Description: England, 1774 Drystan Hawkes woke in a cold sweat, still seeing visions of fire and blood and death. He blinked his eyes to dismiss them, but as usual, he had also been sent another image and he could never banish this last one so easily. A young woman, beautiful beyond his wildest imaginings, with the most startling multicolored eyes. Elven eyes. Drystan untangled himself from his bed linens and raked back his pale hair, knowing he could not ignore the summons, for it was more than a dream or nightmare. The three stolen scepters of the elven lords called to him. His bare feet touched the cold flagstone floor and he suppressed a shiver, reaching for his stockings and boots, his own elven eyes quickly adjusting to the gloom of midnight. "I would like to sleep through just one night," he muttered as he finished dressing, crossing the room of his bedchamber with nary a whisper from the soles of his boots. He had learned to be quiet on his nightly excursions. His fellow orphans already thought him strange enough. Drystan carefully opened his chamber door, causing only a slight squeak from the old hinges, and peered down the long hall of Carreg Cennen castle. One lone candle shone near the privy, but the rest of the passage lay shrouded in shadow, not even a mouse astir this late. He had taken this same route every night since he had ceased fighting the summons, so he strode confidently to the stairs, thinking he could now manage it with his eyes closed. He found it easier to answer the call of the scepters at night, than to suffer the fits brought on by their visions during the day. He only wished he had conceded sooner. Perhaps then the other half-breed children would not have come to treat him like an outcast. Because of the fits brought on by the visions, Drystan gained the reputation of being cursed, or mad, or at the very least, physically abnormal. And any offspring of the elven lords rarely suffered from lack of physical perfection. Drystan never knew when the scepters would send him a vision. He would fight it until the world went black, and he would wake in the middle of the schoolroom--a meal--the play yard--surrounded by horrified faces and children crossing themselves against evil. Yes, when the scepters sent him a vision, it was better to answer the call and find out what they wanted. And as a man, he''d gained some control. But the damage had already been done, and Drystan lived his adult life almost as isolated as he had as a child. Drystan shrugged, discarding his loneliness the same way he removed his greatcoat. He''d learned to be content with his own company, had even turned it to an advantage. And he had his books. His stories transported him beyond the walls of this old castle. Novels where he became a hero who rescued the fair maid. Where he sailed the high seas, fought against the armies of the elven lords. Became a secret spy for the Rebellion. And inside his stories, he had many friends who did not fear him. Indeed, they admired his strength and cunning and bravery... Drystan reached the last flight of the circular stairs and entered the kitchens at the bottom of it, slipping past the cook whose bed nestled up amongst the brick ovens, and silently made his way into the cellars. Past the barrels of corn and turnips, behind the wine racks, to the enormous oak door. He fished out his key from his left pocket and unlocked the chains, careful to keep them from rattling. Not many of the castle residents knew about this chamber, and Drystan had become privy to it only because of his... connection with the scepters. An old prime minister for the king, Sir Robert Walpole, created this storage place for the Rebellion years ago, when he began to smuggle the children who escaped from the trials of the elven lords to this old castle in Wales. The once-leader of the Rebellion thought it safer to store records and enchanted artifacts beyond the barrier of magic that surrounded England. He thought they could be kept more safely here, where their magic would be inactive. Sir Robert had been wrong, at least where the scepters of the elven lords were concerned. They may not have the power they would possess within England to enhance each elven lord''s magic, but they still retained a certain amount of dangerous awareness. Drystan made his way down the earthen stairs into the castle dungeon--which thankfully had been cleared of torture devices and heaped instead with crates and barrels holding artifacts and the private journals of spies, historical accounts of England, and secret correspondences between the leader of the Rebellion and his allies. He strode past it all without a glance, straight for the small cell in the back of the room. Drystan withdrew another key and opened the door. Bare earthen walls, stone floor. Nothing to indicate the malignant treasure it harbored within. Drystan