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A story half told is a crime, and there is no crime greater. When this tale began it was the tale of a common woman in an uncommon circumstance. A woman unprepared, unskilled, and unready. When the last words were written, they spoke of a master many times over. She was a woman filled with resolve--fearless, steadfast, and, above all, determined. A woman firm in her belief and single in her focus, willing to charge into the jaws of doom for her cause. A job needed to be done, and she had the tools to do it. Imagine what the next pages will bring . . .

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"I have lost my mind," Myranda muttered to herself. "Behind me is paradise. A warm bed waiting for me every night and hot meals waiting for me every day. The people there care for me, respect me, even admire me! I am turning my back on it in favor of a dark cave that will very shortly be filled with water, chasing a confirmed and shameless killer with hopes of convincing him to end a war and save the world."

The paradise was Entwell. It was a place of learning, populated by the wisest wizards and the mightiest warriors. All had come seeking a beast of legendary ferocity. A beast that each believed had taken the lives of all before them. A beast that had turned out to be the cave itself. For two short periods a year, the cave was dry and passable. The most recent such period was, in moments, going to come to an end.

The killer was a creature with seemingly no true name. Myranda first new him as Leo, then as Lain. The name most knew him by was The Red Shadow. He was an assassin, known and feared throughout the continent. He was also a malthrope, a hated and dying breed of creature that looked like a human and a fox combined. Most important, though, was what had days ago been revealed.

In a ceremony designed to both summon one divine warrior and identify another, he had been revealed as a Chosen One. A tool of the gods, fated to end the war that had been eating away the people of the Northern Alliance and Tressor for one and a half centuries. Rather than embracing his fate, he had turned his back on it. Now he was somewhere within this cave, heading for the war-torn world, with no intention of playing his role. And so she had followed.

"I will find him. I will convince him. I must," she insisted.

Myn merely shot her a quick look of acknowledgment before continuing on her task. The dragon, not yet a year old, hadn't spent a day away from Myranda, and she never intended to, no matter the difficulties the travel might bring. Her claws were better suited to the rough walls of a normal cave. The glassy walls of this one offered a challenge, but it was by no means the greatest challenge on the horizon. Already the pair was far enough along that the light from the entrance was dimming behind them. They were rapidly approaching the point of no return.

Myranda pulled the staff from her bag as the darkness deepened. The well-crafted tool was longer than her own had been, and stouter. No doubt perfectly suited to the height and grip of its former owner, her friend and former teacher, Deacon. She coaxed a light from within the crystal with ease. Being in the cave reminded her of just how recently she had come upon these new talents. When she was here last, she'd had to rely upon a torch. Now, thanks to Deacon's teachings, she could simply will light into being. She had dared not dream of such a thing months ago.

The pair had only been walking for a few minutes when the mountain let out a bone-shaking roar that each knew all too well. A blast of icy air was cast up from behind her as the way to safety was drowned in a flood of water. She quickened her pace while Myn practically jumped out of her skin, scrambling with renewed vigor along the glassy tube. When they had faced the flood last, it seemed to creep up at a few feet every minute. With any luck, she would be able to keep ahead of the rising water.

It was not long before it became clear that luck would most certainly not be with her. During their escape, they had thankfully been pulled from the basin of the waterfall before the falls had begun in earnest. Now she heard the roar of the mountain grow steadily. Before long, she could hear the restless rapids sloshing about behind her. They were not creeping along as she had hoped. They were surging. Myranda tried to quicken herself to a run, but the slick ground would not permit it. Finally, she stopped and strapped the bag of supplies to her waist. There would be no outrunning the water. Best, then, to brace herself for it. Myn, far from willing to meet her fate standing still, cast a pleading glance at her friend. When Myranda saw the terror in the beast's eyes, she knew the roaring water was upon them.

The wall of icy water met her with the force of a raging bull. She was swept along at a speed faster than she could run. Faster than a horse could run! A moment later, she collided with the familiar form of her dragon, and she held tight to the terrified creature with one arm as the other held firm to the staff. Amid the chaos of the water, she had precious little concentration to spend on light. What little she did have of her mind was devoted to a blur of spells aimed at keeping herself and her companion from being dashed apart against the walls. There was no telling how much of the cave was whisking by her, and her dim memory of the way she had come would be useless to her, even if she managed to survive the flood.

The unwilling trip she was taking ceased to be an upward one and doubled in speed as she found herself sliding down an increasingly steep incline. For a moment, Myranda wondered if this was a fortunate turn of events or an unfortunate one. As usual, fate made its answer to her prompt. The ground sliding along below her suddenly dropped away, and in an instant she was plummeting. She released Myn and tried to set her mind to levitation, hoping to stop her fall--but there was a reason this mountain had been so trying to wizard and warrior alike. Crystal-strewn rock mangled and twisted all but the simplest of magic. This spell, it seemed, was just a bit too complex to slip past the cave's confounding effect, as she soon felt her hold on the mystic energies scatter.

She felt a sharp pain in her abdomen as she collided with a wall. Instinctively, she reached out with both hands, clutching madly at anything that offered a grip. Somehow she managed to cling to the rough surface of the wall. For a long moment, she held firm, and slowly reclaimed the wind that had been knocked from her by the impact. The roar of falling water surrounded her. She opened her eyes, though doing so was ultimately pointless, as the staff she had released would give off no more light until she willed it to do so. Indeed, before she could even think of illuminating the cave, she would have to find the staff. Having dropped it into the chasm below when she struck the wall, there was a stronger likelihood of the staff finding her than of she finding it.

As she sorted through the limited options open to her, Myranda felt a nudge at her shoulder. The unexpected feeling nearly jarred her from the wall.

"Myn! Myn, you are all right!" she cried.

Of course, the dragon was once again in her element. She could scamper up and down these uneven walls as easily as along the ground. The dragon flicked her hot tongue in and out, licking at Myranda's ears, thankful for getting her through that torrent.

"Yes, yes. You are welcome. Now it is time to pay me back. I can't cling to this wall forever. I need you to find a tunnel out of here--or, at least, a ledge to recover on," Myranda said.

Myn flapped from the wall and into the air. For a moment, Myranda wondered how the dragon would be able to see in the utter darkness. A moment later, the creature cast out a column of flame, bathing the gray walls and frothing white water in yellow light. In the flash, Myn's keen eyes took in the wall. In another moment, Myn was beside Myranda on the wall again. With a few helpful taps of the dragon's tail to guide her, Myranda managed to inch her way along the wall to a ledge and pull herself up.

"I don't suppose you might be able to find my staff. I let it go when I hit the wall," Myranda said to her friend, whom she imagined was sitting right before her.

When she held out her hand to give the creature a few rewarding scratches, she found that she was alone on the ledge. Myn was certainly eager to please. There were two or three more blasts of flame before she was joined again by a very pleased dragon clutching a staff in her teeth.

"Good, Myn. Very, very good," she said, feeling her way blindly to the dragon's brow and scratching it madly.

Myn squirmed with delight at the attention and dropped heavily into Myranda's lap, disturbing the large bag Deacon had provided her with. There was a metal clink, stirring thoughts of what Deacon imagined was a necessity. Myn deserved and required significantly more petting and rewarding before she allowed Myranda to indulge her curiosity.

She propped up the staff and brought about the light again as she looked through the bag. The first thing she withdrew was a page from a spell book. Myranda marveled at the torn edge. Deacon took better care of the books than he did himself, and yet when he learned that Myranda planned to find Lain, he'd torn this page free without a thought.

It was an old one, she could tell. Whatever it was that they used for paper in Entwell aged to an odd mahogany color. The black letters were difficult to read against the reddish paper. She carefully stored it away.

The metal clink was revealed to be a stout dagger he had provided. That would no doubt be quite useful. There was a small kit with bandages and potions. Thoughtful of him to include it. Finally, she found a stylus. There was no doubt. It was the very one that he carried with him at all times. She ran her fingers along the side of the pen, carefully feeling the point before stowing it with equal care.

Quickly she checked her tunic. Lain's tooth was mercifully still clinging to the inside of her waterlogged pocket. In a fit of anger during a training session with the warrior, she had managed to knock it from his mouth. He had presented it to her as a reminder of her anger. She removed the tooth from her pocket and fashioned a pouch for it from a bandage. Using a bit of thread, she hung it about her neck. With that done, she secured the bag again.

The time had come to find some way out of here.

Standing as best as she could on the somewhat precarious ledge, Myranda surveyed her position. There were numerous openings dotting the wall. Most were far too small to offer much in the way of an exit, and all were a fair distance up. Already the sound of the thundering water was that of a torrent falling upon a pool rather than hard ground. The water was gathering at the bottom of the crevice, and--though the level was still beyond the reach of her light--if the trip she had just taken was any indication, it would not remain so for long. She had to make the right choice the first time, lest she face a dead end with nothing but a wall of water behind her.

"Myn, I think this is another job for you. I need you to see if you can find Lain's scent. He had a head start, but I would wager that rush of water closed the gap for us," she said.

Before Myranda was through speaking, Myn had scrambled off, along the wall. She sniffed and flicked her tongue intently, traveling from hole to hole and sampling each. Shortly she returned and sniffed at the pouch about Myranda's neck.

"I'd feared as much. We are probably far from the safest or quickest route, so I would imagine there would be half of a mountain between us and Lain. Best to find a new plan," she said, patting the dragon for the effort.

Myranda set her mind to the task. Not having the benefit of Myn's sense of smell, she was not certain what sort of things would be reasonable to ask her to find. Finally she made up her mind.

"I need you to find fresh air, or failing that, some sort of animal that can be found outside of a cave occasionally. If they need to find a way out, then we can find their way," Myranda said.

Instantly the dragon scampered off again. It just so happened that the creature had found just such a scent in her search for that of Lain. She maneuvered swiftly to a wide, low opening more or less directly above Myranda's head and slipped inside. Her head then reappeared, looking down expectantly, as though she was surprised Myranda had failed to join her already.

The wall had countless narrow, smooth-edged cracks. It was ideal for climbing. However, the abrupt trip and its sudden and severe end had left Myranda a less than ideal climber. More than an hour of slow, tentative ascending had passed before she pulled herself onto the ledge. What she found there did little to improve her mood. The roof of the tunnel ahead was so low she would practically have to crawl. With a heavy sigh, she set herself to the task.

Myn led the way, thrilled to finally be so useful. Fortunately, the tunnel branched several times, eventually opening enough for a more comfortable posture. Also fortunate was the fact that Myn had chosen a tunnel that led steadily upward. At least if the water found its way to the tunnel, it would take longer to reach them.

Time passed slowly in the darkness of the cave. After enough travel to sap all but the last of the strength from her legs, Myranda began to notice the odor that had been pungent enough for Myn to follow all of this way. It meant that they were headed to a familiar chamber, albeit not the most pleasant one. Sure enough, another few minutes and the pair emerged into a chamber filled with quiet chattering and the worst of smells. This cavern was the home to a massive colony of bats.

Much to Myranda’s dismay, her stomach growled at the terrible stench. She had been, after all, on the brink of starvation when last she had entered this place. At the time, she’d been accompanied by Lain, and they had made a rather unpleasant meal of some of the winged creatures. Alas, without the forethought to bring food, Myranda hesitated to think what state she would be in after another day of travel. Despite this, she decided that the next meal she ate would be eaten with the sky overhead. Myn was not so choosy, and was in the air in a flash to snatch up a few mouthfuls, sending Myranda running for cover to escape a blizzard of bats.

Now that they had found their way to a point Myranda knew, she could find her own way. They walked until the girl could no longer manage it, finally resting propped against the wall. With the morning came two sensations, constant companions of a traveler of the north, that she had all but forgotten during her time in Entwell: Stinging cold and gnawing hunger.

She had picked up the habit of eating breakfast, something that no doubt had contributed to her decision not to eat the one thing she could manage. Were one of those bats to fly by now, she would snatch it out of the air with her teeth, so hungry was she. At least her mind had not been idle while she rested. The many bruises and tender spots from the first half of the trip were healed up, the product of her white magic training working its wonders while she slept--though, upon standing, she found that she was still quite sore from the exertion. She continued regardless. If she remembered correctly, there was no less than another day of travel ahead of her.

There were two significant additions to their trip, now that she had made it this far. First, the stream that had smoothed the floor enough to guide them during their entry had begun to flow, providing, at least, water to drink. Second, Myn's attitude began to lift, as she undoubtedly began to pick up the scent of Lain. The little beast was nearly as fond of the warrior she was tracking as she was of Myranda, motivating her all the more to find him quickly.

The cold of the cave increased steadily as they neared its mouth. Myranda cursed herself for not grabbing something warmer to wear before she left. There would be many long, cold days ahead of her if she couldn't find something more suitable for the northern weather. Worse, the tunic she wore was bright blue. The residents of the north almost exclusively wore thick gray cloaks. Her current outfit would stand out like a sore thumb. That was the last thing she wanted right now.

Hour after long, weary hour passed. The growling of Myranda's stomach fairly echoed off of the walls. Myn seemed to take a more concerned attitude now. There was something in the air that she did not like. Myranda marveled at how well she could understand the thoughts and feelings of her friend, even without words. Indeed, without sound at all. Solomon, a small dragon in Entwell, was the only other dragon she had really known, and he spoke both her language and one of his own, along with no doubt countless others. Myn rarely made a sound.

Myranda frowned at the thought that, perhaps, growing up beside a human was robbing Myn of something, some language native to her kind.

The worrying thought was still on her mind when, off in the distance, the faintest glow of daylight could be seen. Myranda's heart leapt, and she would have run if she’d had the strength. Instead, she crept along at the same pace, though wary of Myn's deepening concern. All of a sudden, Myn stopped and absolutely would not proceed.

"What is it, Myn?" she asked.

The little dragon's body went rigid, tail straightening and teeth bared. There was an enemy. Judging from how protective Myn had been in the past, it might have simply been anyone, but on this side of the mountain, anyone was as good as her worst enemy. She doused the light and moved near to the wall, attempting to remain unseen.

Myn stalked, slowly and silently. When the mouth of the cave was near enough, Myranda saw what Myn had smelled. Not one but two of the Elites were standing dutifully at the cave's mouth. Elites, after all of this time!? A contingent of the small but legendary force of veteran soldiers had followed her here, but that was months ago. Surely they should have given up by now. Myranda's eyes darted about in near panic. They landed on Myn, who seemed ready to attack.

"Myn, no," Myranda whispered insistently into her friend's ear. "We can't. If we kill them, then when they do not report in, their superiors will know something has happened. Why else would Lain have left them alive? We have to get by them somehow."

Myranda quietly wished she had just an ounce of the stealth that Lain had. He had surely slipped by them with no trouble at all. Her mind turned to the spells that she had at her disposal. No disguise would do, and she doubted that she would be able to create one that was convincing, regardless. Invisibility would work, but Deacon had yet to perfect it, and Myranda had been less than successful at casting what little of it he had mastered. She had learned sleep, but simply dropping them into unconsciousness suddenly would be a clear indication that someone had passed. If she was to do this, she would have to do it with care.

Slowly, almost not at all, she passed her influence toward them. She made their eyes just a little heavy. With the utmost of care and restraint, she increased the spell. Slowly, slowly, ever so slowly. She noticed one of them waver, catching himself, and the other yawn. Slowly. One of the men moved to the wall to lean against it. A few minutes later, he slid to the ground to sit more comfortably. The other did likewise. In a few minutes more, the pair was asleep on opposite walls of the cave. As far as they knew, it had been their idea.

After reminding Myn to leave them be, Myranda walked past the unaware soldiers. Thankfully, there were no other soldiers in sight. There was, however, a two-man tent, a pair of horses, and a separate supply tent. Myranda peeked her head into the supply tent to find it mounded with all sorts of rations and equipment. The men had been stationed here for nearly half of a year, and they were equipped for months more.

She selected a coarse brown blanket from a stack of them near the back, and one each of the rations available, not bothering to see what, precisely, she was taking. She was far more concerned with her selections escaping notice. With the blanket wrapped around her and the supplies stowed in her bag, Myranda stalked off into the forest, directly away from the mouth of the cave.

Looking upon the landscape was a grim reminder of the life she had left behind when she entered the cave. The world was overwhelmingly white. Any color from evergreen leaves, lichens, or sky was muted to a sterile gray by frost. The air had a biting cold to it, one that the damp tunic and rough blanket did little to turn away. She forced the unpleasant sensations from her mind and quickened her pace. When she felt she had moved far enough to avoid discovery, she cleared a patch of ground, threw together a pile of frozen wood, and conjured a smokeless fire. She sat cross-legged and allowed Myn to crawl onto her lap before wrapping the blanket around the two of them.

When their combined body heat had made them at least somewhat comfortable, Myranda pulled the spell sheet from the bag. She held it in one hand while petting Myn with the other. The dragon’s skin and scales felt more leathery than usual, and she had noticed that the little creature had a dingier color, but she could not spend any thoughts on that now. She had to focus on the spell.

The black letters on mahogany paper were barely visible in the light of the fire, but her eyes adjusted as the sun's light crept from the sky. Deacon had, alas, not cast a translation spell on this page, so she was left to her own knowledge to decipher it. While she had at least a loose understanding of the spoken languages of Entwell, the written ones had never been explained. This page, mercifully, must have been one of the few written by someone besides Deacon, because it was all in one language. Deacon had a mismatched patchwork language he tended to use when writing that took an expert to follow. Myranda wondered if perhaps that was the language he spoke when she was not around. Regardless, the spell seemed to be in the same alphabet as Northern. That at least would allow her to speak the words. Perhaps then she could understand them. She spent a fair part of the night sifting through the procedures described in the page until a particularly loud growl in her stomach actually woke Myn.

"I suppose I ought to eat and continue in the morning," she spoke quietly to her companion.

Myn seemed to want to get out from the blanket and retrieve a meal for her friend personally, but when she ventured a claw out into the bitter cold, she changed her mind and retreated back to beneath the covers.

The rations in Myranda's bag were many and varied. A rock-hard biscuit of some kind. Some salted meat. Dried fruit!? Myranda had heard that the best food was set aside for the troops, but aside from the apple that she had grown herself, the closest thing to fruit that she had seen in years was the awful wine that taverns served. That, she decided, would be for a special occasion. She chose some of the biscuit, ate it quickly, and propped herself against a tree to drop off to sleep.

In the morning, she woke and returned immediately to her task. Myn slipped from her blanket, stretched, and trotted off to get her own breakfast while Myranda gnawed on more of the biscuit. Myn returned with a rabbit and dropped it in front of Myranda. She prepared it as best she could. When she was through eating, Myn snapped up the rest.

Myranda deciphered more of the spell. It seemed that when she cast it, the item used to track the person in question would be drawn toward them. The strength of the attraction would indicate their distance. The duration would change depending on the will of the target. Myranda stood and removed the tooth from her neck. She held it by the strings in one hand and held her staff in the other. The spell was small but complex. She tried several times to cast it, with her final attempt prompting a tiny tug to the southwest. It wasn't much, but it was a start. Myranda wrapped the blanket about her shoulders, stowed the spell, donned the tooth, and moved to the southwest.

As days of walking passed and Myranda's stolen rations began to run low, she began to wonder what she was thinking. She couldn't enter a town with Myn, and the dragon simply would not leave her side. She could make do with the meals Myn brought her when the food ran out--but sooner or later, she would need warmer clothes at the very least. Even if she could convince Myn to wait while she entered a town to do business, she had no money, and no way to get any.

