The Dark Frontier

A Moonsea Adventure

Chapter 15

Dreams

            Thaurlann had no desire to rest. He had done nothing all day but rest, it seemed. Not only that, but he could scarcely distinguish between night and day inside the cave. Before he could rest, at least one task remained. He made his way back to the tomb of the guardians, and placed the skeletal remains back into the sarcophagi as best as he could. A cold whisper seemed to blow through the room as he worked, but it did not deter him from his task.
            In his careful handling of the remains, he found that all the skeletons had the same dagger as he had found earlier planted between their ribs, just where their hearts would have been as living men. In addition, one of the skulls rattled when he moved it; something seemed to be hidden within.
            Thaurlann was cautious to preserve the relics from each body, taking more care this time than he had the first time, in hopes that some new information might be gleaned from their inscriptions. Even if their departure were imminent, perhaps it could be useful information for the Church. Likewise, he delicately rolled the skull around to pry loose whatever treasure hid inside it.

            Alethra always chose to distance herself from everyone – even her master – when she chose to rest. She did not sleep in the same sense that humans did. Her former master had called it the "reverie." Her eyes remained open when she went into this trance, and better to keep the others from finding yet one more reason to loathe her strangeness.
            Even though she knew she needed the rest, she had been dreading it lately. Every night brought memories of times past – painfully detailed memories. The Sharran had taught her to control her emotions, control her memories of the past, but lately she had been losing that control. She sat cross-legged and pulled her hood tightly over her ears, focusing on being one with nothingness.
            "Alethra, vhere is that reagent?" Master Korvac shouted from the laboratory. He had been especially harsh since returning from their trip to the Dalelands. During the trip, Alethra had been free from his abuse, as he spent most of his time bartering for some obscure plant extracts. He seemed to be making up for the lost time since their return. Alethra, of course, had done nothing to deserve the rebuke. She had been diligent in apportioning out the correct amount of liquid he needed as expediently as she deemed safe. To him, though, it was never good enough.
            Alethra hurried into the room, head to the floor as she entered. She held the vial before her, bowing to present it. "Here you are, Master. I apologize for my slowness."
            He laughed at her. "There, there, my child." His tone was a tone softer. Alethra felt his rough hand brushing her cheek, and he stood up, towering above her hunched form. "Something special for you, I have planned today."
            His hand pressed harder against her cheek, and his hot breath blew down on top of her matted hair. "Undress, slave," he said simply.
            Alethra nodded, keeping her head to the ground. "Yes, master."
            She took off the simple robe that passed for her clothing when at home. She stood exposed before him, and he admired her. His gaze was less a lecherous stare than that of an artist appreciating his own work. Scars – some small, some long, dotted her body at random intervals. In some places, entire chunks of flesh had been carved out, and the scars seemed to barely hold the skin together in places.
            Alethra waited for him to take her, but nothing happened for a minute. She dared to lift her eyes a bit, and saw Master Korvac preparing the plain wooden table at the end of the room. He had cleared off some scrolls and potions stored there temporarily, revealing the metal shackles attached to each leg. "This veed is supposed to enhance the effects of my homemade brew. I vould like to see vhether that is true or not."
            Alethra tried to hold back her reaction but, shivering in fear, muttered, "Plea—" Before the syllable even left her mouth she knew it was a mistake. She stopped short, but it was too late.
            Korvac dropped the shackle he had been tightening and faced her. Without speaking he stormed forward and grabbed her bare arm. Korvac flung Alethra to the floor, to the thin bedroll and pallet that served as her resting area. She swallowed hard but did not move. "I vas planning on being gentle to you as a reward for helping vith this experiment. But I expected too much from you." The man leaned over and roughly took her neck with one hand, then struck her in the face with the other. He repeated the blows, alternating between hands. She did nothing to resist, but every time she felt limp he brought her back up by the neck to receive another blow. He stopped when he sensed that her face might become permanently scarred by the beating.
            Korvac shoved her to the floor harshly, then removed his own clothing. "I hope after this you feel more cooperative," he said.
            Once again, Alethra said nothing, but as Korvac's huge form blocked out the light a wave of something passed over her. She felt as if the heat of the candles in the room had somehow been overwhelming her, but now that she was completely covered she could relax and let herself be free.
