Crusader by Sara Douglass Page B

down into foamy seas, she still missed them deeply. She always would, however long she had to live in this existence before she walked for the final time through the gateway (never opened) into the Field.
    Even if she and Theod conceived and raised other children, nothing would replace the lost laughter of their twin sons.
    She slowly raised a hand and pushed it through her black hair, lifting a heavy wave off her forehead and pushing it further back over the crown of her head. Like Faraday and Leagh, she wore it loose, falling down her back in sliding, silken curls.
    The fourth in the circle was Master Jannymire Goldman. He had no luxurious hair to tumble down his back, nor sinuous form to (barely) conceal within heavy folds of white linen. Nevertheless, his attire—a short tunic of a white linen identical to the material of the women’s robes, and feet in red leather sandals—gave him a sameness with the other three.
    The serenity in his warm-cheeked face and bushy grey eyebrows gave him an aura of astuteness that few people, witch or wizard or Enchanter, ever attained.
    Goldman had discovered mystery and strange philosophies when DragonStar had hefted him through the gateway into the Field of Flowers, and now every hour Goldman found something new to explore, some strange thought that wouldlead him to even stranger pastures. He spent great lengths in every day seeking out those who would consent to spend even a few moments with him talking of these spiritual puzzlements and intellectual intrigues. Already he had a reputation within Sanctuary of being a man who might one day make the extravagances of the spirit knowable to all and the riddles of the unknown as accessible as a plate of bread and cheese.
    Goldman sighed happily and closed his eyes, letting the power of his soul overwhelm his flesh. He was at home.
    The fifth of DragonStar’s witches was not sitting in a chair at all, nor was his place part of the circle. DareWing FullHeart lay on his back in the centre of the circle, making himself its focus. His chest rose and fell with great bubbling breaths, his body afire with fever.
    DareWing was dying: a second death, which made it all the more painful, debilitating and spiritually draining.
    They sat, or lay, under a great crystal dome in a secluded part of Sanctuary. The crystal dome rested on seventy crystal columns that rose the height of two men from the terracotta-tiled floor. Beyond the columns stretched a great plain of newly-ploughed earth.
    Nothing else was visible.
    Drago’s witches waited, each consumed with their own thoughts, or with their dying.
    He strode across the ploughed fields, his naked feet barely sinking into the soft earth.
    His body was similarly naked, save for the white linen wrap about his hips, and the lily sword and jewelled purse that hung from his begemmed belt.
    The skin of his body glistened slightly with sweat.
    DragonStar, the Enemy Reborn.
    Behind him walked the Star Stallion, relaxed and sinuous in every movement, his head nodding and dipping with each stride, the stars sprinkling over the naked earth as they fellfrom his mane and tail. From his withers, fixed by magic or perhaps merely by wish, hung the Wolven and the quiver of blue-feathered arrows.
    Behind the horse, but slightly to one side of him, trailed the Alaunt. They loped in single file, each with head raised just enough that they could keep their golden eyes fixed on the man in front of them.
    Their jaws hung very slightly open; enough that the glint of teeth and tongue spun through.
    Behind them all trundled the blue-feathered lizard, occasionally snapping at imaginary gnats.
    The crystal dome appeared on the horizon, but DragonStar did not increase the rate of his stride, nor change the expression of his face. He was at peace with himself, even though his mind was consumed with the image of millions of stars and galaxies tumbling through the universe, chased by a great dark cloud with the stinging tail of a