She remembered Lain's words. He had spoken of her as a creature of cities and roads, while he was of forests, mountains, and plains. Well, now she too was out of place in the world of humans. All the better, though. If this was where Lain was to be found, then it was where she must be.

Nearly a week of southward travel had led her to be comfortable with the sounds of the woods while she slept, though when a snowfall came, she missed her hood. Each morning she checked Lain's location with the spell. She knew that he would be traveling by night while she traveled during the day. This way, at least, he would not be moving when she cast the spell. It was becoming easier. He was getting closer. She had been heading almost entirely due south for the last few days. Lain had likely been keeping to the edge of the woods to remain unseen. Now, though, she checked to find that he was due west of her, traveling across the open plains.

Looking out across the plain, Myranda saw a thin, sparsely wooded area off in the distance. It was a bit less than half of the way between herself and the edge of Ravenwood, the massive western forest that was still visible at the base of the mountains on the horizon. The dangling tooth pointed her to the trees; they rustled with a stiff and constant breeze in the distance. Thus, she proceeded in that direction, carefully scanning for anyone who might spot her. For once, she was glad that the plains of the north were almost deserted. She hurried across the field as quickly as she could. As she did, she wondered why no roads led through this plain. There were at least five small towns nearby, yet the nearest road ran far to the west and circled completely around the plain to reach the furthest of the towns. A second road through this place would cut the travel time in half.

Myn seemed distracted. The slowly strengthening wind carried either the scent of Lain or something else, and it was making her anxious. When they reached the trees, Myranda noticed a handful of small brown creatures scurrying across the ground. Suddenly Myn froze. Myranda began to ask what might be the matter, but her voice caught in her throat when she realized the source of her friend’s concern.

There was not merely a handful of the little creatures. Behind them there were dozens, perhaps a hundred. Each had the small size and long body of a weasel, but their eyes seemed absent, with slight indentations where they ought to be. They had six legs, each tipped with a trio of short, stout, cruel-looking claws. There were clusters of them, sniffing madly at the ground around her footprints.

The pair was surrounded by the things, and more were popping out of scattered burrows by the moment. As they each sniffed the air, row after row of needle-sharp teeth were bared in anger. They did not like the scent of the intruder. The creatures approached one at a time. Myn tried to frighten them off, but as she pounced at them, they scattered, keeping just out of her reach. In moments, the two of them were completely surrounded.

A chill of fear ran up and down Myranda's spine as she held her staff ready. She decided a spell of fire would hold them at bay, but she would need a minute or two to produce enough of it to protect her, while the fear burning at her mind increased that time greatly.

"Myn, fire!" she cried.

Myn tried to obey, but somehow the things with no eyes were able to avoid the flames, only a few getting even remotely singed. The creatures were swarming about Myranda's legs. With no spells swift or safe enough to ward them off now, she swatted at them with the staff, knocking a few away. Just as the first of them sunk its teeth into the girl's leg, there came a piercing whistle. The small creatures scattered. An instant later, the blanket about the young woman’s shoulders was torn from her back.

Turning quickly to discover the culprit, she found Lain, dressed in the black tunic of Entwell, holding his white cloak in one hand and her brown blanket in the other.

"You!" she cried furiously.

Myn scampered to him, leaping about joyfully.

"Pick her up," he ordered.

Before Myranda could object, Myn obligingly leapt into Myranda's arms. Lain threw his cloak about her shoulders and hurled her blanket into the mass of creatures who were already beginning to venture closer. The very moment that the blanket landed, the creatures converged on it, tearing it to ribbons.

"Quickly, this way. And do not speak until I tell you," he said, marching forward with purpose while the creatures were distracted.

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The pair moved quickly to a more thickly wooded bit of the field. Every few moments, Lain would cast a glance at the chaotic frenzy behind them. When a handful of the furry creatures stood on their hindmost legs and sampled the air, only to turn away and return from whence they came, Lain broke the silence.

"You should have stayed in Entwell. You were there for your protection," he said.

"For safekeeping, you mean. So that you could go about your murder without fear of anyone else claiming my ransom," she said.

"Yes," he said.

Myranda was given pause by the frankness of his answer.

"So, what noble plans have you got that are more important than ending the war?" she asked.

"I must resupply and meet with my partner. The Elites will have been busy. It will take time to rebuild," he said.

"I cannot say that I am sorry to hear it. You deserve every hardship and misfortune that this world has to give until you turn yourself to your proper task," she said.

Lain weathered the assault in stoic silence. Somehow, Myranda could not bring herself to continue to give him the berating she felt he deserved.

"Thank you, by the way," she said, her voice still stern.

Lain grunted in reply.

"What were those things?" she asked.

"Oloes. They will attack, kill, and consume any creature with an unfamiliar scent or sound," he said.

"Then why didn't a single olo pay any attention to you?" she asked.

"My scent is familiar," he said.

They continued until they reached a tall, sturdy pine. Lain looked over the roots. In several places, they looped up above ground. After close inspection of one root in particular, he grasped it, put one foot against the tree, and pulled with all of his might. Slowly, not just the root but a square section of ground began to tip up. He pulled and strained until the square, now clearly a thick, wooden trapdoor with a few inches of soil disguising it, stood on end. He then crouched low to the ground and carefully reached his hand inside, feeling at the walls. Myranda peered inside. The pale light that made it through the thick clouds did not penetrate far into the darkness. When Lain found what he had been probing for, a soft click could be heard from within the hole that prompted him to quickly pull his arm free. A blade swiped across the shaft, and the swishing sound and puff of air from the door hinted at many more that had gone unseen.

"Put her down. This is the place," he said.

"After those blades nearly robbed you of your arm, you are going inside?" she said.

"Yes. And once the oloes get a whiff of the blood trickling down your leg, it is going to take more than a loud whistle to scare them off," he said.

Myranda had forgotten about the creature that had managed to bite her. She did not relish the thought of facing those things again. Reluctantly, she looked into the hole. Myn hopped to the ground and peered in curiously as well. Myranda searched for a ladder of some sort built into the walls, but found none. She lowered her bag down an arm’s length and dropped it. From the sound, there was not much of a drop. She lowered her legs and slid into the opening, dangling for a moment by her fingertips before dropping a foot or two to a solid surface in the darkness below. Her eyes had only just begun to adjust when a light flashed in front of her. She scrambled back to the bag at the base of the opening and pulled out her staff, turning back in time for a second spark. This one lingered, as a lamp flickered to life, casting light on the room.

It was a small room. The walls were made of stone blocks, while the low ceiling was made of wood, with thick planks running across its length. Placed regularly through the room were sturdy support beams. There were heavy doors on three walls. The lamp was in the hands of a man standing in the open doorway opposite the entrance shaft. Its flickering yellow light fell upon a face with a look of confused recognition, a look that Myranda no doubt shared, as this was not precisely a stranger. After a moment of searching through crowded memories, each spoke the name of the other simultaneously.

"Desmeres?" she said.

"Myranda?" spoke the man.

Indeed, it was the odd fellow she had briefly met in a tavern when this great journey had only just begun. His youthful face, wild white hair, and expensive attire were unmistakable.

"I can't say I expected to see you here," he said.

Myn, hearing the voices within, darted down into the room and planted herself between Myranda and the potential threat. Desmeres took a step back.

"Well, now! That is yours, I trust!" he said, eying the intruding creature with amusement.

"Yes, yes. This is Myn," Myranda answered, eager to get it out of the way and have her own questions answered. "What are you doing here?"

"Well, for the time being, this is my home. A more appropriate question would be what are you doing here?" he countered.

Before she could answer, Lain dropped down. Desmeres glanced up, this time with recognition unmarred by confusion.

"L-L-L-L-Leo, right? Good lord, it has been ages! How has Sasha been treating you?" he said as though speaking with an old friend.

"Taken," he said.

"No! By who?" Desmeres said, dismayed.

"The Elites," he answered.

"Oh. I thought I'd never see the day," he said. "I trust she served well? A masterpiece, that one. She was silent when you needed her to be, but when she wanted to, she could sing. Shame on you for losing her. You'd better figure out how to get her back before they squeeze any secrets out of her, because if I--"

"Wait! What is going on here?" Myranda asked.

"I am catching up with my friend Leo," Desmeres said.

"You know him?" she said.

"Of course! I collect and craft weapons and he uses them. So, how has the business been? Any projects you feel like discussing?" he began.

"Never mind that. She knows," Lain said.

"Does she? How much?" Desmeres asked, surprised, but still with a sense of amusement.

"Enough," he said.

"Well . . . that's new," Desmeres replied.

"I suppose that it was no coincidence that you and I met in the tavern that day," Myranda said.

"No, no. Of course it wasn't. You can safely assume that each and every time I do anything, it has been meticulously planned out to benefit me in some way," Desmeres said, in a tone that made it difficult to tell if he was joking.

Lain pulled open one of the other doors and entered. Desmeres attempted to walk past Myranda, but Myn prevented it.

"Well, all right, fine. Myranda, would you do me a favor? There is a rope over there by the trapdoor. Give it a good strong pull. We've got to close the door and reset the blades," he said.

Myranda turned to do so. As she did, Desmeres continued to chat with her as though they were the best of friends.

"So, I recognize the old Entwell garb. Is that where you ended up?" he asked.

"Yes. How did you know about Entwell?" she asked.

"Born and raised there. Is my father still knocking about? He makes the master-level weapons," he asked.

"I don't know. I didn't meet any weapon makers except for . . . Wait, what is going on here?" she demanded. Desmeres had a way of making things seem so casual, she had nearly forgotten the ordeal that she had been through to get here.

"You just pull on the cord there and--" he began.

"Not that! Where am I? Why are you working with Lain? What do you really do?" she cried.

"Are we calling him Lain now? Eh, regardless. Just get the door closed, we'll join Lain inside, and all will be revealed. Well, some will be revealed. I don't want to make any promises I can't keep," he said.

Myranda sighed heavily and pulled hard on the rope. The heavy door began to drop shut, the weight of it apparently driving the machinery that reset the blades.

"Well done. This way, please. This is a bit of a reunion, so I've finally got a reason to open some of the vintage. That alone is reason enough to celebrate," he said.

They walked through the doorway to a larger room with various dried and smoked foods hanging along one wall. Along another was rack after rack of fine wine. Most of the rest of the room was littered and stacked with chests of various sizes. In the center was a table with two chairs. Desmeres lit a set of candles on the table and several lamps that lined the walls.

"As you see, we aren't equipped for guests. There is usually only the two of us here, if anyone at all. Pull up a chest or something to sit on. I dare say I've emptied quite a few waiting for this fellow to show up," he remarked, as he looked over the stock of wine.

Myranda did so. It was already quite clear that she would have no answers until Desmeres was ready to give them. The white-haired fellow opened a bottle and set it on the table, then set about finding enough glasses for all in attendance. After leaving the room, he returned with two heavy clay cups and one metal one.

"The honored guest gets the special glass," he said, setting it before her.

It was not until she watched him pour a splash of the wine that she realized that the chalice was of solid gold.

"Where did you get this?" she asked, admiring the work of art.

"I don't recall. Some people cannot afford payment in coins alone. I am willing to accept anything, so long as it is gold," he said, pouring the rest of the glasses.

Lain returned to his seat after fetching some manner of dried meat. Desmeres set out some cheese on a plate.

"To old friends and new ones," Desmeres said, raising his glass. Myranda joined in the toast, while Lain simply tore into his meal.

After sampling the wine, which was as subtle and delicious as any that she had ever tasted, Myranda set the glass down.

"May I please have some answers?" she begged.

"But of course. Just a moment, though. Lain, are we keeping any secrets for ourselves?" he asked.

"Use your best judgment," he answered.

"Oh, are we using our best judgment now? Because based upon your last few decisions, I thought the new policy was to try our very best to get ourselves killed and lose everything we have worked for. My mistake. Now that good judgment is the choice of the day again, perhaps things will get done. Questions please," he said. His words had been riddled with sarcasm, but still carried the necessary sting. Lain weathered them as though they were anything but rare.

"Who are you really? What exactly do you do?" she asked.

"I am this fellow's business associate," he answered.

"But he is an assassin. What could you possibly do for him?" she asked.

"Oh, not much. I make all of his weapons. I build, manage, and maintain networks of contacts and informants. I locate and contact prospective clients, manage cover businesses, handle finances, keep records, collect and negotiate payments. Basically everything but get my hands dirty," he said. "And in exchange, I get half of his fee."

Myranda frowned.

"So you are as much a murderer as he is," she said.

"Heavens, no! If there is blood to be had, it is entirely upon his hands. I merely point him in the most profitable directions," he said.

"And arm him," she said.

"Bah. We've had this discussion. A weapon is merely a tool, and I merely make it. He is the one who decides what to do with it," he said.

"But--" Myranda began.

"But, but, but. I have had decades to hone my rationalizations. They are quite solid. I suggest you ask another question rather than lecturing me," he said, not a drop of anger in the voice. There was a sense of his having done all of this before. There was that sense to everything he did and said, as though this absurd life he lived was mundane.

"Well, what is this place?" she asked.

"A store room. One of many. A repository for surplus funds, a library for old records. I keep most of my better weapons here. Of course, in times of need, this place also serves as a safe house, and ever since that fellow there decided not to hand you over to the Undermine, the times have most certainly been of need. Clients tend not to react well when the person they hired to capture someone decides to release the target. When the client has an army at their disposal, it generally turns out poorly," he said.

"What is the damage?" Lain asked.

"The tavern and the inn have been seized. I still have access to a pair of the armories, but the rest have been closed as well. Our little enterprise has all but disappeared from the map," he said, almost grinning. "It will have to be rebuilt from the ground up."

"What are you talking about?" Myranda asked.

"We have a handful of legitimate businesses that we use for meeting places and to attract clients. Trigorah and her Elites have been taking them down one by one ever since her pet target vanished. She can be a real pain sometimes," he said.

Lain stood and headed for the door.

"Where are you off to?" Desmeres asked.

Lain continued silently.

"Well, enjoy. I had more to say, but it can wait," Desmeres said, obviously knowing Lain too well to expect a response.

"Get back here! I'm not through with you! I followed you here for a reason! You have a job to do and so do I!" Myranda cried.

Lain slipped out the door, shutting it behind him. Myranda rushed after him, but by the time she reached the door to the entry room, the heavy trapdoor was clicking back into place.

"Oh, never mind him. He will be back. There is no place else in this world that will have him right now. He is probably just out to hunt. Between you and me, he hates prepared food. At any rate, you must have more questions, and if you don't, I've got a few," he said, leading her back inside.

Myranda was helpless to follow Lain even if she had wanted to. She remembered the blades and knew neither how to deactivate them nor what triggered them. She entered the dining room and sat in Lain's chair.

"Any more questions?" Desmeres asked.

The young woman wondered for a moment why she had ever thought she could convince Lain of anything now that he had a whole world to hide in. In following him, she had left paradise for the sake of a hole in the ground, and perhaps nothing more.

"What does it matter? You will only lie to me," she said bitterly.

"Oh, not at all. As a matter of fact, I have a feeling you will very soon find me to be the most infuriatingly honest person you have ever met. So if you have any questions, feel free to ask," he said.

Myranda sat numbly and shook her head.

"Then I have a few for you. You say he has a job to do. I assume you are not speaking of his still pending task of turning you over to the Alliance Army. What then?" he asked.

"He is one of the Chosen," she said.

"The what? Oh, that's right. I remember them giving that speech at least a dozen times in Entwell," he said.

"But it is true. It is proven!" she said.

"How so?" he asked.

Myranda explained about the ceremony that had taken place in Entwell before she had left. She told of the summoning of an elemental, a Chosen One, and the fact that Lain was still standing when the creature was formed. The mystic being had even approached him. According to the peerless minds of Entwell, this was only possible if Lain was Chosen. Desmeres nodded thoughtfully through the entirety of the tale, sipping at the wine as it was told.

"Hmm. I always hated Hollow," he said when the recollection was through, speaking of the prophet who had predicted the ceremony and its meaning. "Frankly, I’ve never trusted the whole concept of prophecy. The fact that things occurred precisely as he’d predicted they would certainly punctures my theory that he has been speaking pure nonsense for all of these years. And you say that this other Chosen One, the one you conjured up, it just flew away?"

"Yes," she answered.

"That is a bit odd. You would think that after being brought into existence, one would be eager to get to the task for which one was summoned. I haven't heard anything about an elemental showing up and bringing widespread peace, though," he said.

"I believe that the Chosen will not turn to their task until all five have appeared and joined forces," she said.

"Ah, yes. The fabled 'Great Convergence.' I imagine that the meeting of the Chosen will be a rather difficult thing to arrange with Lain dedicating himself to other tasks, the mysterious elemental flying about waiting for something, and the others sight unseen," he asked.

"I've seen one. In the field. He was dead," she said.

"One would imagine that would only further complicate matters," Desmeres said. "Tell me. If he was dead, how did you discover that he was Chosen?"

"He had the mark. This mark," Myranda said, showing her scar.

"Say. That looks familiar," he said.

"There is one just like it on Lain's chest, one on the forehead of the elemental creature, and it was all over the dead swordsman's weapons and armor. It is the mark of the Chosen," she said.

"Am I to assume, then, that you are Chosen?" he asked.

"No, no. A Chosen One must be divine of birth and born with the mark. I am only human, and mine is a scar," she said.

"And yet you feel compelled to hunt the others down. You do realize that if the prophecy has come true thus far, it is likely to finish itself off without your help," he said.

"That is just it. I believe I am part of the prophecy. Hollow may have mentioned me," she said.

"I see. You don't suppose you are suffering from delusions of grandeur, do you? Well, I suppose you wouldn't be very well-suited to answer that. At any rate, this is all very interesting, but I hope you don't mind if I change the subject. I tend to enjoy talking about things that have already happened rather than things that are about to. Less chance of spoiling surprises that way," he said. "I take that you set your mind to magic back at Entwell. How far did you get?"

"Full master," she answered.

Desmeres tilted his head.

"No . . . in half a year?" he remarked in disbelief.

"A bit less than that," she said.

"And yet an olo got a hold of you. Not very fast with the spells yet?" he said, indicating the trickle on her leg.

"I manage," she answered, directing a bit of thought to the wound to close it.

"Hmm . . . I may need to renegotiate," he said.

"Renegotiate what?" she asked.

"Your price. It is already the highest that we've ever been offered, but now that you are a full wizard, I may just be able to squeeze a bit more out of them," he said.

"You are still thinking of turning me in?" she growled.

"Myranda, it is practically all I think about," he said, quite unapologetically.

"But now? After you know me? After you know what I must do? How could you?" she asked, appalled.

"Did Lain ever tell you what you were worth?" he asked.

"No! What does it matter?" she asked.

"Oh, with a number this large? It matters," he said, standing and hurrying out the door.

She stood to follow.

"No, no. Stay there. You were impressed with the gold goblet, right?" he said, amid door creaks and chest slams. Finally, he reentered and walked to the table. He slammed something down on it.

It an enormous brick, as thick as her arm and nearly as long. Gold.

"One gold ingot. Think of it as four hundred gold coins melted together. We currently have just under thirty of these, plus enough other gold coins and knickknacks to equal perhaps one hundred more. The Alliance Army, for a reason that we are not entirely certain of, is willing--nay, eager--to pay us one hundred and twenty-five of these for your corpse and the sword you carried," he said.

Myranda's eyes locked on the block of gold and widened.

"However! That is merely the base price. If you are still breathing when we hand you over, the price is increased tenfold. One thousand two hundred and fifty of these bits of auric masonry. That is equal to five hundred thousand gold coins. Five million silver coins. Two hundred and fifty million coppers. I would say that you are worth your weight in gold, but that is a massive understatement. You are worth something on the order of three hundred times your weight in gold. You are the single most valuable thing I have ever seen," he said.

