Trouble was, I was mostly incoherent, being somewhere on the delicate edge of discomfort and disaster. “Flea-bitten…jug-headed…lop-eared-” I sucked in a deeper breath, “-thrice-cursed son of a Salset goat!” Who made me write it again and again, (and again), Who discovered me in the Scott Meredith slush pile and helped my dream come true Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage the electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. The scanning, uploading and distribution via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law.
Bright-brighter-brilliant…then dimming nearly to absence, until it renewed itself.ĭel sang on, and the blade burst into flame.…Ĭopyright © 1988 by Jennifer Roberson O’Green.
Frowning, I watched one become some become many, until the double-edged blade was ablaze with light, sparks joining to form a whole. And then it crept upward, finger by finger, bead by bead, slowly, like a necklet of Punja crystals. A spark, steadfast and unflagging, welling like a drop of blood on a thorn-pricked fingertip. Its light was clearly diluted by the luminance of the blade. But if anything, the moon paid homage to the sword. Moonlight is often fickle clouds, I thought, moving across the crescent to alter the intensity of its light. Del sang and the sword came alive in her hands.Īt first, I did not believe it.
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