            Korvac screamed suddenly and stumbled to his feet, backing away from Alethra as quickly as he could. "Alethra, vhat have you done?" he shouted. He looked to his arm and found a discoloration – almost like a bruise, but darker, colder, more of an absence of color than a blackness.
            Realization came onto his face as he studied the mark. He glared down at her. "Vhere did you learn this spell? Have you been reading my books vhen I am asleep? Do you dare –" He trailed off, though, unable to continue the rant. He could tell from the look of surprise on her face that she had no idea herself what had happened.
            Korvac's look changed back to one of interest, admiration, as if seeing some fantastic creature never before discovered by human eyes. "You are more special than I thought," he whispered.
            Korvack paused for a moment, and then continued. "Alethra, put your clothes back on. Ve vill continue tomorrow." He turned and took a step. "And, clean yourself up. You may use my room," he added before stomping out.

            Alethra's mind wandered briefly back into consciousness again, though she did not awaken. This was not the same memory that had entered her trance before. Decades of abuse had almost drowned out this memory to the point that she had to wonder whether the memory was real or not, or whether her mind might be capable of making up such a thing.
            A melody trickled into her mind from somewhere – haunting, serene, unfamiliar. A human sang, accompanied by a stringed instrument, his voice pleasant and warm. Vision sprang back to Alethra's mind and she saw Spielos strumming in the center of the cave, the sellspears entranced by his song.
            She stood up and walked over to him, unsure why she did so. Spielos actually smiled at her as she approached, continuing his song as if singing it only for her. Aksana stood nearby, clapping to the melody and grinning playfully. She turned in time to see Alethra walking up and her face turned to a more subtle grin – one of a person who knows that they have an advantage, and are just waiting for the time to use it.
            Alethra walked away from the singing, up the stairs and into Mandrake's private quarters. In the center of the room lay the body of Emistil, his face twisted in a mask of horrified pain, a pool of blood surrounding the room. Next to him, a bloodied sword was propped against the wall, and Rhia was reading from the same book that they had found in his clothing earlier.
            Rhia raised her head as Alethra entered the room. "Don't worry, we've stopped him once and for all. He meant only to spread chaos. But I will help you learn better how to control the Weave and attain your true potential. He would have only led you down the path of temptation."
            Alethra turned back, and wandered aimlessly through the caves until she returned to the laboratory, where the broken bottles and guardians had been. Now, though, the room had been restored to its former state, everything in perfect order. The blond-haired outlander Thaurlann sat in the center of the room in a chair, and Gannon stood beside him.
            Thaurlann spoke first, and Gannon almost seemed supplicant to the warrior, stepping back as she approached. "You've done a good job for the Church," he said. "Shar has told Bane of your loyalty, and, unlike the heathen gods, Bane rewards those who are loyal."
            Alethra woke suddenly, and this time she knew she was awake, though still a bit confused. She was laying on the floor on her side, and her eyes had definitely been closed. Something had lulled her from reverie into true sleep, and taken her memories from reality into a dream. But none of it made any sense to her. She quietly composed herself and returned to her master's side.

            To his surprise, Thaurlann found sleep came easy once he set his mind to lie down. His dreams, though, came upon him even faster.
            The crowd at the Old Fishwives' Inn sang especially loudly – and especially drunkenly – that evening. Thaurlann hummed along, though he sat in a back corner away from the stage. The minstrel sang of a knight in a faraway land saving princesses from dragons – as knights tended to do in these songs. The minstrel's tongue danced as merrily as the bar patrons on the floor, but Thaurlann took every word as gospel. "Some day that will be me," he said to the boy standing next to him.
            The music and singing stopped. Thaurlann could still see them, but their voices did not reach him. Nor did the smell of food or ale- soaked clothes that had filled his nostrils only moments ago. The young boy, though, was clearly audible.
            "You are veak," the blond-haired boy said.
            Thaurlann shook his head, eyes aghast. "No," he mumbled. "I survived the forest. I survived the skeletal dragon and guardians, and we caught the rogue mag fore the church."