"But . . . why?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"As I said, their motivation is a mystery to me. Most interesting is the fact that they did not even want specifically you. At least, not at first. Their orders were to retrieve that sword of yours--which we have, by the way--and anyone who touches it directly and lives. We were also told not to touch it ourselves, if we value our lives. I do and I have not," he said.

Myranda's mind began to stir.

"That sword . . . that sword belonged to the swordsman. That sword is what gave me the mark. It has something to do with the Chosen. And they want me, alive . . . " she thought aloud.

Deep in Myranda's mind, thoughts and instincts clashed together. Thoughts that had been forming since Lain had first told her the truth about why he captured her. Longings and hopes merged as she tried to find some explanation for such actions. Almost hammered into her mind at birth was the belief that the Alliance Army had the best interests of the people and the world at heart. That thought planted the seed of an idea. They wanted the person who touched the sword--alive, if possible. The seed grew until finally it found its way to her voice.

"They know! They know about the prophecy! They came to the same conclusion I did, that the person who is scarred with the mark by the sword is the one who will join the Chosen together. They must want my help!" she said, more certain of it with every moment.

"Possible. I have seen greater stretches of the imagination come true," he said, nodding thoughtfully, then frowning. "Not the least bit likely. In fact, now that I th--"

"Desmeres, I must meet with the Alliance Army at once!" she said.

"Not so quickly, I am afraid," he said, dropping the interrupted thought and embarking on a new one. "You see, when Lain decided to free you and keep them at arm's length from you, it made them believe that we were no longer willing to turn you over. That has put the two of us on a very exclusive list of insurgents who are to be killed on sight by the Elites. It is clear that those very same Elites are the ones who seek to claim you as well. Until we can establish that Lain's little idiosyncrasies are harmless and that we are indeed still willing and able to relinquish yourself and the sword, we are going to have to wait."

"I will just go to them myself," she said.

"That would not be wise. Lest you forget, the attempts to capture you have been less than pleasant in the past. The rest of the agents out after you are not so well-disciplined as the Elites, and I would wager to say that they have not been offered the same compensation as we. If you meet them first, which you most certainly will, they might be just as willing to turn over a corpse as a captive," he said.

"I will take my chances. I can take care of myself," she said.

"That freshly healed wound on your leg and the close calls of the past would seem to indicate the contrary," he said. "Besides, if you go off and turn yourself in, we will not get paid, and that would just be a tragedy."

"Hmm. And Lain is Chosen. I would have to find him again after all," she said.

"Precisely. So what do you say? You stay on as our guest until I can smooth out relations just enough to allow an exchange. That is, of course, unless you don't want to, in which case you will need to stay on as our prisoner. I would suggest choosing the former. It has better accommodations and the conversations are a tad less one-sided. That will give you time to convince Lain of his place in the cosmic way of things, and it will allow us to protect our investment. Then you and he can go off and find elementals and all manner of other eldritch companions and create a tale we can all tell our children about," he said, lifting the ingot to return it to its storage.

Myranda frowned at his mocking tone toward the end of the speech. When he reached for the gold, it made Myranda realize something.

"Wait. The war is good for you. Why would you allow me to help bring peace?" she asked.

"Do you honestly believe that you will be able to convince Lain to join forces with the Alliance Army and put his life on the line to somehow put this war to an end? They have hunted him for decades, and when they caught him, they tortured him for a month, if my sources can be believed. He will never work with them without what he considers to be a very good reason, and I doubt such a reason exists," he said frankly.

"He will see the light," Myranda said confidently.

"Yes, well, I sincerely doubt it. People like Lain have lived in the dark so long, when they see light, they tend to close their eyes. Say . . . why do you assume the war is good for us?" he said.

"Lain told me how the hatred it stirs up is what gets you your business," she said.

"Mmm. It would generally be true to say that war is good for the business. Of course, a war would generally only last a few years and be far less widespread. During a normal war, there are mad scrambles for power, people stabbing each other in the back to grab a hold of the largest slice of power and land. This war has been going on too long. Everything has stabilized. Anyone who wants power and has the means to get it has done so, often with our help. The rest are too weak to hope for anything better or too poor to manage it.

"Now, if this war were to come to a sudden end, chaos would ensue. The bottom would be pulled out from under society. The old guard would panic and throw money at anyone who could help them hold onto any power at all, and newcomers would jump at the dozens of holes in the hierarchy. We would barely be able to keep up with the clients," he said.

Myranda shook her head.

"You would end the war because it would be profitable to you? You would do the right thing for the wrong reasons," she said.

"I never said I would stop the war. And besides, who cares about the reason, so long as the right thing gets done?" he reasoned. "But enough philosophy. Would you care to have a look around? There isn't much to see, but I am quite proud of it all."

Myranda grudgingly agreed, and she and the dragon left the room, following Desmeres through the opposite doorway.

#

In the next room of Lain's mysterious hideaway, Myranda found a chamber of equal size with three large bookcases, mostly filled, along the far wall. The rest of the room was filled with various valuables scattered in a haphazard manner. There were half-full chests of coins, some silver, most gold. There were statues, goblets, ornate daggers, swords, and helmets. Here and there, a satchel could be found filled with papers. Desmeres explained it all.

"The fortune is self-explanatory. These papers are deeds. We own a number of very large tracts of land as part of Lain's pet project. On the back wall is the catalog of our business to date. The first two shelves are the somewhat disorganized records--contracts. They hold the specifics of the deals that we have made, as well as anything worth noting about the way the task was performed. That last shelf has to do with Lain's little project, as well. He's been doing it since before I began working with him," he said.

Myn approached the third bookshelf and sniffed at it with much curiosity. Whatever those books held, they had enough of a scent to pique the interest of the dragon. Myranda approached the bookshelf and looked over the spines. They were unlabeled. Some of the books seemed old and well-used. Others were fresh. Myranda reached for one of the books.

"I wouldn't. You'll have to face Lain's wrath if you do," he said.

"I have reached an agreement with Lain that any question I have of him must be answered," she said.

"How did you manage that in less than a year when I haven't made so much progress in seventy? I have tried practically everything to gain his absolute trust," he said.

"I knocked one of his teeth out with a training sword," she said, pulling one of the books from the middle of the case.

Desmeres nodded thoughtfully.

"I hadn't tried that," he quipped.

"He made a wager that I would never be willing to draw blood, and if I did, I deserved to have my questions answered," she explained.

"Ah," he replied.

Myranda opened the book. There were no words, only brownish red stains, dozens of them, on every page. She flipped through, only to find more of the same. Replacing the book, she opened one of the older ones. More stains. She replaced it and chose a newer one. This had an addition. Below each small stain was a name, each scrawled in a different hand.

"What is this?" she asked.

"You'll have to ask Lain. This is a secret of his, not mine. Besides, I have more to show you. We've still got my favorite room left," Desmeres said.

Myranda shook her head, replaced the book, and followed. They entered the room that Desmeres had been standing in the doorway of when they had arrived. As soon as the light of his lamp entered, it glinted off of a dozen polished surfaces. He moved along the walls, lighting wall-mounted lamps as he went. Each new light revealed more of the room. The walls were hung with weapons of every type--swords with carved blades, bows, arrows, axes, and countless other weapons in racks, on stands, and even hanging from the ceiling. Other stands contained bottles, vials, tools, and books.

"Behold, my gallery. Nearly half of the weapons I have made since I began working with Lain are here. I tried to make one of every type, and Lain can use them all, but lately he has been using only daggers and the occasional light sword. I guarantee he will be asking me for a new one soon, what with Sasha's disappearance. No matter, I've got two in the works. I think I can finish one off in a week or so," he said, filled with pride.

"Look at all of them. You have spent so much time on making tools for killing," she said, slightly disgusted.

"Tools, yes. Killing--only sometimes. Besides, I have got widgets and gadgets for all sorts of purposes. Potions for healing, potions for sleep--frankly, I've got potions for everything. I never could get the hang of spell-casting, so I make potions instead. It isn't my greatest talent, but I get by. This one here is my favorite," he said, lifting a small, innocent-looking vial filled with clear liquid. "It is a poison that will kill anything but Lain."

Myranda shook her head.

"Why?" Myranda asked.

"Why the poison? Well, surely you see the usefulness of . . ." he began.

"No, why any of this?" she asked. "I can understand why you would spend your time on such things in Entwell, but why here? You seem like such a decent person. Why do you occupy all of your time with death?"

"Oh, so now it is just death? I liked 'tools for killing' better. Regardless of your terminology, I simply need something to do," he said.

"That is it? You need something to do?" she said.

"I see that you are confused. First of all, how old do you suppose I am?" he asked.

Myranda considered his appearance. His white hair was a bit less carefully kept than the last time she had seen him. His clothes were of the finest variety. Overall, he looked as though he might be her age, though the way he phrased the question made her believe he was older than he seemed.

"Thirty," she said.

"I was thirty when I left Entwell. I am now just about to celebrate my one hundred-third birthday," he said.

"What? No," she said.

"Father was, and is, an elf. I get the longevity from him. I get the appearance from Mother. It helps me blend with the human population. Never mind that, though. You were looking for an answer for why I squander my life so. Think of every old man or old woman you've met. I'd wager half of them are angry all of the time for no reason at all, or simply numb and apathetic. Why? They are world-weary. They have done and seen everything that they care to see or do. There is nothing left for them.

"Humans have the mixed blessing of a short lifespan. By the time you run out of ambitions and motivations, the end is usually near. Elves are not quite so lucky. We live on and on. As a result, if you are immortal, you need to find something to occupy your vast time. Something endless to fill your days. A passion. I have two.

"First, and foremost, I am a weapon crafter. I strive for perfection. I will never reach it--at least, I hope not--but I get closer with each new weapon. My second passion is more difficult to explain. I like making money," he said.

"How noble," she said with a smirk.

"I do not mean it in a greedy way. I lived the first thirty years without the need for money at all. I simply love the negotiation, the planning. I love reading people. It is as much an art as weapon craft, and just as rewarding. I don't care about the money once I have it. I would give it away, but that would rob me of the joy of haggling prices for the things I buy," he said.

"If you love money so much, why don't you just sell your weapons? At least then you wouldn't have to work with an assassin directly," she said.

"No. Never mix the passions. Weapons are weapons, money is money. I have only sold fifteen pieces in my lifetime, and I have spent the years since trying to hunt them down and buy them back. There are still three out there, and it burns my mind to think of it," he said.

"Why?" she asked.

"They are in the hands of inept fools! I can't stand to see one of my weapons misused. It soils the workmanship. My weapons can make an amateur into a master, but they can make a master invincible. That is why I work with Lain. He is one of only a handful of warriors I deem worthy of holding my handiwork, and his business offers limitless potential for my other skills. As long as he continues to satisfy my needs, I will work with him. If he ever ceases to, I will find someone who will. Simple," he said.

"That is so self-serving," Myranda said.

"That is another trait of immortals. Since we are going to outlive most of the people we know anyway, we tend to focus on ourselves. It is also the nature of things you are passionate about. You have a way of making very poor decisions to indulge them. Like, say, deciding that the people who have been hunting you for nearly a year are actually trying to help you," he said, not a hint of apology in his voice.

Myranda gazed at the weapons and armor. Were she able to bring herself to forget their purpose, she might have been struck by their beauty. Instead, all she saw was death. Her dark thoughts were interrupted by an odd scratching sound. She turned to Myn, the source of the interruption, to see her clawing madly at her neck. The dingy scales and skin were starting to give way.

"Well, well. Is our friend shedding? I'll get a blanket," he said, hurrying off to the supply room.

When he returned he placed the blanket on the ground. Myn seemed to know it was for her, as she rolled on top of it and began clawing at her belly. For the better part of an hour, Myranda and Desmeres discussed the specifics of her adventure that he had not learned on his own as Myn shed the old scales to reveal immaculate, gleaming ones underneath. When her focus returned to her neck, Myranda untied the charm and removed it.

"Say, you didn't mention that little thing. Let me see that," he said.

Myranda handed it to him. He turned it all about in his hands, held it up to the light, and tapped on the metal.

"I remember this. This was on Trigorah's helmet," he said.

"You remember seeing it there?" she said.

"I remember putting it there," he said, rubbing it on his shirt to restore its luster.

"You made her helmet?" Myranda said, shocked.

"No, just the charm. One of my better pieces. It lets healing and such through, but blocks most other spells. It was something of an anniversary gift," he said.

Myranda's jaw dropped.

"We weren't married. Not officially. But we were . . . involved for some time," he said, returning the charm to her. She was too stunned to reach for it, so he took it back.

"How . . ." she managed.

"How long? Six years. I gave this to her on our fifth," he said, trying to answer the half-asked question.

Myranda shook her head, still struggling to find the words.

"How long ago, perhaps? I’d say I first spoke to her perhaps thirty years ago. No, that still isn't it, eh? How . . . How involved? Well, I have a son she never told me about," he said, grinning at his last statement.

Myranda stopped searching for words and simply stared, dumbstruck.

"She's got him squirreled away somewhere up north. He's twenty-five now, with some military job. Croyden is his name, if I recall correctly. I wonder if she's given the boy my name or hers. Must check on that," he said.

Myranda finally found her voice again, and finished the question he had failed to guess.

"How could you?" she asked.

"Well, she has been after Lain since before I started working with him. She is no fool, so in following his trail, she found herself led to me time and time again. I have always felt that one should keep his enemies close, and she felt the same way. That is how it began. The entire time we were together was like a sort of dance, each of us trying our best to learn the intentions of the other. She is very attractive, and we share membership of a fairly unrepresented race. As we played each other for information, we found that we had a great many things in common. What can I say?" he said.

"But she wants to kill you!" she said.

"That is only a recent development. Back then she only wanted to kill Lain," he said.

"Even still, he is your partner!" she said.

"It began as a means to protect him. I feel no shame," he said with a shrug. "It is just the two of us in this partnership. We do what we must."

"Just the two of you . . . wait . . . didn't you mention a woman?" she asked.

"A woman. I don't believe I did," he said, attempting to recall.

"Yes, you did. Sasha," Myranda said.

"Oh . . . Oh. A misunderstanding. Sasha is a what, not a who. Sashat Mance. Bag of tricks. It is the sword Lain had been using," he clarified.

"What? No. You said that she never said a word, but she sang, and that they would try to coax secrets out of her," she objected.

Desmeres chuckled and pulled a sword from its mount on the wall.

"Listen," he said, swiftly drawing it from its sheath.

There wasn't a whisper of sound. He then ran his finger along the flat of the blade. The immaculate metal resonated with a crystal-clear tone.

"There are more than a few blacksmiths that would give their right hand to learn how I make these. Those are the secrets I'm worried about. A fellow by the name of Flinn has gotten wealthy off of one of my daggers . . ." he said, immediately changing the subject. "Say, you know what I haven't made in a dog's age? A staff. Lain doesn't use magic. Not a word of it. Frankly, it doesn't make any sense to me, because he swears by that 'warrior's sleep' they taught him back in the belly of the beast, and that is deeper and harder to manage than any trance. I've made normal staffs, but a casting staff would be a fine diversion. You say you are a full master? I suppose that I would be justified in giving you a piece of my handiwork, but . . . I just can't be sure. I would have to see you in action before I made something from scratch. I might not mind working on the one you've already got, though."

Myranda shook her head in disbelief again. He spoke of betraying his friend and having a relationship with his enemy as though it was nothing, but the very moment that the subject of weaponry was introduced, he latched onto it with boundless interest. Before she could object, Desmeres had fetched her staff.

"Good heavens. Have they still got Coda making these? I could improve this immeasurably. There are at least a dozen runes that could make this doubly resistant to hostile spells. A few potion infusions. Yes. This could be a fine weapon . . . Gracious, this is heavy. Did they give this to you?" he asked.

". . . No, Deacon gave it to me," she said. She knew by now that attempting to bring closure to anything that Desmeres wasn't interested in discussing anymore was useless.

"Well, Deacon must not be a weapon specialist, because this is the wrong size, weight, and shape for someone like you. The crystal could use work as well, but I haven't got the equipment for that. Not here, anyway," he said.

That was the last she heard from him for most of the day. He retired to a corner of the weapon room and set himself to work, flipping through books, selecting tools, and carving at the staff. Myranda watched for a time. He worked with a speed, grace, and enthusiasm that she admired. He must truly love the work, she thought. Before long, though, her mind became fixed on other things. She moved back to the dining room and retired to a chair.

Myn had finished shedding and looked to Myranda for attention. The girl moved to the ground to better dote upon her friend. She patted the little creature, whose scales were now as smooth and shiny as the day she was born. As she did, she thought.

She thought back to her encounter with Trigorah. It pained her to think of it. She had been desperate to escape. In her desperation, she'd nearly killed the commander. Now it was possible that all of this time they had been dedicated to the same goal. If she had only turned herself over, all of this could have been avoided. But, then, if she had turned herself in, she would not have helped to conjure the other Chosen in Entwell, and she would not know nearly as much magic. She would not have even been sure of Lain's place in the Chosen. Was it all part of the prophecy? All part of the plan for the world that she would not know the truth until she had earned it? So much hardship had come since then . . .

Her reverie was interrupted when Desmeres entered the room.

"Ah, excellent, the dragon has shed her skin," he said, gathering up the blanket and dumping the remnants of the act into a bag. "This is a very useful and very rare resource. I can think of a dozen or more things to do with this."

"Then when you put down the blanket, you didn't want to make Myn more comfortable, you wanted to make it easier to collect up the shedding?" Myranda said, annoyed that yet another seeming act of kindness was false.

"Yes. Would you stand up, please?" he asked.

"Why?" she asked.

"I need your exact height," he said, offering a hand to help her up.

Myranda reluctantly accepted the help. He looked her up and down, eventually asking to see her hands as well. Once he seemed satisfied with sizing her up, he told her so.

"Before you sit down, though, I imagine you might like something nicer than the floor to sleep on. We haven't got any beds, but there are a few bedrolls. One for each of us and a spare. If that dragon of yours--" he began.

"Her name is Myn," Myranda interjected.

"If Myn can hold onto her flame, I would not mind offering her the spare," he said.

"Myn likes to sleep on top of me," Myranda said.

"Do you like for her to sleep atop you?" he asked.

"I don't mind it," she replied.

"Then, by all means, let it continue. Sleep wherever you find room enough on the floor to do so, though I would not recommend directly below the entrance. It would lead to a rather rude awakening," he said.

Myranda accepted the bedroll and set it up, but she was not ready for sleep yet. She sat up longer and thought. It was perhaps a few hours more, in the dead of the night, when the door quietly creaked open and Lain deactivated the traps and slipped back inside. Desmeres was too busy at his task to notice the entry. Lain sat at the table in front of Myranda. He had nothing new with him. The dragon leapt from her lap to his, eager for the novelty of her other favorite creature in the world.

"Desmeres has shown me around," Myranda said.

Lain shifted his gaze to her without acknowledging her words.

"I have seen the books. The first two shelves are all about your business. Desmeres would not tell me what the third shelf's books were for," she said.

"Desmeres knows his place," he said.

"All I have to do is ask, you know. You have made a promise to me," she said.

"So I have," he answered.

"Then tell me. What is the purpose? Most of the pages do not even have names," she said.

"I am not interested in names. I am interested in people," he said.

"Tell me what I want to know," she demanded.

"Those are drops of blood. I collect one from each person who owes me a favor so that I can identify them by scent," he said.

