The cursed towers 297
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eyes glittering in the moonlight.
Isabeau sighed and rested her wet cheek against Meghan's knee again. The little owl hooted and she
hooted back, low and melancholy.
The Mesmerd hovered in the shadow of the hedge, watching and listening and smelling. There was no
expression on his beautiful face, dominated by the great clusters of iridescent green eyes. Very lightly he
rubbed his claws against his wings. Soon he would have to return to the marshes, to lie in the mud and
slowly metamorphose within his hard shell. When spring came he would emerge from his winter husk as
an elder. Then there would be no more flying, no more adventures. Then he would fight for his own
territory and a mate, and the copulation wheel would begin again. His mate would lay their eggs in the
water and he would watch over them and guard them. And every one of his spawn of little naiads would
carry within them the face and shape and smell and emotional aura of the Keybearer Meghan.
Mesmerdean never forget.
