PROLOGUE (1)

The great beast, a colossal creature of glittering red-gold and grey, floated high above the battlefield, his scales shining in the spring sunshine. The thermals rising from the undulating hills eased the effort of flight. He was glad of the support provided by the air currents. He was old – the oldest of them all, and he had fought hard. The effort of battle had tired him.

He remembered his friend Jorac, he who had made the torc that helped win this victory, as perfectly if he were still alive. He recalled the heart-stopping beauty of his iridescent aquamarine and turquoise scales, the humour and intelligence of his eyes, the empathy of his spirit. He remembered drunken adventures, quarrels, affection, forgiveness and understanding. And, of course, making love – in bed; under the moon; on soft summer grasses; in front of the fire. And he recalled, after all this time, the terrible jolting awareness of his death spearing his mind from afar, in that battle against necromancy so long ago.

They’d thought that that battle was the last, that the shadow of dark had been permanently banished. Of course, it was not so. They’d been so young, so naïf.

Another battle had just taken place on the fields below, fields rich in yellowstars and bluestars, pink gladores and dwarf brick-red tulips, the air syrupy with the sickly smell of jonquils and the rank scent of wild garlic. But now, the land reeked of blood and death. It stank of funeral pyres, of charred flesh and burnt hair and scales.

All through the battle, he’d felt the spirit of his old friend – the one person he’d loved completely, and the one that he had failed completely, too – tantalisingly present on the battlefield. That was why he had come – he was too old, now, to get involved in the affairs of men, even in the affairs of elves. But the guilt and regret and sorrow had never left him, and this time he had been determined to do what he had failed to do before. Jorac’s spirit was with him, and he used his own powers to make sure that Jorac’s torc did what he’d meant it to, all those years ago.

But the victory had tired him. He could feel the mind of the victor, his grief at the suffering, his profound compassion for those who had lost friends and lovers and children, an empathy that embraced both his own and the enemy. He was a worthy successor to Jorac. It was a shame that he wasn’t a dragon, but the giant creature knew, of course he knew, that The Power could be incarnated into any sentient being. He had long ago realised that the Great Spirit did not believe that dragons were the only creatures of creation worthy of being vessels for magic. Jorac, it was true, had been the most brilliant and puissant of his time. But the half-Elf king below was The One for this time. His power was still growing. One day it would far eclipse Jorac’s.

Which was just as well, because this wise, compassionate youngster thought the war was won, and he was wrong.

The dangers were still there – invisible, lethal, growing.

The dragon turned for home. For the time being, his job was done. But he would have to speak to this boy, directly, one-on-one, to persuade him to do what was necessary. He was saddened by the path ahead, and only momentarily comforted by the brush of Jorac’s spirit across his mind. Sometimes, these days, he thought that his awareness of his friend was a phantasm produced by his mind, a symptom of his decrepitude and decay. But for the most part, he believed that Jorac was still in some sense with him. In the twilight, at the time Jorac used to float out of the sky, his skin glittering blue and green in the last rays of the sun, he would see a shadow, with tiny flickers of emerald and turquoise, and he would hear the whisper of his name, and he would know that his friend was with him again, just as he had been three hundred years before.

When this, his final duty, was fulfilled, he would go to The Havens, and they would be together at last.