            The boy, dressed in poor clothing of a beggar, held his head high and spoke with the conviction of a king. "You are veak," he repeated. "You survived in the forest by running avay. You barely escaped vith your life. The rogue mag, you vere not there for the capture, because of your injuries from the dragon. You failed."
            A lump caught in Thaurlann's throat, which had become completely dry. "I don't understand," he murmured.
            The boy stood completely still. "You are veak. You come from a land of veaklings. You claim to be one of Bane's chosen, but you still hold these people in your memories. You still dream of them. You still dream of being the knight saving the princess from the dragon."
            Thaurlann nodded. "I, yes, I, but how did you?" He stammered, suddenly unsure of whom he faced, clouded by the fog of the dream.
            "You are veak," said the boy. "The vill of Bane commands His knights to be completely obedient and completely fearless. You are neither."
            Thaurlann shook his head again. "No, that's not true," he protested. "I follow the will of Bane! I follow the words of the Church! I have felt His voice and communed with Him in my dreams!"
            The boy, moving for the first time, shook his head slowly. "You are veak. The knight of Bane is not the mouth of Bane, he is the fist. He does not talk back to Bane, he listens. It is not his job to question, only to do. You ask qvestions about the death of the Atjets Paryev, but you already know vhy he died. You must not be afraid to mete out justice vhen it is deserved, nor allow pity or emotion to cloud your judgment. If you are to lead others in to battle – vhich vill happen soon – you must lead by example – as the perfect warrior, the perfect soldier, the ultimate example of the hand of Bane."
            Thaurlann crooked his head to the side, understanding starting to make its way into his mind.
            The boy continued, "These people – dancing, singing, joyous – they are your enemies. They stand against you, to destroy you, to destroy the chosen people of Bane. Sometimes they can be saved, as you vere saved, but sometimes they vill not listen, and they must be destroyed."
            Thaurlann found that he now had a sword and shield in hand, and solid black armor adorned his body. Heat coursed through his blood as he found his conviction. He knew what had to be done. He had to cut out his past, remove these memories, as a first step towards his goal.
            The music returned to engulf him, but he ignored its sound. The sword swung with precision in his hands, cutting down a nearby man drinking from a mug. A moment later it cut into the woman next to him, dropping her to the ground with a scream.
            The others in the inn heard the screams, and turned in slow motion. Time crawled as Thaurlann continued his task. Some fled, while others turned to face him, using broken bottles or chair legs as weapons. All fell before him without effort. At last, town militiamen ran into the bar, and Thaurlann found himself at even odds. Nearly surrounded, he was wounded several times for each soldier he killed. The blows nearly brought him to his knees, but he kept fighting. What should have killed him only made him stronger, until at last nobody stood before him. Nobody, except the boy.
            "Now, you are no longer veak," the boy said. "You now know how to follow the Vill of Bane when asked. You have survived battle time and time again, but only through sheer luck. Now, you vill have the endurance of a dozen men, both on the battlefield and off it. Soon, you vill become a great leader of men. But, for now, you are a great sword for Bane and you vill serve Him vell."
            Thaurlann breathed heavily and then bowed. As his head came up, the boy and the Inn were gone. His eyes were open, and he was inside the cave once more.

            Aksana continued to pick at her food as she listened to the music of Spielos' drum. The stress of their adventure in the woods began to weigh heavily upon her and she felt drawn and tired. It became hard for her to keep her eyes open. She was almost glad when, a short time later, they went out to the pit so that Logna and Pavel could eat something while it was still hot. She feared the specters that would likely haunt her dreams once she did give in to sleep.
            The cool night air did little to alleviate her fatigue. For a short time she kept herself alert by pacing around the pit and doing small stretching exercises but eventually even that seemed too much effort. Finally she sat next to the bard by the pit. She watched quietly as he periodically added more stones to the water.
            The ripples from the last stone in lapped against the muddy side of the pit in wave after miniature wave. The small breakers seemed to pull at the young rogue and she leaned forward in fascination. They did not cease their hypnotic dance like she would have expected but kept moving back and forth across the surface of the murky water. Without even realizing it she had moved closer and leaned out perilously far over the steaming liquid.