"Owe you favors?" she asked.

"I have helped them in some way," he said.

"Oh? I suppose that you murdered someone for them and they have yet to pay you," Myranda said harshly.

"Now, now. That is an oversimplification of the services that we offer," Desmeres said, drawn by the voices. "We don't merely kill people. We also dabble in espionage. To wit, I have here every dispatch that we have managed to seize from the military through our various channels since you went missing.

"Allow me to condense. Up until about six weeks ago, dispatches were flying in every direction with inadequate and, frankly, rather skewed descriptions of Myranda here. Separately, there have been significant efforts put into reminding the populace of the evils of malthropes. Then the messages began to taper off. By the end, the rather thin selection of messages available all seemed to agree that the primary targets of late are dead or of no more concern.

"That is, of course, except for one that we managed to sneak a peek at en route from Trigorah herself to General Bagu, urging that the search not be ended until a body is found. I have reason to believe that Bagu agrees. He may even have sent one of the other generals to give Trigorah a hand, although other dispatches seem to indicate a second general has been involved for some time," he said.

"What does all of this mean for us?" Myranda asked.

"For us it means that we will be facing the Elites as a smaller, more focused, and much more powerful group. Fortunately, thanks to Lain's less than subtle actions prior to retreating to the Belly of the Beast, the Elite proper has been reduced to a handful of men, and with the way the combat on the front lines has been heating up, I cannot foresee many new members anytime soon. The rest are just mercenaries in uniforms, comparatively no threat at all. It also means that if we disguise you a bit, we may be able transport you from one place to another without rousing too much suspicion. So long as you don't run into Trigorah herself, who knows your face," he said.

"But Trigorah is the one person I want to meet. She is the one who can deliver me to the Alliance Army safely so that I can begin finding the other Chosen," Myranda said.

Lain's gaze shifted sternly to Myranda.

"Yes. She has leapt to a rather lofty conclusion about the Alliance Army seeking to help her join the Chosen together," Desmeres explained.

"You agreed," Myranda said.

"I agreed it was possible. I also remarked that it was not at all likely. I would guessed that their intentions for you are not quite hospitable, but there is no sense guessing about one's intentions when we can read them in their own words. From Bagu to Trigorah a few months ago: 'I cannot stress the importance of this capture enough. As long as this target remains out of our reach, the possibility of failure exists. We must have her, if possible alive. She could be an invaluable resource.' Capture, target, resource, if possible alive? These do not sound like the words of a helpful and concerned party," he said.

"I don't care," she said.

"If you knew more about the people who want you, you might. You need to learn just who is really after you. The five generals are the ones most interested. Regardless of what you may have seen or heard, the generals are not the sort of people that you want looking for you. I know that you think that they have the best of intentions for you and the world, but keep in mind that if not for them, this war would have come to an end, possibly peacefully, decades ago."

"What do you mean?" she asked.

"There are standing orders from the generals to kill anyone sent to broker a peace. There is every indication that those have been the orders since the war began," he explained.

"So I have heard . . . wait. This war has been fought off and on for the past hundred and fifty years. How could the same five generals be at fault?" she asked.

"They aren't human. At least, four of them aren't for certain. Trigorah is an elf, as you know, but she was the last to be made a general, well after the war began. As for the others . . . I believe that they are D'karon," he said.

"D'karon? The inhuman creatures? The ones that created those wretched Cloaks and . . . and the dragon thing that killed the swordsman?" she cried. "I don't believe it."

"I don't expect you to. I only ask that you keep your eyes open, and listen for these names. They are bad people. There is a reason that few living men and women have ever seen them, and that is because those who see them seldom live long. The first is Trigorah. You know her well enough and she is, to a degree, the least of your worries. She is the decent and honorable sort and will only do what she is ordered to do. In the same vein, she will always do what she is ordered to do, and since she takes her orders from the other generals, she is capable of anything.

"Next is Teht. You won't likely run into her, but you may be brought before her if you get caught. She is fairly inactive, spending nearly all of her time in research, experimentation, and training others. A powerful wizard, and surrounded by many of the same.

"Now, Demont. He is one you had best keep away from. He doesn't seem terribly dangerous. A rather slight and weak-looking man, but he surrounds himself with the most vicious and twisted of D'karon creatures, and they take his will as law. Beasts snap to attention more readily and obediently than soldiers around him. He likes to spend his time researching as well, but research of a different sort. Many is the story I have heard of a patrol of soldiers torn to shreds by a swarm of creatures none had ever seen before while a man matching Demont's description watches. He tests these creatures.

"More disturbing is the man he often brings as a partner. Epidime. Nearly all of the information I have about this fellow is contradictory. This much I am certain of: He is an intelligence officer and a very good one, specializing in interrogation. His skills in that area are the stuff of legend. Those who come before him are never the same afterward. I have spoken with one or two of his victims. They ended up telling him things they didn't even know they knew.

"However, all of them report to one man, Bagu. Don't be fooled by the name. He is a masterful leader and, if what is said is true, every bit the wizard and warrior to keep the others in line by fear or force," he said.

"I can't imagine them being as evil as you make them sound," she said.

"It depends on your perspective. Frankly, most of our countrymen should be worshiping them. I guarantee you that without them, the north would have fallen to the south fifty years ago. It is on the strength of the five generals that the Alliance Army has withstood so many years against a far larger and healthier force. From your point of view, though, they are most definitely evil. These are the men and woman who want your freedom," he said.

"They want to help me, and the world," she said.

"If you choose to believe that," he said with a shrug. "Just remember, these are the most important and powerful people in the north. If you meet them, consider every breath from there after a gift. People don't tend to outlive their usefulness around them."

"Point taken," she said.

"I sincerely doubt that. Regardless, back to the business at hand. We need to do something soon. I believe these to be the last dispatches that we will receive until we can establish some new informants. We need manpower," Desmeres said.

"How much gold do I have?" Lain asked.

"Most of what we have left is yours. I'd say perhaps ninety bars worth," he said.

"That will be enough," Lain said.

"For what?" Desmeres said, in a tone of humoring a child.

"There is a mining company in the mountains to the northeast . . ." Lain began.

"No. No! Absolutely not. You know I cannot go out there. If you like, I'll show you the order by the Alliance Army demanding my head! I didn't even need an informant for it. It was nailed to a tree. You expect me to go out and negotiate a purchase now?" Desmeres objected fiercely.

"It will give us countless new opportunities," he countered, calmly.

"I don't care what it will give us, it is a terrible idea. I simply will not do it. And don't think that you'll be able to do it either. Unless those interrogators were kind enough to return that cloak that hides your face, you won't last three words into the first round of negotiations before either your throat is slit or you are forced to slit someone else's, and it will take me months to replace that little gadget. Not that anyone would conduct a negotiation with a man he couldn't look in the eye," he said.

"We'll send Myranda," he said.

"No! Absolutely not! I don't want anything to do with this awful business of yours!" Myranda objected.

"You want to send her!? We have only just gotten her back into the fold after you released her the last time! Now you propose that she be sent out, alone, with all of our money? I thought that you had mentioned best judgment as the standing order," he said.

"We do not have very many options," Lain said.

"That doesn't mean that we must choose the worst one! I've got a business or two left. We only need to get to one," he said.

"If it was so simple, you would have done it," Lain said.

"Perhaps I was waiting for you," Desmeres offered.

Lain looked calmly at his partner.

"How many?" Desmeres asked, defeated.

"Two hundred," Lain answered.

"It's Grossmer's? Grossmer's, the suppliers of half of the iron and copper in all of the Low Lands, is what you've got your eye on?" Desmeres said in disbelief.

Lain nodded.

"When did they even mention the possibility of putting that place up for sale? It isn't a gold mine, but it may as well be! They've got military contracts! Guaranteed business until the end of the war! Of course, long-standing military contracts mean that some of the older administrators could have fairly firm connections on the inside. That would be useful. We might have to bargain hard to take them for only ninety and have any left for your little practice in futility," he said thoughtfully. Finally he threw his hands up. "There is simply too much that needs to be done. I shall have to come along. We will need a carriage, an impressive one. With equally impressive horses and a driver. Impressive, but not extravagant. We need to convince them we are oozing with money, but we use it wisely. It will set the tone of the day and turn the deal in our direction before we even start. We will need a disguise for Myranda in keeping with her supposed social rank. The carriage will need a hiding place for me."

"Weren't you listening? I simply won't go!" Myranda objected again.

"You will change your mind. As for you, Lain. Since this was your idea, I will be expecting you to gather the necessary equipment. I will finish working on Myranda's staff and draw up the paperwork. And I'll mix up some of the smoke flares to keep the oloes away from the horses while we load up the carriage," Desmeres said.

"Meet me on the road east of here in seven days," Lain said.

With that, he rose and headed for the door.

"No, not again! Come back here! I haven't agreed!" Myranda called after him.

It was no use, she threw open the door that he had shut behind him, only to see him whisper a word or two to Myn, who sat obediently and watched as he whisked up to the hatch and slipped out.

"I'm not through with you!" Myranda called uselessly.

"You are beginning to repeat yourself. A word of advice from a veteran in dealing with that fellow: He and no one else decides when you are through with him. I have yet to finish a conversation with him that did not interest him," Desmeres said.

"Both of you are so selfish," she said.

"That is a fair opinion. One I happen to agree with, in fact," he said.

"How can you be so cocky? You take it for granted that I will help you," she said.

"You will. You are both intelligent and helpful. It is in your nature to do what others need of you. You are already becoming aware of how businesslike I am, and it is only a matter of time before you realize how useful it will be to have performed a valuable service for us," he said, walking back to his workshop.

"What do you mean?" she asked, following him.

"Your life, or death, depends entirely upon the value of each to us. You are alive because you are worth more to us in that state. Were I you, and I was after Lain’s aid in this Chosen nonsense as you are, I would be spending most of my time and effort proving that I am more valuable as an ally than as a captive," he said, taking a seat at the bench and picking up the wood chisel.

"How could I possibly do that?" she asked.

"I don't have all of the answers, but I would say that helping us with this purchase would be a fine start. You might think about sabotaging our relationship with the Alliance Army while you are at it. That way, we would have a harder time turning you over for the reward to anyone but Trigorah. We would have to hold onto you longer, and you would have more time to convince Lain to end the war," he said.

"Why are you telling me this?" she asked.

"It will both plant the seeds of an idea, making it more likely for you to make the decision that benefits me most, and confuse your desire to do the opposite of what I say," he said.

". . . I wish you were not quite so forthcoming with your explanations," she said, less than pleased with this glimpse into the disturbingly well-crafted manipulations of her host.

"I'd warned that my honesty would become bothersome . . ." he said, looking up distractedly. "Lain . . . he didn't bring a weapon, did he?"

"I didn't notice. I suppose not. Why? Are you concerned for him?" she asked.

"No, for any who may face him," he said.

"I don't understand," she said.

"When . . . when he holds a weapon, particularly one of mine, he is a graceful, silent, clean killer. When he is unarmed, he is something else altogether. Vicious, forceful. He reverts to something primal. I dare say he is even more deadly that way, but in a way that is unmistakably animal," Desmeres said with a shudder.

"What do you care?" she asked.

"If a man must die, so be it, but there is no reason to be cruel. I must finish his weapon. But first I must finish yours, and the paperwork. So much to do, and only seven days to do it," he said, turning back to his task.

Myranda found her way back to the room with the table, where she had set up her bedroll, and retired. Try as she might, though, she could not bring herself to sleep. She was more at home on the freezing ground outside than in this place. Knowing that all that surrounded her was paid for by blood turned her stomach. She wondered how the peace of the world could be left to the whims of such twisted minds.

#

The best Myranda could manage was a light doze, interrupted periodically by an odd sound or smell emanating from Desmeres's workshop. Myn, lying atop her as always, slept peacefully until what must have been morning. When the dragon roused, Myranda decided she may as well end this fruitless pursuit of sleep. She wandered into Desmeres's workshop.

The half-elf, visibly weary, was admiring what he had done to the staff. He noticed her walk in and held it up proudly. Myranda took it from his hands. It felt much lighter. He had carved a good deal of the exterior down and shaped it carefully. Her fingers fit easily and comfortably around it. The color was different, streaked with darker colors that made the formerly white surface resemble the gray bark of a tree, and covering the surface were dozens of small, intricately carved symbols. She had noticed the same symbols decorating the blades and handles of nearly every other weapon in the room. Lowering its tip to the floor, she found it stood at a more appropriate height than before. His improvements were apparent, though she wondered about the reasoning for some.

"Why the darker color?" she asked.

"A side effect of the solutions I soaked it in to strengthen it. Natural wood at the thickness that is appropriate for your hand size would not be strong enough for my tastes. I could restore the color, if you like," he said.

"I don't much care. What of the symbols?" she asked.

"Runes. Lain has put them to fine use over the years, and I see no reason why you couldn't do the same. He doesn't know a word of magic, as I’ve said, so he needed something that could turn the defensive skills he does have into something effective against magic. Those runes will allow you to defend against spells tossed in your direction as though they were conventional attacks. You can deflect a fireball as easily as a thrown stone, or shatter a conjured shield spell as though it were glass, all without wasting an ounce of your own mystic strength. Of course, a stronger spell is more difficult to deflect, just as a larger stone is. Also, though I stand by my work, I cannot guarantee that the enhancements will work against all magics. It is an ever-changing area, after all," he said.

Myranda tested the strength of the now-much thinner tool. Touching it for the first time in a day, she was struck by the clarity of mind it brought. Certainly the effect had not been so noticeable before. Seeming to notice her expression, Desmeres offered an explanation.

"Among other things, I treated the wood so that it will aid focus in absence of a crystal. With a crystal, the effect is doubled. Useful, yes?" he said.

The girl admired the work for a few more moments before a suspicion crept into her mind.

"You only did this to raise the price on my head again, didn't you?" she said.

"Heavens no. Not only that. I also needed some practice in the manufacture of mystical weapons. I almost never get the opportunity. I'm glad you thought to accuse me, though. It shows that you are developing a healthier outlook on the people around you," he said with a grin, as he searched around for some sheets of paper, some ink, and a quill.

"Healthy? I thought the worst of you!" she said.

"And you weren't completely wrong. You'll find that you seldom are when you think the worst of people," he said, finding some high quality parchment and ink.

"That is a terrible thing to say!" she objected.

"Prove me wrong," he said, dipping a quill and beginning to scribe in impressive calligraphy.

"What are you writing?" she asked.

"Paperwork. There is a fair amount of it involved in transferring land," he said.

"Aren't you going to sleep?" she asked.

"I prefer to wait until my affairs are in order," he said.

"And Lain? Does he ever sleep?" she asked.

"Not in the traditional sense. They call it 'the warrior's sleep,' but the two couldn't be more dissimilar," he said.

"You spoke of the warrior's sleep before. What is that?" she asked.

"It is . . . well . . . let us put it in mystical terms. It is like meditation, only far, far deeper, and not merely of the mind. It focuses the thoughts, and it brings the body near to death. They have been teaching it at Entwell since the beginning. I could never get the hang of it, but they say a few minutes like that will do the work of a few hours of real sleep. Back before he had someone to cook up healing potions, that is how Lain dealt with serious injury. It is not nearly as fast as a potion or a spell, but it is measurably better than simply waiting," he explained.

"He never sleeps normally?" she asked.

"If you ever find him lying down, especially in a bed, you can be certain it was not his idea," Desmeres answered.

As she watched him sculpt the official language of the paper with great care, she decided he had best be left alone. She found herself drawn to the room that contained the gold and the records. Myn's tapping claws followed her, and once inside, the little dragon leapt up onto one of the chests that was mostly coins, instinctively drawn to the gleaming treasure. She curled up and watched Myranda as she approached the second shelf.

The books that filled the shelf were in groups of four. All told, there were a few more than seventy such sets. She reasoned that, since Desmeres had been partnered with him for roughly seventy years, the groups must be by season and year, though if there was a written indication of exactly what year each represented, it was not in a form she recognized. It was just as well. The standard method for labeling the years these days was to measure from the day that the war had begun. By that measure, the year was 156. The thought depressed her.

In the days to come, days that seemed painfully long with nothing to fill them, she spent much time leafing through the books. The names of the people and places, as well as the prices, were the only things not written in some bizarre language that they had certainly learned at Entwell. As a result, she found herself scanning the pages for any places or names she knew. It seldom took long. A lifetime of journeying from town to town had taken her to most of the places in the north. Apparently Lain's business had done the same. People of much renown were frequently named in the pages as well. Wealthy landowners, merchants, and people of all walks of life had either hired his blade or fallen to it. Without understanding the language, it was impossible to tell which. Much of what she saw she had heard in the form of rumors over the years. The Red Shadow. The fact that he was real, the fact that she knew him, filled her with an icy, gnawing anxiety.

Soon it was the seventh day. Desmeres had long since finished his preparations, the last of which was the completion of some manner of sword for Lain. He refused to unveil it to her, claiming that Lain ought to be the first. He slipped out the entrance hatch, warning her that he would arrive back at the end of the day and they would have to move quickly when the time came. Until then, there was nothing to do but leaf through more books. She had worked her way backward through fifteen or so of the years, and came upon a name she had known about already. Rinthorne, the unfortunate man who had been in charge of Kenvard when the massacre occurred.

Dark memories filled her head at the glimpse of the name. She’d lost her home, her family, everything that day. Then something odd caught her eye. A line in the book was struck out. It was clearly written in a different hand than the rest. With a bit of effort, the words could still be read, not that it did any good. She still hadn't worked out what they meant. Something else was odd. There was no indication for whom or to whom the job was done. There was only one word that she did recognize.

Kenvard.

Her mind began to stir. How? He had told her of the job he had done for Rinthorne. It happened at the same time as the massacre. How could a job have been done in Kenvard afterward? Afterward there was no Kenvard. Kenvard the nation had been absorbed, and its capital of the same name had been razed. Was that why it was crossed out? And why no names? And no price? Rather, not one that could be counted in gold bars. The word that always preceded the number was present, but what followed was only another word. Myranda cursed herself for not spending more time in the warrior's section of Entwell. Had she, she might have learned this language, and this would have been clear.

A nagging feeling burned at her. This was important. She couldn't explain why, but she had to know what it meant. As she further pondered, her thoughts were interrupted by the creaking of the trapdoor and the whir of blades through the air.

"Myranda! Quickly! I am not sure how long we can keep the oloes at bay!" called Desmeres, struggling to yell over a powerful wind that whistled in the opening.

Myranda slipped the book into her bag and hurried to the entryway. The gold needed for the purchase had been transferred into twenty or so small crates. Though each held only four or five of the ingots, they were heavier than lead. A rope was lowered for Myranda to secure to one chest at a time, and the combined strength of Desmeres and Lain, topside, hauled each up. Myn, interested in the activity on the surface, scrambled up to them, and soon the chests were moving much faster. The little dragon had quickly determined the purpose of this little game and joined in, clamping the end of the rope in her jaws and lending her disproportionate strength to the effort. Soon, the chests were all loaded, and Myranda clutched the rope herself and was hauled out.

On the surface, it was night. She found the ground around them covered with a thin haze that smelled strongly of burning wood. The horrid brown creatures that guarded the place were completely surrounding them, staying at the exact distance where the mist faded to nothing. Waiting for them was a four-horse carriage. It was just as he had asked: elegant, but sturdy. Not a gaudy showpiece, a well-crafted vehicle. There was a very large cargo compartment in the back that was filled fairly to bursting with their precious load. In the front was a comfortable place for the passengers to sit, and just in front of that was a sheltered place for the driver. There was no one there.