collapsed on a square of stone in the center of the room and pounded it with his fist. "All right. I''m here. What the hell do you want?" The air shivered. The hair rose on the back of his neck. When he had been a lad and the scepters first called to him, he thought it was God sending him a vision. How very wrong he had been. Drystan pounded the ground again. Buried beneath the stone lay the stolen scepters of three of the elven lords. The blue of the elven lord of Dewhame, Breden. The lavender of the elven lady La''laylia of Stonehame. The silver of Lan''dor, the elven lord of Bladehame. Drystan knew the story of the theft of the blue scepter, for the two who had stolen it, Giles Beaumont and his lady Cecily, lived in the castle of Wales. They had taken over the running of the sanctuary and the children who sheltered here. The two half-breed elven who had stolen the lavender scepter, General Samson Cavendish and Lady Joscelyn, had returned to Firehame to continue to aid the Rebellion. And Alexander and his warrior-lady, Wilhelmina, had returned to Firehame as well, after they delivered the silver scepter into the keeping of Carreg Cennen castle. Drystan did not know all of the details about their adventures in stealing the scepters, although he''d read about them, and more importantly, had seen glimpses of them in his dreams. Dreams he did not welcome. Except for the lady in his visions. He could still see those rainbow-colored eyes staring at him with such loneliness, and hidden fury. Large faceted elven eyes that seemed to echo the very feelings within his soul. Those haunting eyes possessed all the colors of the scepters within them: lavender, silver, blue, and green, with flecks of brown and black and gold. As if her elven blood held a mix of all seven of the elven lords and their sovereignties. And perhaps each of those powers? Drystan spread his fingers over the cold stone. "Where is she?" he whispered. "I have searched and searched to find any record of her..." The ground shivered. Another vision sprang into his head with enough force to make it pound in fury and Drystan clutched at his temples. Seven dragons flew in a maelstrom of color above the swirling blonde hair of a black-clothed woman. The air sundered with a violence that tore apart the very fabric of the universe and the lady watched it all with mouth agape in horror. Then blackness, and another scene. The same woman casting her hands over the head of a child, a flash of a symbol that Drystan could not quite make out branded onto the child''s skin. And then a vision of another child, and another, each of them passing along the birthmark. "I have looked for any reference to the descendants of the white witch of Ashton house," he said to the empty cell. "The records of the family disappear with the elven wars of the fifteenth century. The family was captured and enslaved..." Another vision assailed him. This time of an ivory-haired child that grew into the beautiful woman with the multicolored eyes. Her delicate face so pale. So vulnerable. She wore a dress of white that billowed around her thin frame, and she ran from something hidden in shadow. Something that threatened her. And he knew he must save her. He held her only hope and salvation. Her eyes kept him spellbound until the vision finally faded. And then the scepters spoke to him in words he could comprehend. The descendant of Ashton House holds the key to the doorway to Elfhame. Find her. Drystan jerked at the unholy voices in his head. Fire screamed through his every nerve, like knives shearing open each vein and filling it with acid. The agony grew until spasms racked his body, until anguish beat at his mind and misery filled his heart. Whatever awareness the scepters held, those alien thoughts were not meant for mankind to endure. But they had spoken this message to him before, and Drystan managed to hold onto consciousness. A grown man of five and twenty years now, he did not collapse into convulsions as he had done as a lad. It took him some time to find his voice. "I have tried." Although it had not been for their sake. Not just because they tortured him night after night. Not just because they would not let him sleep until he answered their summons. But for his own sake. For the lady who spoke to his heart with those unusual eyes. For the sheer desire he had to protect her. To hold her in his arms. He had barely looked at another woman since she began to haunt his visions. "I will not stop trying until I find her." Seemingly satisfied, the tug on Drystan eased, as if the compulsion that the scepters used upon him to draw him into this chamber relaxed enough to allow him his own free will. He rose, a bit unsteadily, but with purpose. As he did every night, he locked the cell behind him and made his way across the dungeon t

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