            Suddenly a skeletal hand thrust from of the depths and seized her by the shoulder. She let out a squeal of fear when she felt the bony talons dig into her flesh. Off balance she was unable to pull away. She could feel the muddy edge crumbling under her knees. She turned her head towards Spielos and called for help, but the outlander sat peacefully next to the fire giving no indication that he heard or saw her danger.
            With a final despairing cry she plunged head first into the foul stew they had been cooking. The water was deep, much deeper than she remembered them digging. She opened her eyes but was unable to see anything in the surprisingly cold waters. She floundered about trying to find the surface, already her lungs burned with their need for air. Her flailing hands encountered soft, cold, squishy things that made her think of the feel of things dead and bloated.
            A clawed hand grabbed her head and pulled at her. Unable to help herself she screamed again, the last of her precious air escaping into the thick liquid that surrounded her. A reflexive breath filled her empty lungs with water and unnamable chunks. She coughed and sputtered as her head broke the surface. Whatever had pulled her up threw her onto the ground where she heaved up her dinner and other things she would rather not think about. She expected to feel a rending attack at any moment but was helpless to do anything but retch. When she was done she lay on the ground exhausted, wondering why she was still alive.
            "Pathetic," a deep voice rumbled.
            The voice was familiar. Aksana cracked her eye just enough to catch a glimpse of dark reptilian scales. She squeezed her eyes shut again. "A dream, it is just a dream," she said to herself, willing it to be true.
            "Of course it is my Little One," whispered the voice in return, "but you should remember that it is in your dreams that my rule is strongest."
            She shivered. She knew it spoke the truth. This was why she feared to sleep, why she feared to dream. She had never had such vivid dreams when she lived in the city; only out here, surrounded by outlanders and demons, did they take on such substance and reality. She feared that now that the door to this dream world had been opened it would never be closed again.
            A low chuckle surrounded her, crawled across her skin like ants. "You vould do vell to fear such a thing, for now that I am let lose you cannot confine me again." A scaled paw trailed down her cheek in a soft caress, "but Little One, vhat vould you do vithout me? I am your strength, given to you by your father's people. Just another veak, half-blooded, outlander you vould be vithout me."
            Finally goaded into responding Aksana sat up. "No. I am not veak."
            A smile split the dragon's face revealing rows of sharp teeth. "Good. Some fight you still have left in you, but you run from battle like a veakling. You cannot even protect those you care for." A smoky image appeared before them, it was of the room below the caves. The towering skeletal figures menaced the party and a tiny Aksana, much smaller than she should have been, ran ineffectually around the room whimpering and flailing her tiny blade. As she watched her companions fell one by one, lastly the white-haired outlander, torn to shreds by the abominations.
            A warm streak of anger heated Aksana. "That is not me," she stated, "that did not happen." She stared at the dragon in defiance.
            "Oh, no?" The dragon disrupted the image with a flick of its tail, trailing a white mist behind as if it smeared some offending bug across a wall. "Are you sure?" A sharp talon touched her chest as it pointed at her. Its eyes narrowed, "then you must fight for vhat you believe." A burning started where the black claw touched her, even after the dragon withdrew and watched her with a smirk on its face the burning continued. "Even if vhat you believe is not vhat you should fight for."
            With a start she realized that something within her shirt was smoldering. She pulled a square of paper out of her pocket. As soon as it was exposed it burst into flame. Aksana dropped it with a small cry of pain for her burnt fingers. She saw the dragon frown in disapproval at her weakness. She sucked on her singed hand trying to ease the pain as she watched the flames dance along the parchment. A slow realization came to her that this was the note she had intended to send back to the Church.
            As she watched a dark shape rose from the flames. It took shape, growing black, feathered wings and took to the air with an accusing caw. The raven born out of the fire circled her once then dove at her, its wicked claws raking across the good side of her face. "Help me," she cried to the dragon.
            The dragon merely watched. "I am sorry Little One, but against them I cannot aid you."
            Aksana batted at the bird as it flew at her again; her dagger was in her hand now. She felt the blade bite into the bird's breast, at the same time she felt a cut mirroring that she had inflicted upon her own chest. Each time she swung at the raven a new cut opened on her own body. By the time the bird lay unmoving Aksana was covered in her own blood. She collapsed to her knees staring at the fallen bird.
            The dragon offered no advice, simply watching through narrowed eyes.