Desmeres approached her. He was dressed as he’d been when he left, utterly cocooned in winter clothing in an attempt to stay warm and hide his identity. Lain was not disguised at all, wearing a lighter gray cloak with a white lining and a plain tunic underneath. Hanging from his belt was the new sword, concealed in a sheath.

"Do I take from your presence up here that you have chosen to aid us?" Desmeres asked, opening the door of the carriage for her.

"Certainly I do not want to spend the rest of my life in that hole. We shall see if I aid you or not. I want to know more about it first," she said, stepping inside and dropping her bag and staff on the floor.

"Fine, fine. I wouldn't expect you to do it without considerable instruction anyway," he said, starting to close the door.

"Aren't you coming inside?" she asked.

"Dawn will be here soon, and our driver is still a few hours away. Lain is the best there is, but even he couldn't drive a carriage in broad daylight without being seen. I will drive it until we meet the coachman," he said.

"What about Myn?" she asked.

"One of the lines in every description of you mentions that you will be in the company of the dragon. She will have to tag along with Lain," Desmeres said.

Myranda's heart sank as Myn turned to Lain in the distance, cast a goodbye glance, and trotted off to him.

"As for you, there is an outfit in the carriage; I suggest you change into it while you are alone," Desmeres said, closing the door.

A moment later, the carriage lurched into motion. Myranda looked around her. In all of her life, this was the first time she had been in a covered carriage, save the rather unpleasant trip in the back of the black carriage after the cloaks attacked her.

The seats were cushioned with deep red velvet. Doors that were better crafted than those on her childhood home kept even the slightest draft from breaking through. Over each of the glass windows, of which there was one on each door, there was a gauze curtain to keep prying eyes out but allow light in, and a heavy drape of the same red velvet to eliminate the light. She lowered the gauze curtains and looked over the outfit. It was exquisite. Fine lace, linen, and . . . silk! She had seen women pay a fortune for any one of these pieces of clothing. When she had put on the dress and petticoats, she found them to be just precisely her size, as though they had been hand-altered to suit her. She wondered for a moment how Lain had managed such a feat, but her thoughts were interrupted by the gleaming white fur coat that would protect her against the freezing cold.

Fur was not at all an uncommon thing to see someone wear in the north. If one had forsaken the ubiquitous gray cloak, a rough one of fur was generally in its place. In those cases, though, it was merely a skin, perhaps not even cleaned, draped about the shoulders and tied about the waist. This was, again, tailored to suit her. She slipped it on and found it to be more than warm enough.

If they wanted her to go unrecognized, they had certainly chosen a fine wardrobe. Dressed in this way, Myranda didn't even feel like herself. The crumpled pile of overused clothes on the floor of the carriage more closely resembled her true self than who she might have seen in a mirror. After stuffing her former self into the bag and attempting to gather her hair into something more becoming of her wardrobe, she drew the curtain on one side of the carriage and gazed outside.

After a few minutes, a fellow traveler passed in the opposite direction. He was an older man in a sleigh that was nearly falling apart. He wore a cloak so tattered that the hood was useless, replaced with a fur hat. He tipped it as he passed. Myranda smiled at him. It was the first time that anyone had acknowledged her as she traveled. She leaned into the soft seat and pondered why people were so willing to ignore their own, and so eager to acknowledge those who were better off. Her thoughts were interrupted when the carriage pulled to a halt just as the traveler disappeared from view. Desmeres appeared outside the window and pulled the door open.

"Has this curtain been open all along?" he asked.

"Yes," she said.

"Close it. You should know better," he said.

She obeyed and they were on their way again. It was nice to finally be able to travel in luxury, but without Myn to keep her company, she was beginning to feel loneliness creep back upon her. It was a feeling she'd not had to deal with since she'd found the little dragon, and she did not relish it. She pulled the bag from the floor and found the stylus inside. Rolling it slowly in her palm, she remembered the man who had given it to her. Fetching the torn spell page from the bag, she cursed it for not being written in his hand. She scratched the stylus along the page. A thin black line faded in swiftly behind it. It was enchanted to write without ink. In Entwell, it was nothing. Out here, it was miraculous. Smiling, she went back to admiring the simple tool. As she admired, her mind wandered to those happier times.

#

Meanwhile, a forest and a mountain away, Deacon sat at his table. He had found it increasingly difficult to keep his mind on his task, and self-imposed deadlines were quickly piling up. All of his life, he had kept to the schedules he made for himself. Faced with the daunting task of recording every piece of gray magic his former mentor had neglected to write down, if he hadn't forced himself to keep to a schedule, it would have consumed his life. Thanks to his diligence, he reasoned that in five short years he would have finished recording the teachings of Gilliam and would be free to begin his own contributions in earnest.

That was before. Now he was a full volume behind.

Even so, rather than writing, he was staring at the empty chair across from him. A motion drew his eye to the pen that sat in the pot of ink at the corner of his book. The pen rose shakily and touched to the paper. A slow, lazy line was drawn along one corner. With a curling flourish, the pen lifted from the paper and returned to the ink. Anxiously, Deacon watched the pen for any further movement. When it remained still, he pulled the page from the book and greedily took in the curve with his eyes. She had drawn it.

When he gave the stylus to her, he had meant it to be useful to her, a tool that would make her path easier. It was not until later that he supposed that the spell might persist regardless of distance. The moment that the thought came to him he had rushed to the paper to see if any of the words were not his own. From that day forward, he had awoken each morning with the hope of something new. Something from her. Slowly it occurred to him the madness of it. This was a simple line. It was no different than any meaningless scribble he might have made himself. Why should this one mean so much? He tried to convince himself that it was because of her task, that he couldn't keep his mind off of her because she had a part in the prophecy.

It was a lie. The prophecy was the last thing he thought of when he thought of her. He didn't think of anything. When she was in his mind, there was nothing else. He tried his best to shake the thoughts away, placing the paper in a drawer. There was nothing to be done about it. It would be months before the way was open for her to return. Until then, he would simply have to keep his mind on magic. If he could not scribe, at least he could study. Standing and approaching one of his many shelves, he plucked a volume he had written years ago. He flipped to a page in the center, where there was described a spell he'd never had much use for. Distance seeing. Perhaps . . . he may just find a use soon.

#

Back in the carriage, hours later, Desmeres pulled to the side of the road and stopped, joining Myranda inside. Sitting on the seat across from her, he peeled off several of the outer layers of his winter covering until he was left with an outfit that was every bit as finely tailored as the one she had been given. Standing, he lifted the seat he had chosen to reveal a large compartment beneath it, obviously the hiding place he had requested. From inside, he pulled a pile of papers.

"Now, to complete your disguise," he said.

"What is on those papers? Spells?" she asked.

"Heavens no. I am no wizard. Any disguise spell I could manage would only attract more attention to you. No, these papers contain your new personality, by far the most important part of the disguise. That and your instructions, but those can wait. The driver will be showing up soon, and he will be your first test. We need to lay the groundwork before then," he said.

"I don't understand," she said.

"No need to worry. You will. You see, the most commonly used phrase in the dispatches that describe you is 'poor, nomadic girl.' Even if you manage to completely change your appearance, you would still fit that little phrase. And right now you are dressed as a noblewoman. If you do not act as one, you will draw attention even if you don't even remotely resemble a person to watch for. You need to act appropriately. As such, we will start from the bottom. Your name is Alexia Adriana Tesselor," he began.

Myranda tilted her head as she tried to recall where she'd heard the last name before.

"Of the West Kinsey Tesselors. It is a fact that you are endlessly proud of. Given the chance, you will mention it no later than the second sentence of any conversation, and as often afterward as possible," he said.

Myranda nodded. The Tesselors were an exceedingly wealthy family on the west coast of the continent, so much so that they practically owned the city that they hailed from. Though they were not nobles, there was not a single leader in all of the Northern Alliance who didn't have either a marital or financial connection to the clan. Rumor had it that the king himself owed a rather sizable debt to the patriarch of the Tesselors for the cost of his coronation.

Desmeres handed her a piece of paper and a small bag of jewelry.

"This is a family tree and a short description of the most prevalent members. Memorize it. Lord knows that they have. Rings and necklaces, gold, all bearing the family crest. Put them on. Now you know who you are. All that is left is to teach you how to be who you are. Listen up. I am about to give you the single most important piece of advice that you will ever receive. There are only two things that you will ever need to succeed, regardless of what you do: Confidence and experience. Of the two, confidence is paramount. No one, no one, is more confident and secure in their superiority than the extremely wealthy. You need to exude obnoxious amounts of confidence in all situations," Desmeres said.

"Like you," Myranda said mockingly.

"Precisely," Desmeres replied, ruining her joke. "I owe everything I have to--often unjustified--confidence. Now, rather than trying to fill in things you already know, we will do this as a test of sorts. First, what is your name?" he asked.

"Alexia Tesselor," Myranda replied.

"Alexia Adriana Tesselor. Adriana Tesselor is your grandmother and one of the more powerful members of your clan. You will never pass up an opportunity to flaunt your common name. Now, what is the name again?" he asked.

"Alexia Adriana Tesselor," she said.

"Right. Now, let us imagine that someone tries to exert some authority over you. Also, suppose that what you are doing is wrong, and they are justified in reprimanding you. What do you do?" he quizzed.

"I don't suppose I follow their orders," Myranda said, rolling her eyes at what was obviously a wrong answer.

"You are a Tesselor. What do you do?" he repeated.

"I . . . bribe them," she said.

"Better, but no. Criminals bribe. Besides, bribing acknowledges that you are at a disadvantage," he said.

Myranda thought hard, but couldn't find the answer.

"Threaten. Always threaten. The mere sound of your name should be enough, particularly if you repeat it, which you will. If it isn’t enough, mention any name in the family line. On the off chance you have a particularly duty-minded individual, the implied wrath of the patriarch of the family, Vander Tesselor, will stave off almost any authority figure," Desmeres instructed.

For an hour or so, Myranda was taught how to behave in a way opposite to what her heart and upbringing told her. Conversations with underlings are short and direct, always in the form of orders. She must assume that everything, in all situations, has been done for her benefit.

At first, she found it impossible to decide what to say or do to appear to be this new person, but her thoughts shifted to the one person in her life who she realized she was sounding more and more like. Ayna, the wind master in Entwell. When she began answering questions as Ayna would have, everything fell into place. Her first test came when the driver tapped on the window. Desmeres slipped quietly into concealment. Myranda pulled back the curtain.

"What is it?" she snapped irritatedly.

"Where does madam--" he began.

"Mistress Alexia Adriana Tesselor, not madam. You will refer to me as Mistress Tesselor. I want to be at Grossmer's mines in three days," she declared haughtily.

The driver, somewhat bewildered by the flurry of orders, hesitated.

"Well? Off with you!" she said curtly, dropping the curtain into place.

"Fine work," Desmeres said quietly, once the carriage had jerked into motion. He slipped from beneath the seat.

"Was it convincing?" she asked, somewhat proud.

"Exceptionally so. Voice down please. You are alone in here, remember. There is much for you to learn before we get there. Three days may not be enough," he said.

The rest of the day passed in much the same manner as the time she had spent in Entwell. Desmeres explained to her everything she might need to know about securing the ownership of the mines as quickly, easily, and cheaply as possible. She was told the prices of their ore, the success in recent years, and the likely success in the future. By sundown, her head was swimming. The carriage began to turn, signaling the approach of a town.

"Here is money. Give it to the driver when he opens the door. Rich people never pay for anything themselves. That case on the floor has five changes of clothes. He will carry it without being asked. Stay in the best room of the best inn in town. You won't need to figure out which is which, the driver will. I will stay in the carriage--slipping out for the necessities, of course," he said, climbing into the hiding place.

"Wait, what about the gold? Are we simply leaving it in the carriage? It will be stolen," she said.

"Lain is out there, somewhere. If anyone so much as lays a finger on a chest, they will have to pick it up off of the ground if they want it back," he answered, slipping out of sight.

A moment later, the door opened.

Without a word, Myranda thrust the bag of money into the hands of the driver and put out her hand to be helped from the carriage. He did so and they entered as nice an inn as was likely to be found in the area. It was not a tavern with rooms to let, as was typically the type of place Myranda would have selected. The difference was obvious from the moment that the driver opened the door for her. Inside were attentive porters and a remarkably comfortable room, with the first real bed she'd slept in since Entwell. Properly prepared food was a pleasant luxury as well.

Of course, for the duration of the stay, she belittled the quality of each and every little thing. It would have been suspicious if she hadn't. Spending the night alone was worse than she remembered. Worse yet was the fact she had left her satchel from Entwell in the carriage, and had nothing to do but stare at the painted walls of the room until her departure. Once she had checked out of the inn, she was led back to the carriage and they were on their way. Desmeres slipped out of his hiding place with a stern look on his face. He was holding the book that Myranda had brought along.

"What is this doing here?" he whispered harshly.

"I found something inside that I wanted to ask you about. Why were you going through my bag?" she asked, somewhat annoyed.

"I spent the night in a carriage. I needed something to do, but never mind that. This book contains very sensitive information. It was never to leave the storehouse," he said.

"Well, I didn't know that," Myranda said.

"You should have asked. What question have you got, anyway? It had best be an excellent one to warrant this sort of breach," he said.

Myranda took the book and flipped to the offending page. She indicated the crossed-out line and handed the book to Desmeres. He had only just glimpsed at the line when he shut his eyes tight and slammed the book closed.

"What? You didn't even read it," she said, taking the book away and trying to find it again.

"I didn't write that. If I didn't, then Lain did. If he wrote it, it was because he didn't want me to know about it. If he didn't want me to know about it, I don't want to know about it," he said, pushing the book closed again.

"If he didn't want you to know, then why would he write it down?" she asked.

"It doesn’t matter. He knows that I respect his privacy. I would not have read it," he said.

"Well, tell me what it says," she said.

"If I could think of a way to do so without reading it myself, gladly. Why do you want to know so badly?" he asked.

"It is the entry directly following the . . . massacre at Kenvard. Yet, it mentions Kenvard. How can that be? There were no survivors aside from myself and my uncle," she said.

"I haven't a clue. All I can say is that, whatever that line says, it details a job that touched a nerve with Lain. If you want an answer, ask him, because the last thing I need is to give him a reason to distrust me," he said.

With the mystery of Lain's note still unsolved, Desmeres managed to bury it under two more days of instruction. By the time they had reached the crushed stone road that led to Grossmer's mines, Myranda felt she knew more about them than the old man himself did. What she understood less were the complexities of the art of haggling. She had always been able to get a decent price when she had to, but things were different on a scale as grand as this. Even as Desmeres laid out every move that she should make and every move he was likely to make in turn, Myranda became more lost.

Finally, Desmeres reluctantly endorsed a very different method.

"Perhaps three days is not long enough to teach you the intricacies of the land purchase, but I assure you, in three minutes I can teach you a surefire way to get this land for a decent price, whether he wants to sell or not. I wouldn't recommend it, though, because it will only work if you have the full amount you intend to pay with on hand. Such is never the case in situations such as this, which is precisely why this method works. Here we are.

"Rule one, always speak directly to the owner. If the underlings try to resist, mention that it is a matter of great importance regarding the price of their land. You won't have to wait long. Rule two, refuse any hospitality. Don't even enter their office. Do all of the negotiating outside. It will take them out of their environment and make it harder to think. Make up an excuse for why, but make it clear that you always do business this way. They may be reluctant to comply, but that brings us to rule three. Keep the money, the full purchase price, close at hand. When he gives you trouble, direct him to a chest and open it. He will cave. At the sight of that much money, anyone would.

"Rule four, set a maximum price--in this case, seventy thousand gold pieces--and if he tries to raise, open the rest of the chests. No one pays all at once. The thought of having all of that money in his hands will push the logic right out of his head. Finally, rule five. Get him out. Get him off of his land as quickly as possible, ideally by the end of the day. A swift cut will not only leave the land totally and completely yours in the shortest amount of time, but the chaos it creates will leave all who remain searching for someone to restore order, thus firmly installing you as the one in charge," he said.

Almost immediately, the carriage came to a stop and Desmeres slipped into the hiding place. A few moments later, the door was opened and the driver announced her.

"Mistress Tesselor," he proclaimed.

At the end of a crushed stone road was a mansion that would not have been out of place in the highest class sections of the north's wealthiest of towns. It was, however, quite out of place on one of only two level portions of an otherwise craggy mountainside. A stout man wearing an assortment of furs that matched one another only insomuch as they were not native to this forest hurried out to meet Myranda as she was helped down from her carriage.

"Mistress Tesselor, what brings you to my humble establishment?" asked Luther Grossmer, owner of the mines and, for that matter, the mountain.

It was clear from his beet-red face that he was unaccustomed to being anything less than the most important person on the mountain, and thus unaccustomed to hurrying.

"What brings me here, Luther, is the fervent hope that I can put this humble establishment under less humble management. My own," she stated, Deacon had made it clear to address him by his first name. The unbalancing effect it had on him was immediately obvious.

"You mean to make an offer for the mines?" Grossmer said, with an eyebrow raised.

"I mean to purchase the mines," Myranda corrected.

"I am certainly willing to discuss the matter, if you would like to join me inside, I've some excellent wine . . ." the owner offered.

"No need for that. We shall discuss it here or not at all," Myranda insisted.

"Surely you would be more comfortable inside. I could--" Grossmer attempted again.

"I am never comfortable beneath a roof I do not own, Luther. Besides, negotiations will be short," Myranda said, getting well into her character and, to her shame, rather enjoying it.

"I would never think of denying you the hospitality of--" the hardy owner persisted.

"Your dogged insistence to bring me indoors is beginning to lead me to believe that there is something about your place of business you do not want me to see. There are other mines, my good sir," Myranda said testily.

"No, no. Of course. This will be fine. In full view of the splendor of my mines. Hatchett, a table and two chairs, and the papers," Grossmer hastily ordered.

A rather slight, snakelike man who had been standing obediently beside his master quickly marched toward the estate. As he approached the door, a second man was trudging down the side path toward what looked to be a large shed of tools. Hatchett motioned for him to come inside immediately, and the two disappeared inside the enormous estate.

"I hadn't expected any offers. In truth, I'd only mentioned a desire to retire in passing. Do you mind telling me how you came to the decision to consider purchasing--" Grossmer attempted to ask.

"It is none of your concern," Myranda snapped quickly. "Suffice to say that little is said in the Northern Alliance that does not reach the ears of a Tesselor."

The two servants were already on their way back. Hatchett was carrying a few sheets of parchment, a pot of ink, and a quill. The other, through a complicated configuration, had managed to hoist a heavy oak table onto his back. Each hand held an ornamented chair, awkwardly positioned to prevent the table from sliding off. He set the chairs down and, with a bit of effort, managed to place the table right side up. It was all that Myranda could do to keep herself from lending a hand.

The laborer turned to go, but the as-yet completely silent assistant to Grossmer merely motioned that he should stay. The stoic worker nodded and stood to the side. He was stooped, and thus seemed a bit shorter than Hatchett. There was the air about him that, if he were to unfold himself, he would be a head and shoulders taller. His clothes looked vaguely as though they had once been used to hold potatoes. There was the hint that they might have been blue at some time in the distant past, but now they were the same color as their wearer--who, in turn, was the same color as the stone he was standing on. There was little doubt that this was a man pleased to be pressed into service in this case simply because it gave him a rare view of the sky, rather than a mine shaft.

