years?’
‘Yes. She will be a child, even though she will have my powers eventually.’
Miranda sighed audibly. ‘At least she’ll be a large enough girl to give anyone pause should they break in.’ For a moment she considered. ‘Do you know where Pug is?’
The Oracle closed her eyes and considered. ‘He is absent from his island. I sense him out there’ – she made a vague gesture with her head – ‘among the worlds.’
‘Damn,’ Miranda swore. ‘I think we will need him here before your daughter is strong enough to defend this hall.’ She considered something in silence a while. ‘How long before you enter the final heat?’
‘We join in less than a year, Miranda. Then I shall be gone, for with the re-forming, something is always lost. This is why we, who were old when the stars were new, why we remember little of our own beginning. But in that rebirth, more strength and knowledge come, and she who follows after me shall be eventually my equal, then at last my better.’
Miranda muttered, ‘If we live that long.’
‘Dark tides are forming. They rise against distant shores but shall reach even here, eventually.’
‘I must be gone. There is little time and much to be done. I fear a great many foolish choices have already been made and that we depend too much on auguries and portents.’
‘You chose a strange audience for that argument,’ answered the Oracle.
‘That you’ve been useful is without question,’ said the young woman. ‘But fate is not immutable, I believe. I think one can seize destiny if one is but willing to make the attempt.’
‘So believe those who oppose you,’ said the Oracle. ‘This is the root of the problem.’
‘Those are deluded fanatics, who live in a mad dream that has no basis in reality. They bring death and pain for no cause whatsoever.’
‘True, but they share your sense of self-determination.’
‘On that note,’ Miranda said dryly, ‘I bid you farewell. Are you sufficiently protected here?’
‘Our arts are sufficient for all but the most powerful.’
‘Then I shall be gone. Will we meet again?’
‘I do not know,’ said the Oracle. ‘Too many possible endings appear to my mind, and none clearly marked as likely.’
‘Then fare you well on your journey to immortality, and pray that we lesser beings live long enough to greet your daughter when she comes into her own.’
‘You have my wishes for success,’ said the dragon.
Then the young woman was gone, vanished from before their eyes with little more than a gust of wind filling the empty place where she had stood.
To the one most senior among her companions the dragon said with a chuckle, ‘She is much like her father, don’t you think? That touch of the cynical in her nature could be the weak spot that undoes her. I hope fate is kind to her.’
The seniormost companion said, ‘Very much like her father.’
Winds swept the figure atop the hill, blowing her cloak and robes in billowing wings behind her. Smoke from distant fires stung her eyes as she beheld the carnage below. Riders were hunting down stragglers, raping and killing for sport. Using her arts, she studied in detail one scene after another. Men made like animals in the fury of battle now visited pain and destruction on helpless men, women, and children. She balled her fists in rage, but stayed her hand. Those who commanded the riders would descend upon her in an instant if she revealed her presence magically. While fear was not her companion, prudence was, and she understood her worth lay in being able to accomplish many things between now and the time of true battle. When that issue was decided, the fate of a world and more would hang in the balance, not the lives of these pitiful wretches.
Even at this distance, the cries of pain carried on the wind, and Miranda turned away from them as she moved down the hillside. For the time being she willed her heart to stone, for while she ached to help these few survivors, she knew that far more critical issues demanded her attention.
As she approached the scene of battle, she crouched low. Ducking behind low rocks, she waited as a company of drunken warriors wearing emerald armbands rode by, a screaming woman held across the neck of one man’s horse. Miranda felt her face flush in rage. She willed herself to calmness; losing her head now would help no one.
Skirting the action, she came to a village in ruin. No building had been left standing – a solitary wall here, a charred doorframe there, but nothing that could be remotely called shelter. Acrid smoke stung Miranda’s eyes as she searched for any signs of life.
Seeing none, she ventured deeper into the village, seeking any information that would prove useful. In the distance, she saw movement, and ducking behind a section of wall, she waited. Another company of horsemen rode by, less vigilant than they should have been, but not the drunken roisterers she had seen earlier. These were seasoned soldiers, Miranda calculated. These men were not mere mercenaries but those posted to the central companies of the invaders’ forces. By being at this location, she now had a fair estimate of the invaders’ rate of march. Cursing quietly, for it was faster than she had suspected, she moved away from the center of the village. She could will herself away at any time, but she was tired, and the effort to cloak her presence from her enemies was taking its toll. A little undisturbed rest in a quiet place would be needed for her to leave this area and not let her enemy know she had observed.
Miranda ducked through a burned doorframe, between two still-standing sections of wall, and even her iron-willed composure cracked at the sight that greeted her. Gasping, she had to put her hand out and grip the doorjamb, for her knees went weak as the sight of dead children greeted her. Tiny bodies charred to blackness were piled in the center of the fire-gutted building. Miranda felt a low animal growl of pain and wrath building in her throat and bit it back as rage threatened to overwhelm her composure. She knew well that should any of the monsters who had visited this horror on the children blunder within her sight, she would destroy him without thought, without regard for the consequences to her or her mission.
Forcing herself to calm, she took two deep breaths and fought back tears of anguish. Babies with smashed heads were placed upon older children with charred arrows still protruding from them. At least, thought Miranda, the children had been killed before the building had been set alight. Bitterly she wondered if death from a blade or arrow was, in truth, kinder than dying in flames. Bidding peace to the souls of those tormented tiny bodies, she left the building.
She picked her way amid the rubble to the outskirts of the village farthest from where she had last seen the raiders. She peered around the corner of what had once been an inn and saw nothing. Dashing from the village across a rivulet running down from the hills, she made it to a copse of trees. There she almost died.
The woman was terrified and so her knife slash went wide, but Miranda still took a cut along her left forearm. Biting back a cry of pain, Miranda reached out and gripped the woman’s wrist with her right hand. A quick twist and the woman was forced to release the blade.
Hissing in pain and anger, Miranda said softly, ‘Silence, fool! I’ll not hurt you.’ Then she saw the two cowering children behind the woman. ‘Or your babies.’ Her tone softened a bit. She released the woman’s
