Defining Art by George Dickie

By George Dickie

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Witchery," she heard someone muttering. " Aeriel looked up then, saw people fall back as she raised her eyes. The hard faces of the Arlish bandits made her skin creep. The gargoyle stared at them, lip twitching into a snarl. "Come, Greyling," she murmured. "I do not like our company. " She laid her bandolyn upon the yellow silk, knotted it deftly and reached for her staff. The gargoyle bounded away from her, gibbering. Aeriel faced about, glimpsed one of the robber band, under her captain's eye, creeping forward, her saber drawn.

She reached into her pack. "More sorceries," a woman cried. " "A dagger—" "It's just a plum," murmured Nat, coming away from Galnor a little. Aeriel dusted the fine fuzz from the apricok, held it out. The gargoyle ate eagerly, almost desperately, strained to swallow against the collar about its throat. Its grey tongue slavered, catching the runnels of blood-colored juice. When she held only the clean stone in her hand, the gargoyle set its lips to it, gnawing at it, but Aeriel drew it gently away.

About her legs, dry spume ran like water through the interstices of the rocks. She rolled onto her back, stared up into the black dawn sky. A huge head, fringed with vermilion feathers, rose from the Sea and stared at her with serpentine, unblinking eyes. That image of the serpent's eyes re-mained in her dreams until Aeriel awoke. It was day. She lay on the warmth of hard, scaly shore. She brushed the dust from her eyes and raised her head from the dry shingle. Light lay upon the headland now, though the broad beach below was still in shadow.

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