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through the solid rock wall and he took the girl with
him.
    The monks were
baffled. Grald was not.
    “This proves it.
Draconas is responsible,” he said accusingly to Anora. “You bungled the job.”
    Disguised in their
respective human forms—Grald in the body of a large, hulking human male, and
Anora in the body of a holy sister—the two dragons surveyed the midst of the
ruins left by the horrific blast that had wiped out an entire city block.
    “Then why haven’t
we seen his colors?” Anora demanded, frustrated and baffled. “If his mind is
alive and active and reaching out to help Melisande’s son, we would know it,
for we have been watching for him. He could not hide from us.”
    “Someone reached
out to aid Melisande’s son,” Grald muttered, kicking at a chunk of stone and
sending it rolling. “Someone opened the gate for him. The prince could not do
that by himself.”
    “What about your
son? Ven?”
    “What about him?”
Grald growled.
    “He was with his
brother and that female. He could have opened the gate and helped them escape.”
    Grald snorted. “Ven
hates his brother, and why not? His brother is handsome, rich, educated, and
has two human legs, not two dragon ones. And Ven lusts after the girl who was
with Marcus. Ven would not have permitted her to flee, especially in the
company of a brother he detests. Besides, the monks theorize that Ven was
injured. They think the blood was his. And, his mind remains closed to me.”
    “He is cagey, that
one. Because he has not used the dragon-magic, his mind has no colors, like a
barren field blanketed in heavy snow. Except the field is not as barren as we
suppose. He has learned how to mask his thoughts from us. Where is he now? Do
you know? If he’s wounded, he couldn’t have gone far.”
    “My monks continue
to search for him.”
    “By my wings and
tail, we seem to have lost everyone this morning!” Anora ground her teeth in
frustration.
    “If you had struck
Draconas from behind, slain him immediately, as I suggested, then we would not
be in this mess. You had to treat yourself to your little fillip of victory Let
him know who you were—”
    “Do not tell me
how to fight my battles!” Anora snarled, rounding on Grald. “You have lived in
that stolen body so long you do not remember what it is like to live in a body
such as that inhabited by Draconas, a body created by a supreme illusion.”
    “And I say that
you have not fought another dragon in so long that you do not remember what it
is to do battle with one,” Grald returned, although in subdued tones. He could
see the shadow of the elder dragon looming over him. “Draconas did with you
what he did with me when I fought him—he cast a defensive spell that threw your
magic back on itself, and then he turned tail and ran.”
    “He had seconds
only,” argued Anora. “He could not have gone far.”
    “He apparently
went far enough to help the son of Melisande escape through the magical gate,”
Grald retorted.
    “Enough of this
bantering,” Anora said, suddenly weary. “We go round and round, like a
fledgling chasing its tail, and we get nowhere. Here comes one of your mad
monks. Perhaps he has something to report.”
    The monk bowed
obsequiously.
    “Honored One—” the
monk began.
    “Yes, yes,” Grald
interrupted impatiently. “Get on with it. What have you to report?”
    “Honored One,” the
monk continued, cringing, “your son has been found.”
    “Ven? Where?”
Grald demanded, tense, alert.
    “In the Abbey,
Honored One. He made it that far before he collapsed.”
    “Collapsed?” Grald
repeated. “Out with it, you ninny! What is wrong with him? Is he hurt?”
    “He was stabbed,
Honored One,” replied the monk in grave tones. “We found him lying on the floor
of his room in a pool of blood. We do not know if he will survive.”
    Grald cast a
triumphant glance at Anora. “That rules out Ven having anything to do with
Marcus’s flight!”
    Anora cast him