Grossmer's chair was maneuvered into place and groaned under his weight as he sat. Hatchett hurriedly did Myranda the same courtesy. She sat in a carefully measured way, so as to make it clear to those around her that she was trying to place as little of her body in contact with the chair as possible, and was quite displeased at the prospect of touching it at all. Pages were laid out carefully on the table before Myranda, small bits of iron ore skillfully pinning them down against the constant mountain wind.

"Now, in the past few years we've seen a fairly stable profit of--" Grossmer began in a practiced way.

"Fifty thousand," Myranda stated.

"I'm sorry?" Grossmer said, searching the pages in front of her for some hint of the figure.

"Fifty thousand is the price," she elaborated.

"With all due respect, mistress, fifty thousand silver is only slightly more than we make in a single year. I could not dream of letting the place go for--" Grossmer objected.

"My good sir, the Tesselors do not deal in silver," Myranda scoffed, doing her best to make it seem as though the mere sound of the word put a terrible taste in her mouth.

"Fifty thousand . . . gold?" Grossmer said, the word gleaming in his eye.

"Of course," Myranda said dismissively.

"That . . . that is a fair offer. But . . ." the proprietor struggled to say.

"You, the strong one, fetch a chest from the back of my carriage. Any one of them will do," Myranda ordered.

The worker glanced at Hatchett, who in turn glanced at Grossmer. A chain of nods sent him on his way. He trudged to the carriage, opened the storage area, and lifted one of the larger chests. His muscles bulged, giving him the look of a thing composed of little more than sinew and bone. His face remained stoic as ever.

"But, you see, the Grossmers have been the owners of this mountainside since the first mine was dug. My blood runs through these veins," he said, chuckling nervously. "A little joke, you see."

"Very little. On the table, please," Myranda instructed.

"Miss?" the worker said doubtfully, the words hissing from overworked lungs.

"On. The. Table," Myranda repeated standing and stepping aside.

The worker carefully placed the chest on the table as lightly as he could manage. The legs of the table creaked, then swiftly gave way, dumping the chest and its contents, a number of gold bars, across the gravel. The papers that were not buried beneath the gold fluttered into the air, but no one save Myranda noticed. All eyes were on the gold.

". . . a very generous offer, yes," Grossmer said, his voice lagging a few syllables behind his mouth. "But . . . I, ah . . . my sons. The . . . the legacy."

Myranda sighed with irritation. "Fine. Sixty thousand. I trust with ten thousand gold pieces, even the set-in-their-ways Grossmers can find a new legacy for themselves."

"Sold," Grossmer said automatically. "I presume that this represents the first payment."

"It does. The carriage contains the rest," Myranda said with a yawn. "Pack your things. I want you off of my property today."

"You brought all of . . . today!?" Grossmer sputtered, his mind at a loss for what to object to first. "I have generations of heirlooms, I have--"

"You have a day to remove them. However, I am a reasonable woman. Whatever you cannot take with you, I shall purchase. Another ten thousand should do, I would say. That makes seventy thousand for your land, your workers, your estate. The servants you may take with you or release. Some of my own will be by shortly. Oh, and send someone to tell the workers that they may have the rest of the day off," Myranda said, grinning as she finally reached the full price.

Grossmer objected no longer. He dismissed the worker and vanished inside. By sunset, everything he was particularly attached to was inside a caravan of carriages normally used for transporting ore. A hasty description of the day to day workings of the mine was delivered, and he was on his way. For the sake of ease, the surplus gold was removed from the chariot Myranda had arrived in and, after Desmeres had surreptitiously moved himself and his cargo into the mansion, it was taken by the Luther Grossmer and his equally corpulent wife. With that, the former owners set off, leaving the land in the hands of Myranda and the others.

#

Myranda watched through the window of the still-remarkably furnished estate as the last of the caravan disappeared from view. When they were gone, she heaved a heavy sigh and collapsed into a stuffed chair.

"Not the best price we've gotten, but overall a remarkable first performance," Desmeres said, startling Myranda with his sudden appearance.

"I sold it for the price you told me to. Besides, there is still twenty thousand gold pieces worth of ingots and such in chests in the bedroom. That should be enough for whatever you've got in mind," Myranda sneered.

"Easy now. I'd hate for all of this role playing to spoil your normally pleasant attitude," Desmeres said, his voice not betraying a hint of sarcasm. "The kitchen is rather well-stocked. Would you care for anything?"

"I'll get it myself . . . later," Myranda said, exhausted.

"See that you do. Big day tomorrow," Desmeres said before disappearing.

Myranda sat for a time in the emptiness of the mansion. She was surrounded by room after room of overly ornamental furnishings. If she had been in higher spirits, she might have realized she was, despite the situation, realizing a dream she'd had as a child. And yet, as she sat in a massive estate, dressed in clothes that no doubt cost a fortune, all she could think of was how empty it felt. As she ate food she could scarcely have imagined as a girl, her mind turned first to Myn, then to Deacon. Her thoughts lingered on him as she drifted off to sleep.

When the morning came, Desmeres awakened her.

"Enjoying the good life?" he asked.

Myranda sighed.

"What next? I'd like to get this whole unpleasantness behind me." She groaned.

"Well, you will be pleased to know that I will be playing the role of lackey today, at least until we can find one of the slaves that we can trust," Desmeres said.

"Slaves?" Myranda asked. "No. They are workers. They are paid a wage."

"Mm. Yes. In case you hadn't noticed, we are on a mountain and the only horses belong to the owner of the mines. Any money that they make is paid back in exchange for . . . well, room and board. Rather a clever system," Desmeres explained.

"How can you say that?" Myranda hissed.

"I said clever, not ethical or moral." Desmeres shrugged.

Myranda shuddered before asking, "Why can you show your face now?"

"Because the slaves are the only ones left. I assure you, no royal proclamations mandating my death will have reached them," Desmeres explained.

The pair bundled up and made their way to the workers' quarters. It was a small city of identical huts. Desmeres recruited a pair of the first workers he encountered to man a cart that handed out the rations for the day, and they set about handing them out.

"What precisely is the purpose of all of this?" Myranda whispered.

"We need to find someone to deliver 'the offer,'" Desmeres replied. "The whole reason for this purchase. We offer their freedom in exchange for a favor."

". . . truly? You are telling me that we cannot simply offer it ourselves?" Myranda asked.

"We can certainly try it," Desmeres said. "In fact, come with me."

The door to one of the huts was opened. The inside was little more than a room with a simple bed against one wall. The man and woman inside jumped to their feet when the well-dressed strangers entered. The two workers gave a sullen nod of acknowledgment as Desmeres ladled a share of stew into the pot over the meager fire and placed a coarse loaf of bread beside it. A single copper coin was handed over in exchange.

"Attention, slaves. If you desire your freedom, it will be provided in exchange for a favor and a single drop of blood," Desmeres announced.

Confusion came to the faces of the slaves.

"That . . . that won't be necessary. The ration is plenty. Paying us for these two days without work is generosity enough," said the man.

"He . . . he's offered you your freedom," Myranda said, momentarily breaking out of character.

"Yes, and a kind offer it is. But the ration is more than enough," the woman replied nervously.

"And if I force you do accept your freedom?" Myranda asked.

"No, please! You are the new owner, are you not? Miss, er, Mistress Tesselor, yes? Please, we will work. We will work gladly. We do not even require the ration for the day!" the woman blurted.

"Yes," agreed the man. "Yes, we did not work for it, we do not deserve it."

Myranda tried twice more to coax them into taking their freedom, but all she succeeded in doing was prompting more vigorous assertions of loyalty. The next three huts resulted in much the same reaction, to varying degrees.

"I . . . I don't understand. They live in squalor. They have no freedom. They barely have enough to survive. Why wouldn't they leap at the chance for freedom--at any price?" Myranda asked quietly.

"Because of where the freedom is coming from. The owners, old or new, would never offer it. To the slaves, this is a test. You are baiting them, trying to goad them into saying something that will let you make an example of them. They wouldn't have trusted their former master. They certainly won't trust a strange new one," Desmeres explained.

"Then how will we find one that will help us?" Myranda asked.

"We don't. We find one who doesn't care. We will know him when we find him," Desmeres replied.

Hut after hut of downtrodden workers attempted to quickly and enthusiastically assure their new master of their happiness and dedication. Finally, they came to a door that did not open immediately. Desmeres raised an eyebrow. This, it appeared, was a good sign.

"Open your door at once!" he barked.

There was a tap of footsteps, and finally the door opened. There was the flash of recognition in the stooping figure's eyes.

"Oh. It is you," he muttered, trudging back to his bed.

"You are the one who carried the chest of gold for me," Myranda recalled.

"And you are the one who made me smash a table with it. Come to dock my wages? Help yourself. Fat lot of difference it makes," the bitter man quipped.

Desmeres smiled. When the food and bread were ladled out, Desmeres had the other workers leave the hut, closing the door behind them.

"And what is this about? Punishment? If you are looking for someone to whip me, Hallern, the fellow two doors down, will be darn willing to lend a hand. Certainly hope you don't intend to use this fop. Let him do the whipping and I'm liable to forget he's even doing it," the man grumbled.

"What is your name, slave?" Desmeres asked.

"Slave, is it? Are we using the proper term now? I suppose you'll be wanting the coppers back then," he replied.

"Name!" he ordered.

"Udo," he said.

"Udo, are you happy here?" Desmeres asked.

"Happy as I can be," he remarked, in a tone that made it abundantly clear how he truly felt.

"Would you like to get out?" Desmeres asked.

"Why? You offering?" he asked, assuming a mock enthusiasm. "Golly, yes, master. I truly would love to escape. Thank you so much for asking."

"Right. Have a look around, Udo. How many guards to do you see? How many other owners? How many folks besides slaves like yourself?" Desmeres asked.

"None," Udo said.

"And what does that mean to you?" Desmeres prodded.

"It means either you are stupid or you are poor," Udo said.

"If you know there are no guards to stop you, why don't you just run away?"

"Getting hunted down by whatever bloodthirsty bounty hunters you're bound to hire for running out on that little pit of debt the fellow before you put us in doesn't strike me as an improvement."

"My employer here owns the debts now."

"Well she'd be the one doing the hiring then. Look, as much as I enjoy the conversation, I assume you'll be wanting me to work tomorrow, and if it is the same to you, I'd like some rest."

"Right, then. He's the one. Udo is it?" Desmeres decided.

Carefully leafing through a stack of pages he'd been carrying in a bag, he selected one.

"Udo, can you read?" he asked.

"Not as such," he said.

"Can you recognize your name?" Desmeres continued.

"Yeah," he replied.

"There, on that page, is your name. It says you owe seven silver coins," Desmeres explained.

"Lovely. I'll have it for you in a few years, assuming I don't need to eat or sleep till then," he sneered.

Desmeres tore the page up.

"What . . . what's that about?" Udo asked.

"You no longer have a debt. You have nothing to tie you here," he said.

"There's . . . there's other papers like that, yeah? This is a trick, yeah?" Udo said, emotion showing for the first time in his voice.

"Not that you'd believe me, but no, that is the only record of your debt," Desmeres explained. "Listen, my employer here is, well, not the generous sort, but the sort who has more unique tastes in labor. A lifetime of servitude is all well and good, but a single, legitimate favor at just the right time, that's something else. Never far from a friend, understand?"

"Oh, I understand, she's off her head," Udo said, glancing at her. "No offense. A nice sort of off her head."

"As though I honestly cared what you think," Myranda quipped quickly, not certain that she was supposed to leave character yet.

"The wealthy use the word eccentric," Desmeres corrected. "Regardless. What it boils down to is this. We will be leaving within the week. At the end of that time we expect to hear from every last one of you. There will be no work until then. Your options are simple. Come to us and agree to do my employer here a single favor, with a drop of blood in lieu of a signature on a contract, and you shall have your choice of either a share of this mine to continue your life here, or enough gold to start your life elsewhere."

With that, Desmeres opened the door and led Myranda out.

"You can do the rest of the rationing alone, workers. The mistress has grown weary of the tour," Desmeres instructed.

Myranda and Desmeres marched off toward the manor. When the others had returned to the task, she turned to him.

"Now what?" she asked.

"Now we wait. It doesn't usually take more than three days," Desmeres said.

"Just like that? He'll convince the rest?" she asked.

"Just like that," he replied.

The next few days were the very definition of tedium. Aside from a delivery of supplies and a supply caravan that had to be turned away due to the lack of recent work, the time was utterly filled with Desmeres tracing out two hundred names on the pages of a book. On the fourth day, there was a knock on the door. Desmeres answered it.

"I think . . . I think we've all decided," Udo said uncertainly.

Outside there were barely a dozen other slaves, likely the only others that shared Udo's apathy about life in general. Desmeres found their names, pricked their fingers, and rattled off a well-practiced speech.

"There will come a time when you will hear a voice, but not see a face. The voice will remind you of this day, the day when you were given your freedom in exchange for a favor. On that day, whether it comes today or in a generation, you will repay the debt if it is within your power. You will make your sons and daughters aware of the debt, and instruct them to do the same, for when you pass on, the debt passes to them. Understood?" Desmeres said.

This would invariably result in a wide-eyed nod. Those who wished to stay were given a slip of paper entitling them to a portion of the mine. Those wishing to leave were given a handful of coins. Gold coins. Then each was given the paper signifying their debt. In roughly the time it took for a pair of tired people to sprint to the huts, a second small group came to collect. The groups grew and compounded in size and enthusiasm as the promise of freedom and the spark of greed overcame their better judgment.

Strangely, a handful of the freed slaves lingered just outside the door, faces white as ghosts, dutifully putting to rest anything that seemed to be the beginnings of a riot. Before the sun had set on that fourth day, all of the slaves were accounted for. As night descended, the distant sounds of celebration took the place of the silence and howling of winds that had marked each night before.

"Why were those slaves keeping the peace of their own accord?" Myranda asked, still mystified by how smoothly the mad enterprise had gone.

"Lain called for the debt to be repaid immediately," Desmeres explained.

"But . . . how? I didn't see him," Myranda asked.

"He's an assassin. If he doesn't want to be seen, he won't be. And when you hear a ghost whisper an order in your ear and inform you that your life debt needs to be repaid, you tend to find yourself more eager to please than to find out what the penalty for failure is," he said.

A few days passed and, now working for themselves, a fair amount of the workers returned to the mines. Desmeres traced out a few official-looking documents that would ward off the authorities who might doubt the highly dubious story the freed men and women would tell. Myranda was left mainly with boredom and the soul-searing images of suffering she'd seen in her brief time among the enslaved to pass the time. She tried to imagine Lain in a similar situation, with the added stigma of being hated by his fellow slaves. With this piece to the puzzle, a large part of who he was fell into place.

#

It was not until a full week had passed that the monotony was broken.

"We need to move--now!" Desmeres said, bursting into the dining room.

"What? Why?" Myranda asked, but Desmeres only rushed out the door.

The sun was just dropping below the horizon as Myranda rushed to the wagon her friend had run to. Desmeres had unhooked two of the horses, and one of them was saddled and ready.

"We have problems. An old friend of mine is about to pay us a visit," he said.

"Who?" she asked.

"Arden. He calls himself a bounty hunter, but headhunter is more appropriate. That tends to be the only part he brings back. He is one of those 'other agents' I told you about, the ones who want you as badly as we do and are not so picky about the state you are in when they receive you. What is worse, he has an escort. Soldiers. That means he is sanctioned by the military and will have all of the authority he needs to search this whole place. We cannot let him see you. More importantly, we cannot let them see me, because even if I wasn't on the 'kill on sight' list, he would put a knife in my back," he said, trying to fit a saddle onto the second.

"Why?" she asked.

"I have a contact at his place of business that feeds me the higher profile jobs he gets. If they are worth it, I put Lain on the trail and claim the reward out from under him. He knows I’m behind it. I cannot allow him to get his revenge on the verge of my greatest success," he said.

"Why would he come here?" she asked.

"How should I know? The man is a fool. He can barely form a sentence. He gets all of his information by finding someone he suspects knows something and clubbing them until they tell him. Probably the blasted supply wagons we turned away. I knew I should have delayed this whole madness until directly following a filled order," he answered, struggling with an uncooperative buckle. "The escort has got me worried. They think they are going to find someone important here. But who? Not that it matters--the fact is, if we don't get out of here now, they are going to find quite a few very important . . ."

Desmeres's eyes were locked on a faint gray dust cloud being kicked up by what must have been a half-dozen horses as they approached along the road. The only road.

"No. Damn it! We are in the mountains, no cover for miles! If we run now, they will certainly follow, and there is no way we will outrun chargers on draft horses. We have no options. Myranda, I hope you have learned your role well, because when they come here, you are going to have to be very convincing," he said, rushing to the house.

"But . . ." she said.

"No buts! Confidence and arrogance. I will be in the basement . . . no, they will look there first . . . the pantry. Do not let them look in the pantry. Good luck, for both of our sakes. If you fail, Lain will have quite a job ahead of him," Desmeres called before slipping inside.

Myranda readied herself and entered the house. She had managed to fool everyone thus far. Besides, this Arden fellow was a fool. There was no cause for concern. She simply had to prepare for any questions that they might have. There were no house servants. That would need to be explained. The slaves were at rest. That would surely draw curiosity. So long as she had the answers, this would be simple.

At least, that is what Myranda repeated in her head until the very moment that a harsh knock at the door came. She rushed to the door, but stopped. No. Alexia would never open the door herself. She hurried instead to the chair at the head of the table in the dining room. A second knock came, more insistent than the last. She ignored it. A third came, shaking the door on its hinges.

"I am not to be disturbed!" she shouted in a scolding tone.

"Official Alliance Army business," barked a voice.

"I am not taking visitors today," she dismissed.

"You! Open this door!" came an order.

"I most certainly will--" Myranda began to object.

It would appear that the order was not directed at her, as a massive blow forced the door open. A huge, heavily-armored man stepped aside to reveal the man who had issued the command. He was not familiar, but his armor was. He was Elite, and thus one of the few people who might know her on sight. She wondered for a moment whether this was a good thing or a bad. He could take her to Trigorah and help her to begin her task in earnest, or he could identify her for Arden to behead. For now, she would play the character--at least until she was sure she would be safe.

As he stepped inside, Myranda pushed any fear she had aside and sprang to her feet.

"How dare you? With whom do you suppose you are dealing?" Myranda raged.

The Elite drew his sword and directed it at her. Myranda stopped short of the blade and conjured what she hoped was convincing look of anger and disbelief.

"You! You draw your weapon before me? Alexia Adrianna Tesselor?" she fumed.

The Elite's expression changed from one of anger to one of regret as he quickly sheathed his weapon.

"A thousand pardons, Madam--" he began.

"Mistress!" she corrected.

"Mistress Tesselor. I--" he began again.

"There is no use trying to explain yourself. There can be no excuse for what you have done. And an Elite, no less. If you are the best that our army can offer, then I weep for the future. Your sorry hide cheapens my uncle's superbly crafted armor. Leave this place," Myranda commanded.

"I can't, mistress. I am under orders from General Teloran herself. I am to--" he stated hurriedly, unsuccessfully attempting to avoid interruption.

"Trigorah? My dear boy, I know Trigorah, and she knows better than to do something as foolish as this," Myranda said, suddenly getting a thought. "Is she about?"

"No, mistress, she--" he half answered.

"Then do not speak to me of her orders. Do you actually expect me to take your word for truth? Show me a writ! Show me a signed and sealed order for you to force yourself upon my recently purchased dwelling and physically accost me!" she screamed with mounting anger.

