shorter, but crowned all around. And within the second circle, an inner horseshoe shape of taller, narrow stones, enfolding within it a polished black altar stone, like a jewel cradled safely in cupped hands.
The scent of fresh, growing things rose around me like a haze—the crushed grass I stood upon, the perfume of moving water nearby, the fragrance of wildflowers. I breathed the air deeply into my lungs, drawing strength and life from it.
Power radiated from the Dance. Power that flowed into my bones, into my flesh, into my sinews like music. There was magic here, but it was a gentle magic, a magic that sang in my blood. It reached into me and tapped the same centred well I drew on when I needed healing power to visualize my hurts—or those of others—as whole again. It resonated with that inner energy as flute and harp combine into harmony. Surrounded and wrapped by peace and contentment, I watched the sky fade to dusk behind the circle.
As the last light faded, for the first time, I noticed the man by the altar. He stood with his back to me, paying me no attention at all, giving no sign he realized I was there. He stood casually and easily, relaxed and comfortable, yet straight as one of the menhirs. He gave no outward signs of either patience or impatience, but I knew he was waiting, and had waited a long time there by the altar. He simply stood in communion with the power of the circle and waited.
A soft footfall sounded in the grass behind me. Expecting to see the Swordmaster, I turned slowly and raised my sword to meet the challenge. The dark figure of a man stood silhouetted against the timeless glow of the sky. A brief jolt of surprise shot through my chest. Not the Swordmaster, this figure stood bathed in an aura of menace. The sword in his hand radiated darkness, spilling it like water around the man.
“So I have found you at last,” my opponent said, his voice flat and uninflected.
I drew in a deep breath, the fresh scented air filling my lungs. The smile that pulled my lips back from my teeth had nothing to do with amusement. I felt light and ready, anticipation an airy evanescence in my blood. Something long outstanding was about to be resolved, something important.
“Perhaps I have found you instead,” I told the dark figure.
“Perhaps, indeed,” he replied. “We shall see how well the sword fights for you.”
I flexed my hands on the plain, leather-bound hilt. “Or I fight for it?” I asked evenly.
“As you say.” He leaped forward forcefully and I found myself fighting for my life.
Time had no meaning in this strange dreamscape. Tirelessly, back and forth across the flower-strewn green-velvet of the grass, the dark stranger and I battled each other. At first, we seemed evenly matched, our skill equal, neither of us able to find a weakness in the other and exploit it. Then gradually, I became aware that it was I who gave ground more often, that it was I on the defensive more often than on the offensive. Desperately, I sought the reserves of strength and stamina the years of training with Cullin had given me. But they were not there.
A strange combination of helpless despair and desperate, fatalistic determination filled me. I lunged forward aggressively, thrusting recklessly at the stranger. The tip of the blade caught against the crosspiece of the hilt of his sword. The follow-through snap of my wrist wrested the sword from his hand. It glittered as it spun away, high into the air, then suddenly vanished as if swallowed up by its own darkness.
The stranger stepped back and saluted me ironically with his empty sword hand. “This round to you,” he said softly. He turned abruptly and faded into the darkness.
I looked up at the Dance at the crown of the hill behind me. The Watcher on the Hill stood as motionless as the menhirs around him. Then, slowly, he turned to drift silently toward the altar in the centre of the Dance.
Even as I began to move my foot to climb the hill, the
The scent of fresh, growing things rose around me like a haze—the crushed grass I stood upon, the perfume of moving water nearby, the fragrance of wildflowers. I breathed the air deeply into my lungs, drawing strength and life from it.
Power radiated from the Dance. Power that flowed into my bones, into my flesh, into my sinews like music. There was magic here, but it was a gentle magic, a magic that sang in my blood. It reached into me and tapped the same centred well I drew on when I needed healing power to visualize my hurts—or those of others—as whole again. It resonated with that inner energy as flute and harp combine into harmony. Surrounded and wrapped by peace and contentment, I watched the sky fade to dusk behind the circle.
As the last light faded, for the first time, I noticed the man by the altar. He stood with his back to me, paying me no attention at all, giving no sign he realized I was there. He stood casually and easily, relaxed and comfortable, yet straight as one of the menhirs. He gave no outward signs of either patience or impatience, but I knew he was waiting, and had waited a long time there by the altar. He simply stood in communion with the power of the circle and waited.
A soft footfall sounded in the grass behind me. Expecting to see the Swordmaster, I turned slowly and raised my sword to meet the challenge. The dark figure of a man stood silhouetted against the timeless glow of the sky. A brief jolt of surprise shot through my chest. Not the Swordmaster, this figure stood bathed in an aura of menace. The sword in his hand radiated darkness, spilling it like water around the man.
“So I have found you at last,” my opponent said, his voice flat and uninflected.
I drew in a deep breath, the fresh scented air filling my lungs. The smile that pulled my lips back from my teeth had nothing to do with amusement. I felt light and ready, anticipation an airy evanescence in my blood. Something long outstanding was about to be resolved, something important.
“Perhaps I have found you instead,” I told the dark figure.
“Perhaps, indeed,” he replied. “We shall see how well the sword fights for you.”
I flexed my hands on the plain, leather-bound hilt. “Or I fight for it?” I asked evenly.
“As you say.” He leaped forward forcefully and I found myself fighting for my life.
Time had no meaning in this strange dreamscape. Tirelessly, back and forth across the flower-strewn green-velvet of the grass, the dark stranger and I battled each other. At first, we seemed evenly matched, our skill equal, neither of us able to find a weakness in the other and exploit it. Then gradually, I became aware that it was I who gave ground more often, that it was I on the defensive more often than on the offensive. Desperately, I sought the reserves of strength and stamina the years of training with Cullin had given me. But they were not there.
A strange combination of helpless despair and desperate, fatalistic determination filled me. I lunged forward aggressively, thrusting recklessly at the stranger. The tip of the blade caught against the crosspiece of the hilt of his sword. The follow-through snap of my wrist wrested the sword from his hand. It glittered as it spun away, high into the air, then suddenly vanished as if swallowed up by its own darkness.
The stranger stepped back and saluted me ironically with his empty sword hand. “This round to you,” he said softly. He turned abruptly and faded into the darkness.
I looked up at the Dance at the crown of the hill behind me. The Watcher on the Hill stood as motionless as the menhirs around him. Then, slowly, he turned to drift silently toward the altar in the centre of the Dance.
Even as I began to move my foot to climb the hill, the
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