upon scores of Seron’s image. Seron in every imaginable
pose and activity. But Tosch’s gaze kept coming back to the
picture on the easel. The paint on that one was still wet. He
knew that this had been Kyra’s last, impassioned work.
He had never known, never guessed, what she had been
painting all these years. Even now, staring at the evidence
of Kyra’s lifelong devotion to Seron, Tosch could only
shake his head in wonder. He couldn’t quite understand how
she could have loved Seron so much. But then again, maybe
he could. After all, didn’t he love her in his own way, too?
He felt his wings quivering and he knew he was going
to do a rare thing – he was going to cry. Kyra had meant so
much to him, and he had done so little for her. He felt
suddenly ashamed, realizing that he had been selfish,
always taking. Why didn’t he give her gold dust for her
clothes? Why didn’t he chisel her teeth, too? He could have
done all sorts of things for her. But he hadn’t. And what
could he give her now?
He stared at her limp, cold body and then lifted his gaze
to the painting of Seron. Then he looked a bit closer . . .
Something was missing. The picture didn’t seem quite
right. He studied it for a long, quiet moment, trying to
discover what was overlooked.
Ah, I know what it is, Tosch said to himself. It’s so
obvious! He spoke a magical incantation and then slapped
his tail against the ground three times.
Kyra was in the picture with Seron. Now it was right.
They were laughing and crying in each other’s arms
alive in their art. Within the bounds of the canvas, Seron
and Kyra were living, breathing, loving souls.
Tosch flapped his wings with joy. He had made Kyra
happy. When he turned to fly away, he heard Seron say to
his beloved, “You are ALL the woman I had hoped you
would be.”
“Now THAT’S a good painting,” said the dragon as he
flew off into the night. “Then again,” he mused as he
soared among the clouds, “a little more color wouldn’t
have hurt”
Hunting Destiny
Nick O’Donohoe
By daylight, the stag, with an effort of will, appeared to
the knight. The knight’s enthusiasm was gratifying, if
anything could please in Darken Wood. The knight even
mentioned Huma’s having followed the stag. The stag
moved forward on Prayer’s Eye Peak, knowing the knight
and his companions would follow. If it was his destiny to lead, it
was others’ to follow him.
But they did not follow immediately. With
one ear he heard the company debating behind him. The half-elf said,
“Though I have not seen the white stag myself, I have been
with one who has and I have followed it, as in the story the
old man told at the Inn of the Last Home.”
The stag, turning to look, saw the half-elf fingering a
ring of twisted ivy leaves, presumably because it reminded
him of his former companion who had seen the stag.
Neither half-elf nor ring brought any memory to the stag.
The mage among them, a robed figure with hourglass
eyes, spoke more of the story they had heard, apparently a
few nights ago, at an inn. An old man had told how Huma,
lost in a forest, prayed to Paladine. A white stag had
appeared and led him home. “That I remember,” the stag
thought, “but I had thought no other living being did.
Whatever man they met was old indeed, though if he were
older, he would remember it as song, not story.” A pang of
regret for simpler days and easier faith swept over the stag,
much as it sweeps over old men for times gone by. He
shook his rack of antlers fiercely and kept listening.
The dwarf with the company snorted, almost like an
animal himself. “You believe old stories? Here’s another,
then: Once there was a stag who caused Shadow Wood to
turn to Darken Wood.”
Another companion squatted on the trail, his ears
pricked forward. “Nothing like a good story. When was this,