The Elite scurried off like a struck hound, grumbling an order to the brute who had forced the door to close it. Myranda took a deep breath. Her heart was racing. She briefly marveled at the fact that a simple name was all that was needed to give her the power to intimidate an Elite, a man who was treated as a god normally.

She turned back to the door when a commotion was heard outside. The Elite was having a very spirited discussion with a man who was somehow even larger and stronger-looking than the one standing at attention just outside the doorway. He carried a thin-handled black halberd with a large bluish crystal set in the blade. The weapon didn't suit him. It was elegant, while everything else about him seemed to bring new meaning to the word barbaric. The armor he wore was, to say the least, excessive. There was an incomplete and rather ill-fitting suit of plate mail layered atop a rancid-looking leather under-fitting. As he moved, a chain mail shirt against his skin revealed that he was at least as foolish as he was war-minded. He turned to the house and began to storm toward her. This had to be Arden. Myranda prepared herself to deliver another tirade. The powerful man pushed inside.

"I've already told your idiot partner that I will not allow so much as a question without a writ," Myranda said.

The man reached into his bag and pulled out a scroll of high quality paper sealed with the official crest of the king pressed into wax. Myranda reluctantly took the paper and broke the seal. Unrolling it revealed line after line of very official language detailing all that the holder of the document was permitted to do. Disturbingly high on the list of permissions was the right to kill any person or persons who prevented the execution of duty. She placed the scroll back into the ham-sized hand extended before her. It was crumpled and stuffed unceremoniously back into the bag.

She made the mistake of looking him in the face. It would not have been out of place on a bear. Facial hair had grown wild into a matted beard with a fair accumulation of his last meal in it. His eyebrows were dense, bushy things, connected in the middle. Peering out from beneath them were a pair of undersized, enraged eyes.

"Very well. I suppose I can spare a moment or two," Myranda said, in as unconcerned a manner as she could muster.

"So, you're one o' those Tesselors. What're you doin' here?" he asked in a gruff voice.

Somehow he seemed to radiate hatred with his gaze. It was a heroic fight to keep from trembling.

"I am the new owner of this establishment," she said.

"What do you want with a bunch a mines for?" he asked.

"I 'want with a bunch a mines' because my uncle, the fellow who puts that armor on those soldiers' backs, grew weary of paying hand over fist for ore he could just as easily have for free," she said mockingly.

"No one out there is working. Slaves're supposed ta work," he said.

"As should be clear from the deplorable state of this house, the previous owner was terrible at managing this place. I am currently attempting to decide whether or not I will need to replace all of the workers. Until I decide they are capable, I do not want to risk one of those idiots collapsing a shaft or some such," she said.

His weak-minded manner of speech made her feel a bit safer. If his brain was as muddled as his mouth would make it seem, there was little chance he would see through her disguise. Any comfort she had taken, though, was lost when he started poking at her shoulder. He used only two fingers, but the offending digits combined were thicker than her wrist.

"You use big words. All o' you rich people use real big words. You tryin' ta make me feel dumb?" he accused.

Myranda swallowed hard. She couldn't help but feel she was digging her own grave, but with nothing left but the shovel she used, she had no recourse to continue digging.

"How dare you touch me? I am a Tesselor!" she declared. She hoped that she was the only one to notice the tremor in her voice.

She wasn't. Slowly, a look of clarity came to his eyes. It seemed even more out of place than the elegant weapon.

"You are familiar. In the fear--I can see it. But who?" he said. There was an unusual smoothness and an unmistakable intellect behind his words.

"I have told you, I am Alexia A--" she began, forcing the fear aside.

"Yes, yes, so I've heard. You play the part well, but it is most assuredly not so. Blast, if I could only remember. I was looking in the wrong place. Need to check again. It was something with an 'M'," he said, almost dismissively, as though he was lost in thought. He tapped the end of the halberd on the ground.

A different kind of fear coursed through her now. The fear of discovery. This man, as far as he knew, was advancing very threateningly on a completely innocent person. If he realized that she was wanted, there would be no escaping him. Myranda's heart fluttered in her throat as she pushed forward with the act.

"What are you doing here!? I feel I have answered my share of questions and it is high time you answered some of mine," she said.

The clarity and intellect dropped away.

"What am I doin' here? I was sent here by Gen'ral Teloran. She said I was ta see what was goin' on here. Said that when places like this get sold quick, some fella named Desmee-res or somethin' is behind it. Said he would be tough ta beat, might have a tough bodyguard," he said.

He walked to the door. For a moment, Myranda thought he might be leaving. Instead, he closed the damaged door and propped a chair against it to keep it shut. The burning in the pit of her stomach flared unbearably. Whatever he had in mind, he didn't want the other soldiers to see.

"Well, as you can plainly see, there is no person by that name here, nor is there a bodyguard," she said.

"Oh, I see that. No bodyguard. And here you are, just like all o' the other rich people. Lookin' down yer nose. Usin' yer big words. And no one ta fight yer fight for you," he said, approaching her menacingly.

"I don't know what you are thinking, but you can just stop now. I am a Tesselor. Do you have any idea what I can do to you? What I can have done to you?" she threatened in as convincing a way as possible, backing away until she reached the wall.

"They won't do nothin' 'til you say, and you won't be sayin' nothin'," he said, pressing the pole of the halberd to her throat. "You won't be sayin' nothin'."

Myranda managed a gasp before her air was cut off. She struggled and squirmed. Her mind raced as she fought helplessly against the weapon. Behind her, just on the other side of the wall, was Desmeres. She didn't know him very well, but what she did know of him suggested that he would probably stay hidden rather than offer aid. This was up to her. She tried to pull the tattered and panicked remains of her mind together. She'd learned magic, hadn't she? It hadn't been just a dream, was it? Her staff was on the table. In the state her mind was in, there wouldn't be much she could do without it.

Just as the gulp of air was almost spent, Myranda managed to cast a spell of fire on the handle of the halberd where the monstrous man gripped it. Her mind was in a frenzy as she tried to channel her desperation into the spell. There was a hideous sizzle and a horrifying smell, but barely any reaction from Arden. Slowly a smile came to his face.

"Magic? Ha! Pain? Ha! Magic is nothing. Pain I can ignore. Goodbye," he said, pushing the pole harder.

The world began to fade. She released the spell. The black metal of the halberd was beginning to burn her neck, and she needed what little of her mind was left to stay conscious. Her vision darkened. Struggling was becoming more difficult. Distantly, she heard a shuffle of feet. Desmeres had finally decided to take action. He rushed behind the hulking man, brandishing a rather meager-looking dagger. With a neat thrust he struck at Arden's back.

A lesser blade would have plinked uselessly off of the thick plate armor, but this was one of Desmeres's masterpieces. The narrow, sturdy point pierced the plate, the leather, the mail, and easily an inch of flesh before its momentum gave out. This surely crossed the threshold of pain to be ignored and injury to be acknowledged. Sure enough, Arden released the halberd with one hand and, with speed and power that even out of this behemoth seemed surprising, knocked Myranda's would-be rescuer hurtling across the room and into a wall. The brief decrease in pressure against her throat allowed Myranda a second gasp and a few more moments of life.

She renewed her struggles and searched her mind for something else that might ward off her attacker. Nothing was forthcoming, and it was not long before she sensed the world slipping away from her again. In a last, desperate effort, she tried to pry his fingers away from the weapon. As soon as her left hand touched his right, he pulled quickly back. Myranda drew in a long, pained breath. She scrambled away, or tried to, but the same absurd speed that he had displayed before reappeared. In the blink of an eye, his expression turned from shock to anger and she felt his hand latch onto her shoulder. His grip was like a vice. She fell to one knee and cried out. In the distance, almost immediately, she heard the shatter of glass and rising wind.

A flash of red and gold streaked across the room and collided with the monstrous man. He was staggered by the clash, and suddenly he could be heard grunting in anger. Myranda crawled to the table and clutched her staff. Jumping to her feet, she turned. Myn was there, her jaws clamped down on Arden's leg. The teeth couldn't pierce through the armor, but the pressure was more than enough to cause pain that would cripple a normal man. This brute seemed unaffected, merely frustrated by the sprightly creature's heroic effort to both evade his attacks and throw off his balance. Finally, the bounty hunter caught the little dragon by the neck.

"You put her down!" Myranda ordered.

She held her staff at the ready, and her mind equally so. Arden threw the dragon with all of his unnatural might. The little creature might have been injured, had she not struck the recently recovered Desmeres first. The impact sent them both flying backward and into a cabinet filled with expensive plates. Myranda's anger flared. There was no point in keeping up the charade now. He would kill her regardless. She summoned to mind a spell, a quick burst of wind. It would bring this man quickly to the ground. Once he was down, she would have more options, provided she could keep him there.

Myranda knew that she was far from an experienced spell-caster, and this situation called for the one thing she had yet to manage--speed. If this spell was to do her any good at all, she would have to put all she had into it to ensure it would have the strength it needed in the time she had. There were two things she failed to factor in as she poured her mind like a waterfall into the task. The first was the fact that she was terrified, angry, and desperate. She had not yet learned the discipline to keep these emotions from fueling the spell. Second, the staff she held had been altered by Desmeres.

The result was, to say the least, sufficient. The wind tore through the room with the scream of a banshee, pulling in windows and tearing open doors. When it struck Arden, he was not merely knocked down, he was launched. His massive body soared across the room and shattered the chair propping the door closed, as well as the door itself. The exit was not a clean one, as the tumbling body struck and splintered the door frame. Arden spiraled through the night air and rolled to a stop fifty paces from the doorway.

Myranda was trembling from the exertion and the emotion of what had just transpired. She normally would be helplessly spent after the monumental spell she cast, but still she stood--winded and dizzied, but steady. Slowly, cautiously, she walked through the doorway. Myn limped quickly after her. Desmeres followed on his hands and knees. For a long moment, all was still. The night itself seemed to hold its breath.

Impossibly, Arden stirred. First, he rolled to his knees, then stumbled to his feet. He stooped to retrieve the halberd that landed nearby. Myranda held still, waiting for what was next. With the weapon in hand, he stood and turned to her. One arm hung horribly twisted. Calmly, almost serenely, he popped it back into place with a wet snap audible even from the doorway where Myranda stood. Once he was recovered, Arden's face shifted quickly into a grimace of fury and hatred.

"Kill them! Kill them all! I order you to kill these traitors!" he howled.

The Elites! She had forgotten that he'd had an escort. Myranda's eyes darted all about. No men charged her. None even stood. Here and there, amid a splash of crimson, lay a lifeless soldier. Myranda was both horrified and relieved by the sight. Lain had not been idle while Arden had been inside. He'd eliminated the entirety of the escort. When the bounty hunter realized that no help would come, the unnervingly serene expression came to his face once again. His eyes took on the clear, keen, intellectual look they had shown earlier.

"Yes, yes. Things are moving, aren't they? The coming months will be quite interesting indeed. I am afraid I must withdraw for the time being. One of you has got a nasty sting that I was ill prepared for. Not to worry--the general will be by shortly to collect," he said, turning to walk away.

"Oh no she won't!" Desmeres called out, suddenly finding the strength to stand. He 'rushed' at the warrior, though his hobbling gait was anything but swift.

Lain's silent appearance was considerably more threatening, Desmeres's bravery intended only to conceal it. He swept silently across the courtyard toward Arden, seemingly from nowhere, as the savage wind continued to tear across the plain. Arden did not see him, he couldn't have, but still he raised the halberd. The gem mounted in the blade darkened, almost seeming to invite the black of night inside. He swung the weapon in a wide arc. The gem left a dark scar across the air in front of him. Quickly, the streak of black rippled like a wave through the courtyard, growing wider and thicker as it moved. By the time it reached Lain, it was like a wall.

Lain stopped short and held his sword defensively. The runes scribed on the blade burned like embers and a narrow slice of the black wave dispersed away, though not quite enough for Lain to escape unscathed. Myn, knowing that her teeth and claws would have no effect on this, dove behind Myranda for protection. The young sorceress tried to throw up a hasty shield spell and brandished the staff as she had seen Lain do. The black splashed against the pale, half-cast shield, easily shattering it. Her staff deflected a bit more, leaving only a wisp of black that licked across her leg.

The sensation was entirely new to her--and agonizing. Everywhere the black touched felt cold and numb, unwilling to support her weight. Deeper, beyond her body and into her soul, came a searing pain, like the black was eating away at her very spirit. Unlike a normal wound that could be pushed aside, this pain seemed to seize her mind and would not let go. It was blinding.

Slowly the affliction released her, though the numbness did not. Myranda opened her eyes to find that she had fallen to the ground. Myn, who had escaped the black wave, was on top of her, lavishing the affection upon her that she had been unable to show since the young girl had had to become a Tesselor. When the tide of black subsided, Arden was gone. Lain, seemingly unaffected by the onslaught, moved quickly inside the mansion. Desmeres had ducked inside earlier and similarly was unharmed. He and Myn helped Myranda inside. They huddled into the sitting room, the first room that had a door to lock, and tried to recover.

#

"Well, Arden has picked up some new tricks," Desmeres said, brushing himself off as the intensity of the last few moments eased. "I didn't think him capable of casting a spell. It must be the new weapon. Where in the world did he find a weapon that can do an active mystical attack? I haven't even found a way to do that!" Desmeres spoke as lightly as though he were simply making conversation, turning to Myranda. "Good work with your spell, by the way. I wouldn't have thought you'd have it in you."

"Your weapons need work," said Lain.

Now that they were away from prying eyes, it was clear to see that while it had seemed he had escaped injury, such was not the case. One of his hands was curled like a dead spider and was shaking involuntarily. The fact that he was sitting betrayed something wrong with his legs as well. Desmeres launched into a defense of his weapon treatments, offering various excuses for the incomplete protection from the spell, though eventually admitting he would have to continue research in those areas. Myranda was about to offer Lain help when she realized that she had yet to deal with her own impairment, and was not sure how to do so. She set her mind to this. As she did, Lain closed his eyes. His breathing slowed, indeed, nearly stopped. Very slowly the shaking subsided and his fingers uncurled. By the time Myranda had managed to restore feeling to her own leg, Lain had recovered fully, and his breathing was beginning to return to normal.

"We haven't much time to lick our wounds, I am afraid," Desmeres said, looking nervously out the window. "Whatever managed to spirit Arden away so quickly could certainly--"

There was a knock at the sitting room door. Instantly, Lain slipped out the back door; Desmeres followed, whispering a quick recommendation that she answer it and call for help if it was trouble. Myn was coaxed from the room. Myranda picked up her staff and unsteadily approached the door. At this point, she didn't know what to expect on the other side. Holding the crystal at eye level and readying a spell in her mind, she pulled the door open. It was Udo.

"Mistress Tesselor, what happened here! There are dead soldiers all over, the entrance is a shambles," Udo said.

"Udo," she said with relief. "Are you alone?"

"Yes," he said.

"Come in. Please," she said.

He did so, and she closed the door behind him.

"Udo. I . . . I have to go," she said.

"That much I might have guessed, Mistress Tesselor," he replied.

"There was . . . I don't . . . it was the Red Shadow," she said, formulating a likely tale in her head.

"The Red Shadow, Mistress?" he said, stunned.

"Yes, he . . . he came to kill me. The Elites had followed and fought valiantly, eventually fending him off at the expense of their lives," she said, hoping that keeping it short and simple would keep it believable.

"I didn't think he would come someplace like this," he said.

"Where a Tesselor can be found, that monster is quite likely to follow. I must leave--now, before he returns. Do you suppose that you can handle this place by yourself?" she said.

"Well, I don't know, I--" he answered.

"I know you can. Take care of these people, and yourself. Now go," she said.

It was by far the worst she'd done thus far at maintaining an image of wealthy superiority, but in the state she was in, it was quite the best she could manage. When he had left with more questions than answers, Desmeres, Myn, and Lain returned.

"Clever use of Lain's alias, but points off for affection and concern. At any rate, we need to be as far from here as possible before sunrise," Desmeres said.

"But where will we go?" she asked.

"I might have a safe house near here that is still standing. It is our best hope," he said.

"But--it is Trigorah that is coming! Perhaps you could reason with her. She might be able to get you your money. Then I could join her and--" Myranda said.

"Out of the question. That woman is going to be seeing red when she arrives, most of which has been spilled from the veins of her Elites. She will be utterly unreasonable. No, I am afraid that you will have to come with us," he said, matter-of-factly, though in essence this was a threat of kidnapping.

If Myranda had any more energy, she might have argued, but after the clash all she wanted was to get as far from this place as possible. She grabbed the simple cloth bag she'd brought with her, changed back into the filthy but less conspicuous clothes within, found a few horses, and was off. Myn and Lain chose to run. They had made a brief attempt to locate the horses that the soldiers had ridden in on, but the battle had caused them to run off, so they reluctantly chose the only other ones available. Thanks to the fact that the horses were draft horses, bred for strength rather than speed, the pair on foot was quite able to keep pace.

They traveled east. Thoughts rushed through Myranda's mind as she trailed Desmeres's horse. A strong wind stirred the loose snow around them as they traveled, yet in the distance, both ahead and behind, all seemed still. Why did it seem to follow them? The Elites. Had Lain not killed them, they would assuredly have killed her. After all, they were with Arden, and were willing to allow him to do the same. She had convinced herself that the Elites, at the very least, knew of her role in the discovery of the other Chosen and would help her. Now it would seem that Trigorah alone knew.

Myranda wondered . . . did she really? Or was all of this a delusion and the Army wanted her for another reason entirely? Indeed, did she even matter? She had done nothing of value in discovering the others since she helped conjure the other Chosen One, and that had been Lain's doing, not hers. Was it a coincidence?

#

Little did Myranda know she was not the only one concerned with her place in the world. In a tiny darkened room, in the depths of a trance, Deacon struggled over the same dilemma. He was staring longingly into the motionless heart of a crystal in the palm of his hand. Many days ago, he had delved through his writings and refreshed his memory on every aspect of the spell called Distance Seeing. Much to his despair, this spell was as hindered by the confounding influence of the mountain as most others.

Regardless of the monumental effort he'd put into catching even a glimpse of Myranda, he found it impossible to locate her. He spoke at length with anyone and everyone who might know more than he, and the only piece of information that was even remotely helpful came from the mouth of the Elder herself. If he wished to see someone through the impenetrable veil of the mountain, the target would have to make itself visible, like a beacon in the night.

The problem with this solution was that there was no way for Myranda to know that he was trying to find her. The only way that he would be able to see her would be if she were to execute some powerful spell at the very moment that he was searching. From his point of view, this left only one option. He must look for her at all times, dedicating a small part of his mind to probing the outside world.

This slowed his work immensely. Days passed with no benefit, but he remained vigilant. Finally, he was rewarded. A twinge at the back of his mind alerted him that there was something to see. He plunged his mind entirely to the task of seeking it out. Slowly, a flickering image formed. At first he thought he had made a mistake. The woman he saw was dressed in a manner he had only heard of. Elegant--even extravagant--clothes. It was not until the image reached its peak of clarity that he was certain that it was Myranda he saw. She was pinned to a wall, her life in danger.

As she faded, so did the image. He watched anxiously as she recovered and struck back, and finally was struck by a strange magic he had never before witnessed. The image faded with Myranda on the ground, joined by Myn and a man he did not recognize. When it did not return, he released the spell.

He had hoped that seeing her again would ease his troubled mind, but to see her in peril and not know if she had escaped only increased the burning. The few apprentices who studied the prophecy were not convinced that Myranda's purpose was as she thought. Opinions were split down the middle as to whether she was more or less important than she supposed, and few agreed upon the degree.

