In the deep gloom beneath Palacio de la Renada, beyond an opening barred in iron, torchlight glowed dimly. It was late and the prisoners who could, slipped into the relief of grateful slumber.

Others lay awake, watching the hours.

Cylene's eyes had grown used to the dark, but her bones ached with chill. She rested her head against the stone wall of her cell--her body awash in waiting dread.

Heavy footfall scuffed the stone steps descending into the dungeon, and she lifted her gaze to the stooped figure between two guards, shuffling toward her in the darkness. An iron key turned the bolt with a sharp scream of metal against metal.

The old man stumbled through the open door. Catching his foot on a raised stone, he tripped and hit the floor, bracing himself on his bare palms and grunting--almost whimpering--at the indignity.

Cylene pulled her knees to her chest.

The mad old king--her mother's enemy, stared forward, not quite at her, as his eyes dilated, adjusting in the darkness.

Voices whispered in their voyeur corners.

The fiends of hell stood near, sapping the darkness and every hushed cry for mercy, every stifled groan.

Cylene bit her cheek. Whatever happened, she would not beg. She would not plead to them for their ruthless assistance.

"I see you there!" the old king spat at her.

She turned her head away--into silent refuge.

"Answer me! Whore!"

"You had your revenge on my mother already," Cylene said, voice barely above a whisper. "There's a marker in the traitors' graveyard to prove it."

The old man paused, but shook. "Liar! Anything to save yourself!" The old king ground his molars and spat a string of filthy slurs.

Cylene blinked but did not wince, her arms held her knees with her hands clasped. They would not stay clasped.

The old king, though mad and weakened with age, was still stronger than she was.

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Next instant, he had her against the wall, pinning her pelvis with his knee and her wrists with either of his two thick hands. "I only cast you off because of your cruelty. You withheld from me my heir! I was too patient with you back then! I am long past patience now!"

The procedure of a king's lost patience sent Cylene out of her body.

But something--some small rock of her history pulled her back, out of her safe dark corner, and once again into the interior of her mind. Bending her brow, she stared, eyelids wide and armed with horrible meanings, into the old king's time worn face. The pools of her black pupils dilated wide and the deposed king blinked, then winced, then pushed her away.

But too late.

He had seen himself--a horror--within the dark mirror of Cylene of Madrogal's black eyes.

***

The roar of the wind off of the dragon's wings turned the audience's collective faces up toward the sky, hands clutching their hats, gripped by the sight of a winged beast, massive in scale, sailing so light upon an eastward gale. They gazed, faces twisted in an odd mixture of fear and wonder as the beast lit on the floor of the arena, its massive head clearing the height of six men standing on end. Barbed tail, mighty enough to smash a home with one sweep. His armor, knitted in polished scales of onyx black, sparkled in the sun with a pearlescent luster.

The dragon's opal gaze pinned Felderon on the floor of the arena.

"Unexpected." The dragon's massive head bobbed as he took in his "challenger" on the arena floor.

Felderon wore no armor. In one hand, however, he held a spear which the mayor had, backhandedly furnished him--as though the illusion of a fight were still necessary to uphold.

"You are a high status gift--although, I can't say I blame them for putting you forward. I am surprised you volunteered for the privilege, however."

Felderon swallowed the lump in his tightened throat. "My compliance only comes because I couldn't blame them either."

"Couldn't you do any better than that?" The dragon eyed the spear in Felderon's right hand.

"You're not offended, surely," Felderon said. "It's only a prop."

"No, indeed. No offense. They might have offered a King something more fortifying."

"It all happened rather suddenly, you see. There wasn't time to do better. Your window was a bit pinched."

The dragon vented a plume of smoke from the round nostrils of his great nose. "I suppose it was. But I can't be too soft."

"Agreed. No self-respecting tyrant lets go of a deadline."

"Good of you to understand. Well...we've all assembled. I suppose we'd better get on with it."

"Er," Felderon muttered. "Shall I make a show of strength for the sake of showmanship?"

"Fine. But let's not drag this out. Kinder that way." In fact, the dragon cared nothing for kindness, but he mimicked the gesture with almost human grace. As he drew in a breath, the sound a commotion at the west end of the arena drew his notice. A war horse, black as flint stood opposite, pawing the dust with his hoof.