            "Vhat have I done," Aksana cried. Tears cleaned trails in the blood that streaked her face. As she stared the raven crumbled to dust and blew away in a wind that did not touch the confused rogue. She reached out and tried to stop the erosion but the motes slipped through her fingers one by one until there was nothing left. "Vhat do I do now," she whispered glancing at the dragon.
            It seemed farther away from her than she remembered. It shook its reptilian head looking more compassionate now than she had ever seen it. "You and I are bound; vhere you go I vill be there, but to any other…" The dragon receded farther from her, "you have only the ties you bind yourself." The last of its words were nearly lost to her as it faded to a mere speck on the distant horizon before disappearing entirely.
            "Vait." Her voice sounded small and lost in the empty landscape. A sudden burst of heat caused her to turn back to where the note still lay. The flames had spread, consuming the ground like dried kindling. Before she could react she was surrounded by a raging inferno with nowhere to turn. All of her childhood fears of fire came rushing back and she cried out in terror…
            And she woke up.
            She was back by the side of the pit, its foul fumes filling her nose. She sat up with a start; she must have drifted off while she was supposed to be helping Spielos. With a blush she realized that not only had she dozed off but she had practically been lying in his lap so close was she. "I, I am sorry," she stammered, then, remembering her dream's admonition not to be so timid, she looked up and said more firmly, "I did not mean to fall asleep and leave all the vork to you."
            "No need to worry," Spielos said, turning to face her. "The bones, they are bare. The others can fish them out. We are done here." He smiled, but his youthful face looked haggard. Dark circles were visible under his eyes. As always, his eyes were smiling. "We must get what rest we can, we shall be traveling hard again."
            He looked at the mouth of the cave. Pavel and Logna were approaching. He spent a few moments with them during which he relayed instructions. Then, he and Aksana returned cave.
            "I had hoped to talk with you a bit more," he told her, settling heavily on to his bedroll. He wished to say more, but his head felt heavy. Settling his head onto his pack, sleep washed over him like a wave.

            He awoke to a sharp pain in his side. "Wake up, Capricio," his father grated at him, raising his boot for another kick. "We must go, quickly."
            Always it was the same. Capricio pulled on his boots and grabbed his sack, in which he kept his meager belongings. Just like that, he was ready to go. Not a moment too soon, as he could already hear voices being raised in the common room below him. He and his father scampered out of the window and over the rooftops. As he ran after his father, who looked so little like him, he tugged at the leather collar around his neck. Through the city they ran, towards the docks.
            They'd done this many times before. They found a boat going off on the morning tide. Money changed hands. A whispered conversation took place, and shortly later Capricio found himself face down on a lice ridden bunk.
            "This is all your fault," his father (for who else could he be?) growled at him. "We're running again because of you! You stupid boy! I never should have taken you! I could have had a pretty young girl for what you cost me! You're nothing but trouble!"
            Capricio closed his eyes as the leather strap fell, the metal studs ripping into his back. He bit his lip as the blows fell, until darkness came and he felt no more.

            Water was all around him. As if from far away, he could see fires above him. He heard splashing. He struggled upwards, his lungs crying for air. His head burst the through surface, and he gasped, and pulled in scorching air from the burning wood around him. He tried to call out, but only coughed up water. In a panic, he flailed around and managed to catch hold of a floating barrel.
            Gasping, he clung to the barrel with all of his strength. He was dimly aware of things happening around him until a hand appeared on the barrel next to him. Attached to it was a coughing sailor.
            Dazed and frightened, Capricio could only stare at the man dumbly, until the sailor recovered his breath and struck him in the face, dislodging him. "Stay off, ye dog," a hard voice spat at him. "This barrel is mine."
            Capricio struggled in the water, fatigue and the weight of his clothes dragging him under. With great effort he burst through the surface again. Mad with panic, he swam towards the barrel. The sailor was ready for him, and swung a hard fist his way. Capricio ducked underwater and avoided the blow. A life of living on the streets had given him some insight as how to handle situations like this. He removed the small knife he carried in his belt and reached between the man's kicking legs. With all of his might, he thrust the blade into the man's thigh, right near his balls. A bloom of blood filled the water, and the knife was wrenched from his hands.