Deacon sat in the darkness and thought. He could not live like this. There had to be a solution. As always, he turned to his books. There he would find something. There was always something. He scanned page after page of volume after volume, stopping only when the sun appeared to the east. An unrested mind did no good.

#

With the sky lightening, the group could not afford to travel any further. In order to improve their odds of escaping detection, they had let the horses free and continued on foot for the last few hours of night. They now found themselves at the center of a treeless plain. There was no point in the plain that could not be seen from one of the many nearby roads. The best cover that they could manage was a low point between two gentle hills. As long as no patrols passed on the western road, they had a chance to remain unseen. There would be no dinner that night. At least, not for Myranda. They couldn't risk a fire, and she couldn't eat meat raw as Myn and Lain did.

The day was spent lying on the cold, snowy ground, trying her best to sleep. She was left once again with the inadequate robe from Entwell, now without even the stolen blanket for warmth, which, combined with the wind that had yet to relent, made sleep all but impossible. Again, this seemed to be a problem only for her. Lain, as usual, did without sleep entirely, as did Desmeres. Myn took up her usual spot and dropped off to sleep instantly. Myranda gave up the fight for sleep and, much to Myn's dismay, joined Desmeres, who was crouched watching the horizon. He seemed to be smiling, an odd reaction given the circumstances.

"What could you possibly be happy about?" she asked.

"There is something on the way that may lend us a hand," he said.

"A friend? I didn't think you had any," she said.

"I said something, not someone," he said.

Myranda glanced about. She couldn't see anything helpful, but she did see something ominous. It was something in the color of the sky, and in the increasing sting of the wind.

"A blizzard is coming," she said nervously.

"Exactly. We will be safe in a blizzard," he said.

"Safe!" she exclaimed, stifling a cry of disbelief. "We are in the middle of a plain, no shelter in sight! How will we be safe?"

"Safe from detection. It would take a lunatic, a fanatic, or an idiot to try to hunt us down in a blizzard. We might even be able to move across a road without being seen," he said.

Myranda thought of lecturing him on the dangers that staying still would entail, let alone traveling, but she knew that her words would fall on deaf ears. She decided to focus on her own survival instead. She pulled to mind a handful of spells that might do something to warm her when the blizzard appeared.

It was not long before the storm began, suddenly and intensely. There was a whipping wind and a wall of snow. Against all logic, the group began to move on. The violent wind, as though it had a devilish mind of its own, blew directly in their faces, slowing their already snail-like pace. Lain's face, or what she could see of it through the snow, seemed to have a minor look of concern. It was barely noticeable, but no emotion left much of a mark on him since he had abandoned the Leo act for his stoic self.

"Keep an eye behind us!" Lain ordered through the piercing wail of the wind.

"Why? There is nothing there but snow. The same as in front of us and on all other sides!" Myranda replied irritably. She stabbed her staff half of its length into the snow and used it as leverage to take another step.

Despite the meager precautions she had taken against it, the cold had robbed her of most of the feeling in her face and limbs. As a lifelong resident of the north, she knew the difference between annoying cold and dangerous cold. The storm had crossed the line. A few minutes more and the cold would do damage. A few minutes after that and the damage would be permanent. Images flashed in her mind of the foolhardy hunters she had known, and the incomplete hands that served as a reminder of just how foolhardy they had been.

Periodically, she would cast a spell she had pieced together from Solomon's teachings to warm her enough to continue for a few more minutes of travel. Myn would puff a few breaths of flame for much the same effect. Desmeres made do with a sip from a flask he carried, and Lain . . . Lain simply made do.

The fresh blanket of snow was already getting thick. It was impossible to tell in just what direction they were heading. Every way they looked returned the same white maelstrom. Even the veritable sixth sense for direction that Myranda had picked up from her life of travel in the sunless north seemed to desert her. Their only hope to stay heading in the correct direction was to keep going straight into the wind. That meant trudging through drifts rather than walking around them. Before long, every step was an effort.

"How far to the safe house?" she cried out to Desmeres, trying to resist the urge to gulp the freezing air with her mouth. One pure breath of air this cold would ruin her lungs.

"I think that it is a small distance down the road at the end of this plain. If we were still on horseback, we might have reached it in half a day! Now . . ." He trailed off. Even his impenetrable confidence seemed to be wavering.

"Now we are going to die out here!" she yelled.

"Now, now, we are not going to die!" he called back. The tone of his voice made it seem as though he was trying to convince himself. He was rummaging for something in the pockets of his jacket.

"She will not die, because my orders are to take her alive," came a voice from behind them.

There behind them was General Teloran. She stood tall, with the ageless grace and unmarred beauty shared by all elves, dressed in her full Elite armor. Only the helmet was missing, torn away by Myn in a prior encounter and not replaced. The wind, coming from in front of them, had carried no trace of her scent. The snow and wind had concealed her approach.

A thousand questions flooded the minds of the group. Whether it was fanaticism, lunacy, or idiocy that motivated her, Trigorah had followed. The faintly glowing gems set in the blade of her sword flickered, signifying that some sorcery had provided the means. For a moment, only the whistling of the wind could be heard as all present stood anxiously waiting. The next sound was the hiss of Lain's sword as he drew it free. He knew not to wait for threats, for bargaining, for trickery. The pair simply clashed.

Swordplay between two greater masters was a sight seldom seen, and it moved at a speed difficult to imagine. Weapons were a blur as they pushed each other's skills to the limit. Slowly, obscured by the wind, snow, and sheer speed of the combat, the gems on the sword seemed to be gaining in radiance.

"Keep moving! She is here for you!" Desmeres ordered as he pulled his dagger from its sheath with one hand while he continued to rummage in his pocket with the other.

"But we can end this now!" Myranda cried. "There doesn't have to be any more fighting!"

Desmeres ignored her and cautiously approached the battle. He stayed a few steps away, as though he was waiting for something. Then there was a flash. The mystic energies that had been building in Trigorah’s sword were released in a bolt. Lain expertly maneuvered his sword to block the attack, but the white-blue bolt seemed to shatter on contact with the enchanted blade. Shards of light scattered in all directions. A fair amount struck Lain, searing the white clothes he wore black. Only a slight tremor in his limbs and a cringe on his face betrayed the savage pain that was tearing though his body. He took a step back as Trigorah took a hand from the blade and put it behind her back. Desmeres quickly took Lain's place. His small dagger seemed no match for the sword, but Trigorah readied her weapon as though an entire army faced her.

"Desmeres. I thought you were more intelligent than this. To be seen with that beast. He is an enemy of the state. Even if there was not a standing order for your death, I should kill you for associating with him," she said.

"You can try," he said, pulling out a small vial from his pocket. At the sight of it, she backed away several steps.

"She is ours. It is treason to interfere with the actions of the Alliance Army. Do not think that you can bargain your way out of this," she warned, raising her weapon from a defensive position to an offensive one.

"Oh, the bargaining is already done. The price is set. I am simply awaiting payment. By now you should know our policy. If you send a messenger with a knife in its hand and no gold, we send it back with a knife in its back and no prisoner," he said, breaking the top off of the vial with the dagger. "And I don't see any gold."

The contents of the vial fizzed viciously. Whatever it was that he threatened her with, it had evil-smelling fumes that fought through even the powerful wind to fairly scald the noses of friend and foe alike. In one smooth motion, Trigorah's other hand came back into view. In the palm was one of the crystals that had nearly killed them last time.

"I've got more men nearby. All I care about is my mission, and my mission is the girl. I don't care if you, the dragon, or the malthrope die. I may even get killed in the blast. So long as the girl survives, my men will find her," Trigorah said.

"Fine then. Let us just see whose toys are more lethal, the Army's or mine," he said.

Slowly he raised the vial. Slowly she raised her crystal. Slowly Lain backed away. When Myranda saw the assassin replace his sword and begin to retreat, she knew that unless something drastic was done to stop them, these two fanatical elves would destroy each other. Without thinking, Myranda rushed between them. She turned to Desmeres to beg him to stop and instantly found an arm across her chest and a blade held offensively to her side.

"What are you doing!?" Desmeres said.

Lain drew his weapon again.

"I am sorry, but this is something I must do!" Myranda said as Trigorah began to pull her away.

Lain leapt forward, ready to strike Trigorah down and reclaim Myranda. In less than the space of a heartbeat, Myranda's head filled with a hundred conflicted thoughts. Finally, in a move based more on instinct than reason, Myranda cast the very same spell she had used to repel Arden the day before. The wind doubled in force and reversed on itself. Thankfully, it was nothing compared to the previous blast, but it was enough to knock Lain out of the air. Trigorah managed to make it a few more steps into the snow, enough to hide those who had moments before protected Myranda, dragging her new prize along. A reddish form fought its way through the swirling wall of white. Myranda prayed that Lain had not made a second leap, for while she may have had the strength to repel him once or twice more, she was not sure she had the heart. Instead, it was something far worse. Myn was following her. There was anger, fear, and confusion in the beast's eyes.

"Myn, no!" Myranda said, tears welling in her eyes and stinging her cheeks with the crackle of ice.

Myranda tried to gently cast the beast away, but the charm that hung at her neck left her unaffected.

"Please, Myn! Stay with Lain. I am sorry. I will come and find you again, I swear, but please, let me go now," Myranda pleaded with the creature. She could see Trigorah's hand tightening around her sword's grip. If the little dragon drew much closer, the weapon would not remain still.

The dragon stood, trembling from a mixture of cold and anguish. Everything inside the beast told it to follow, to save the one human she cared about, but that one human told her to stay. If it was what Myranda wanted, then it would be done. The noble creature stood and watched as her protector in her earliest days slipped away through the snow. When Myranda was gone from sight, and the faint sounds of crunching hooves through snow had disappeared, she turned longingly to Lain, who now stood by her. He did not follow either. Instead, he looked on with uncertainty in his eyes.

"Do not follow," said Desmeres as he made his way to them. "Trigorah knows me well. She'll know that if she doesn't pay, we will come to get her. If she does her job, she will know where to find us."

Looking to the vial, Desmeres tossed it into the snow. It landed out of sight, but brilliant flashes of red and blue managed to color the snow for nearly a minute as the contents of the container took effect.

"That was the antipode vial. I'd never tested it before. I intended it to invert the temperature of whatever it touches. Interesting. It apparently continues to do so until the mana is spent. Back and forth between freezing and burning. Can you imagine how effective that would have been on a living target?" he said, though Lain had continued in the direction of the safe house, the dragon in tow. Desmeres stood for a moment, considering the possibilities before following.

#

Myranda was thrown onto the back of a horse and was being whisked along in moments. She and her "captor" cast nervous glances behind them, even as four other Elites appeared out of the rushing snow to join them. In minutes, they reached the road where Myranda and the others had left their horses a day earlier. As they continued along the road, an ominous form she knew all too well emerged from the wall of white. A black carriage. Trigorah leapt from the horse's back and threw open the doors. Before Myranda could step in, the general turned to her.

"Staff!" she demanded.

Myranda gave it to her. It was quickly thrown into the dark interior. Myranda took a step to follow it.

"No!" Trigorah quickly reprimanded. "Up front with me."

She opened the door and shoved Myranda inside. A soldier who had been standing guard by the door had already climbed onto the horse she had ridden. Trigorah stepped up on the running board of the carriage and turned to her men.

"Listen! We do not stop moving until we are inside the fort! Speed will not be enough to protect us if that beast chooses to follow! If there is even the hint of his appearance, we face him together! The carriage will continue without us! Do not face him alone! He has taken too many of your brothers-in-arms! If that blade of his touches you, it will already be stained with my blood, that much I can assure you!" she dictated before ducking inside.

Once inside, she continued to issue orders.

"Turn around and put your arms behind your back!" she demanded.

Myranda obeyed. Her wrists were quickly and securely bound.

"Now face me!" she ordered.

Myranda turned and a collar of sorts was snapped into place around her neck. It bore a jewel much like the one that was fitted to the end of her staff. As soon as it touched her skin, she felt an odd sensation. It was faintly painful, as though someone was pressing on a half-healed bruise. She turned her mind to healing the pain, only to feel it increase to a sharp, piercing burn that did not subside until she broke concentration.

"What is this?" Myranda asked.

"A precaution. Unless you enjoy agony, I would advise against using any sort of magic," she said.

The carriage lurched to a speed far faster than the designers had intended. It rocked and bounced so violently, Myranda felt certain it would flip over. As she tried to remain in her seat in the passenger cabin, a space clearly intended for one, she could feel the gaze of her captor. Trigorah's eyes were locked on Myranda, almost burning with intensity. The sound of rushing wind, pounding hooves, and creaking wood filled the cabin, but still there seemed to be a painful silence that only a voice could break. After all, Myranda had dreaded this woman, running in fear from her and her subordinates. Now, only a short time after deciding that she could be an ally, she sat beside her. Myranda spoke.

"It was kind of you to allow me to ride here with you. I have spent time in the rear of a carriage like this before. It was--" Myranda began.

"Do not mistake caution for kindness. You have escaped from me too often to be left unsupervised," she said.

Immediately the silence seemed to push the tumult of wind and hoof back outside. Myranda spoke again.

"I know why you wanted to find me. I want to help you," Myranda assured.

"I wanted to find you because I was ordered to," she answered. "You can save your pleading and groveling for my superiors--if you make it that far."

"Surely they told you why they wanted me. Surely you asked," Myranda said.

Trigorah sat silently.

"You must have questions," said the girl.

"Many, but it is not my place to ask questions. I am not the interrogator. You will meet him again soon enough. After being assaulted by you, I am sure he will be pleased to meet you again," she said.

"Again . . . Arden? Arden is the interrogator?" Myranda asked.

The general was again silent. She reached out and snatched away the bag that Myranda had dropped when she entered. After pulling the dagger out and eying it briefly, she placed it back inside and scowled.

"You do not have the sword," she fumed.

"No, I haven't had it since Lain first captured me," Myranda explained.

"Lain . . ." she hissed. It was the first she'd heard of her target's name.

Trigorah's scowl somehow turned even more serious. Myranda could tell by her look that she was contemplating how best to attain the sword.

"The only way to get the sword and stop them from following is to--" Myranda began.

"Pay them. I know," Trigorah interrupted.

The general turned the idea over in her mind again and again. To pay was to fail, to admit that she could not do as she was ordered. And yet, the price had been so high already. The best of her men and the better part of a year had been spent in pursuit of this girl and the blasted sword she'd taken. Perhaps the time had come.

"It must be done," she said.

"Excellent. Once you pay Desmeres, we can attempt to convince Lain to--" Myranda planned enthusiastically.

"Quiet! Your future depends entirely upon what the other generals decide. I will deal with Lain when the time comes," she snapped.

There was a defensive tone to her last comment. Myranda had quickly learned how much General Teloran valued duty. After spending so much time attempting to apprehend Lain, it must have become an obsession.

"How long have you been after Lain?" Myranda asked.

Again, silence was the only answer--a silence that would not be broken for hours. The carriage stopped only once, only long enough to change horses. The cabin was hardly a luxurious one, built to keep those outside out, and those inside in. As a result, there was barely a slit for a window. Myranda tried to turn her mind from the hunger that had been steadily gnawing away at her. Periodically, she would glance at the general.

The elf sat stoically, her eyes always locked on Myranda, as though at any moment the girl would mount an escape. Her armor, though no doubt exquisite when it was first made, showed the wear of decades of use. Here and there, Myranda recognized a shiny gash in a plate as one left by Myn. Trigorah adjusted a sagging plate on her arm, only to have it fall away again. The belt that held it had been torn through, as had whatever clothing she wore beneath it. Myranda wondered how long ago it had happened, and if she was responsible. Between the tattered edges of leather and cloth, bare skin could be seen, as well as something else. Something that caught Myranda's eye. There was a gold armband. It was not cloth, but a cuff of gold that was clamped onto her arm in much the same way that the collar was affixed to Myranda's neck.

The sight of it stirred something in her mind. There was something someone had said. Beware those who wear gold . . . The look of recollection must have shown on her face, for Trigorah broke the long silence.

"What is it?" she said--a demand, not a question.

"Nothing, just . . . something an old man said once," she said.

Myranda decided it was best to remain silent for now. A combination of exhaustion and weakness from hunger allowed her to drift off, despite the uncomfortable bonds and violent motion of the carriage. It wasn't quite sleep, but it was better than nothing. Consciousness wavered in and out until she was jarred out of the doze by the abrupt end to her journey.

"Close your eyes," Trigorah ordered.

"Why?" Myranda asked.

The door was flung open and the light stung viciously at Myranda's darkness-adjusted eyes. Trigorah stepped out and a pair of the attending Elites pulled Myranda into the painfully bright light outside. She wavered briefly, forgetting that her hands were bound when she tried to catch herself on the edge of the carriage. Trigorah caught her and steadied her.

"Take a deep breath. This may be the last time you feel fresh air in your lungs," she warned.

Myranda's eyes adjusted and she took in her surroundings. She was in a courtyard kept meticulously free from snow, surrounded by a low, sturdy wall. Filling the courtyard was row after row of soldiers. They bore general-issue armor that seemed crude in comparison to that worn by the Elites. Not a face could be seen, each hidden behind a visor or mask. At the center was a square stone building that seemed a bit small to warrant such defenses. She was being led inside. The doors were pulled open by the two guards stationed beside them.

Inside was pure darkness; not the merest flicker of light could be seen. Eyes that had only just adjusted to the light were faced with the task of penetrating the darkness again. A faint glow that Myranda soon found to originate in the gem of her collar was the first thing she was able to see. The pale blue light did little more than transform the darkness into a collection of ill-defined shapes.

"Close your eyes," Trigorah ordered.

Myranda swiftly obeyed. There came the familiar hiss and sizzle of a torch being lit. Carefully, the girl opened her eyes. The dancing yellow light revealed a scene she wished had remained hidden. The whole of the interior was a single large room with only the occasional pillar. The walls were lined with bars, divided into dozens of different cells, all empty. They approached an arched doorway that led to a set of stairs leading downward.

The stairs led down only one floor. The next staircase was at the far end of the floor. In this way, it was impossible to move quickly up or down. Each floor had to be traversed in its entirety to reach the next. As she was escorted downward in just this fashion, descending further and further into the ground, some of the cells began to show occupants. She glimpsed at the people locked away. With each new floor, she found herself feeling that she had seen these faces before. Some seemed to show a look of recognition themselves. A few showed something far stronger than recognition. In the short time that the torch illuminated their faces, these individuals shifted from shock to anger and hatred. She left at least one person on each floor screaming for her blood. With their cries echoing in her ears, she shut her eyes tight and allowed herself to be led onward. Finally, she came to a floor that brought no new cries. She opened her eyes.

It must have been the bottom floor, deep below the surface. While this place was as large as the other floors, there were no cells. In fact, it was practically empty. All that could be seen was a pair of chairs, a pile of chains, a table, and the interrogator. It was he, Arden. From the looks of it, he hadn't changed from the ravaged armor he had been wearing when they'd last met. His halberd was in the corner of the room, far outside the sphere of light cast by the torch, but betrayed by a glow identical to the one from her collar. The look of clarity and intellect that had appeared fleetingly during their last encounter was now a permanent fixture on his face. Myranda's arrival added a look of pleased amusement to the collection of out of place expressions.

"Finally managed to bring her in, have you? Splendid. And the sword?" he asked.

"They were not carrying it. In the interest of timely and secure retrieval, I believe the best course of action is to pay the ransom," Trigorah recommended.

"Well, of course it is. Had we gotten the payment to them before one of the other squads had shown up and spoiled things, we would have been saved a considerable amount of time," he said.