...The ring moved, crawled, flowed over 
his hand and onto his finger. He tried to remove it. Nay, ’twas 
too tight. He spat on it, thinking to use his saliva to loosen it, 
but it did not work. 
Panicked, he pulled and tugged on the ring until his finger 
bled, but to no avail. He could not remove it. 
“Nay,” he cried out desperately. “I want no magic.” He 
looked to the heavens and pleaded. “Help me.” 
But there was no answer and, with a frustrated sigh, Tristan 
mounted his horse and continued his journey home. 
*** 
K’ronos watched the dejected young man ride slowly down 
the narrow dirt road. Aye, he had chosen well. Tristan was a 
good man. He had suffered enough in this life. He would 
remove the evil taint S’rdonne had left upon the ring. 
Soon the lad would realize that life had much to offer. 
Soon the magic of the Ring of K’ronos would bring him his 
heart’s desire. 
“Be happy, Tristan Sanct Joliet .” K’ronos’s voice was a 
deep rumble in the heavens. “Use my ring wisely.” 

Watch for 
Tristan’s Story 
in 
On the Wings of Time
by Dolly Lien 
Available Now 
from 
ImaJinn Books