            Gasping, he surfaced and punched the man in the face as hard as his small fists would allow him, over and over. After a few seconds, the man slid off of the barrel. Capricio kicked his tired legs as hard as he could, trying to put distance between him and his attacker. The sailor tried to swim after him, but rapid blood loss made him slow. Capricio turned away and swam, ignoring the man's curses and cries.
            Before long the splashing behind him stopped. He was left in darkness, the only light reaching him from the unblinking stars and the distant fires from a few burning planks. He cried, quietly, his sobs barely audible above the wind. He wondered what he had done to deserve this fate, but so many answers filled his mind so quickly nearly lost his hold on the barrel. All he could do was swallow his tears and keep swimming.
            He could barely feel his legs. A numbness had seeped into them, but still they kicked at the water. He'd stopped crying long ago. His throat was dry, and his lungs burned. His arms had cramped from his grip on the barrel, and splinters filled his hands.
            For what seemed like days he swam like this, but the rising sun exposed this for the lie it was. He could dimly hear waves breaking on a shore. He kicked his legs harder, the numbness quickly replaced by a burning that went from his toes into his hips. His world had become his kicking legs, his aching arms and the sound of waves, drawing slowly closer.
            A wave tossed him up and then under. The barrel was torn from his grasp. He kicked upwards, and his head broke the surface. He barely had time to gasp in a breath before another wave battered him. He stuggled against the force of the ocean, but was tossed about like a rabbit in a wolf's jaws. His vision darkened, his ears rang from the pressure.
            A voice filled his head, musical and clear like siver bells. "It landed on edge, Beshaba. You overextend yourself."
            Another voice, almost identical to the first, but heavy like a bell of iron sounding a death knell. "You cheated. It fell into a crack!"
            Calliopie laughter. "If I cheated it would _not_ have landed on edge. I wanted this one for my own. This prince of men, he is special. What shall he do? Where shall he go? It is _beyond_ us sister."
            "You kicked the coin, _sister_, do not thing I did not see it!," the second unseen voice said, venom dripping from every word.
            "I slipped. I'd been drinking ambrosia all night!"
            "I do not like it. It is an offense to us. It will end now."
            "I think not. Look!"
            With the last of his strength, Capricio struggled upward again, and sucked in a breath of sweet air, tasting of coconuts and flowers. Gasping, he sucked in another. His legs and arms moved of their own accord, and he swam until he felt sand under his feet.
            With weak, lurching steps the boy staggered out of the water and onto the beach, where he collapsed into a heap.
            "Never again," he said, "Never again. I am my own now." Like a mantra, the boy repeated that, over and over again, until sleep took him.

            Things were settled, and Gannon finished his meal in silence. When he had finished, the Baneite went out to check the horses and the men. Along the way, Gannon made sure to give words and nods of encouragement to the sellspears. He did not coddle them, for to do so would likely shatter their courage completely. These soldiers were Moonsea stock, after all, and they would draw strength from a strong leader who showed his confidence in them. Thus, he did so, reaffirming in their minds that the Chosen of Bane was amongst them, and that he led them according to His will. In that vein, Gannon shared part of the first watch, before returning to his bedding.
            The mighty Hammer of Bane settled in to the sleep of the just. He had done as his God commanded, captured the demon mag (twice). As a bonus, he had weakened the rogue Mandrake's ability to make trouble in Church-held lands, and, by the next sunset, he would either have retrieved an artifact of power, or made preparations to deny it to the Church's enemies. In the ruddy darkness of the banked fire, with his faithful hounds resting at his feet, Gannon's eyes closed. In moments, his breathing was even, deep, and slow.
