Humans had long played dart-throwing games. Draconas had watched them and even participated in a few. He’d known humans who could throw darts with remarkable accuracy, but he’d never known one who could throw a small metal dart—no bigger than his index finger—with such force that it could kill a person a furlong away. The impetus behind the dart was dragon-magic. The monk used his magic to increase the force of his throw. Perhaps the monk had even been able to use the magic to assist the dart in finding its target.

Yet, Draconas considered, most of the monks he’d seen were mentally unstable, bordering on the insane. The dragon-magic in the blood did strange things to the brains of human males. An army of insane men was not an army any rational general would want to lead. Impossible to discipline, they could not be counted upon to obey the simplest command. Turn them loose on a battlefield and they could conceivably do more damage to themselves than to an enemy.

“Unless Grald discovered how to cure the madness, just as I did,” Draconas muttered. “Marcus was insane until I taught him how to master the magic, not succumb to it. If I could find a way, so could Grald. And he’s had far longer to experiment. Maybe there are soldiers and monks in Dragonkeep. Maybe the monks are the failures. . . .”

That opened up new and extremely disquieting possibilities. Obviously, the answer lay in the palace that no one was supposed to enter.

Draconas continued his wanderings until he found what he was looking for—other children like himself.

The children of Dragonkeep were expected to make their contribution to society, and in this they were no different from the children of Idylswylde or New Bramfells or Weinmauer or countless other human communities. Those children who lacked the dragon-magic were apprenticed to craftsmen or worked in the fields. They milked goats, tended sheep, fed the chickens. Those with dragon-magic lived with the monks and the holy sisters.

Still, children were children the world over, and Draconas hoped to find some like himself who had sneaked out of the shop when the master went home for his dinner or had left the chickens to go off in search of fun. Draconas knew where to look for such rascals, and he soon came upon a group of youngsters skulking in an alley, playing at mumblety-peg.

“Can I have a toss?” Draconas asked, joining them.

“No girls,” said one of the boys.

“You’re just afraid I’ll beat you!” Draconas sneered.

Several of the boys snickered. The speaker cast little Draca an angry glance.

“Oh, yeah? Let’s see you.” He handed over the knife.