            There was a flickering, and Gannon was awake, quickly. Something was wrong, and he took a moment to assess. Silence. No snapping or popping from the fire, no snoring from other bedrolls, no whine of anticipation from the hounds, nothing met his ears except his own breathing. Flail in hand, Gannon exploded to his feet, but the Hammer of Bane faced no foe in the bandit cave. Instead, he found himself on the cold stone floor of the Penitents Chapel in Melvaunt. Quickly, Gannon ascertained that he was alone, the single wooden door that led into and out of the chapel was closed, which meant it was also barred from the outside. Opposite the door, Gannon saw the familiar stone altar to Bane, with the flaming Fist resting upon it. Before the altar stood the wooden rack of Penitents' Tools; sharp knives, scourges, knotted ropes, and several cilices. Gannon frowned. Bane's Chosen were subservient only to the Bane of Evil, and unlike most other members of the Church, were not subject to the mercies of Loviatar when serving penance. Instead, serious offenses were allowed to be expiated here, in the private chapel of the penitent. In truth, aside from the burning fist on the altar, this chapel was nearly identical to those of the Loviatarans, including the shallow channel in the floor that allowed for blood to be washed away, but that one difference was incredibly important for those who served the One God.
            Gannon had not seen the inside of this place since his novitiate. In fact, most Chosen, even Favored, would not see the inside of this place after leaving their novitiate, as any sin serious enough to require Penance of this nature would likely have been punished by death - either as a direct result of the sinner's own actions, or as justice meted out by their superiors. Gannon was unaware of any sins he had committed that sould land him in this room.
            "Are you?"
            The Chosen spun around, rather light on his feet for such a large man, and raised flail in readiness.
            "Who is there? Who has the audacity to entrap and qvestion the Hammer of Bane?"
            "Does the lumberjack hear qvestions of his saw? The butcher of his knives?" The voice was dark, raspy, as if the speaker had inhaled the hot smoke of battle too often. Gannon could not find the source of the voice, and that irritated him. "Since vhen does the lathe complain of the box in vhich its Master chooses to put it?" Gannon felt distinctly uncomfortable, and his body broke out in beads of sweat, as the room seemed suddenly to become much, much warmer.
            "Give to Me My due honor, Servant." The voice did not yell, but the tone was commanding, and rocked Gannon's soul.
            "Master," Gannon cried, dropping to his knees on the stone floor, facing the altar. His forehead pressed to the stone, Gannon's hands were clasped and lifted far behind his back. He had not even noticed that his armor and weapon were now gone, replaced with the simple linen smock of the Penitent. Gannon began to pray. He did not murmur protestations of innocence, nor did he beg like a soft outlander for forgiveness. Instead, Gannon's prayers were recitations of Bane's greatness, and of his own gratitude to be allowed to be a small part of Bane's Great Works.
            After some time, the voice returned.
            "Good, My Chosen. Your obeisances are acceptable to Me. Your failures, however, are not."
            Without looking up, Gannon swallowed hard, and questioned his Diety. "Failures, Master?"
            "Look," the voice commanded, "look into the Flame. See vhat you have wrought."
            Gannon lifted his eyes, and stared into the flames that surrounded the stone fist on the altar. At first, he saw nothing, but then, with a sharp, burning wave of heat that stole his breath away, Gannon felt himself fall through the flames, and into the sky.
            He found himself looking down at the outside of the bandit cave. There were two figures sitting close to one another. Gannon quickly recognized the white hair of the outlander, and a moment later the red hair of the scout. The scout - Aksana, he remembered - rested her head against the gypsy's body in a most unseemly way, as the two of them watched the body boiling in the pit before them. Suddenly, the body moved, an impossibly long arm reaching out from the putrid soup to grab the scout and pull her into the water before anyone could react. With an oath, Gannon reached for his flail, but it was not there.
            "You vill vatch," the voice said. With no choice but obedience, watch is what Gannon did.
            The Baneite watched as Aksana disappeared into the filth, and another impossibly long arm erupted from that filth to pierce the gypsy's chest with the bones of a half-boiled finger. The gypsy seemed not to struggle, nor even notice the tainted bones entering his heart. In fact, he sat straighter, and looked almost happy as the finger was just as suddenly removed, and his lifeblood, black in the darkness, began to spurt from his chest, unnoticed. Gannon frowned again.
            At that moment, the scout burst from the water to land on the dirt beside it, as if she had been thrown clear. A shape burst forth after her, demonic and reptilian in appearance, and pounced upon her chest. She struggled, but the creature did not let her escape, instead burrowing its way into her skin with claw and fang, tearing into her torso, as if trying to turn the young woman into a suit of clothing. After a time, she stopped screaming, and the creature stood up, with Aksana's torso on its head like a grisly hat. It sat down next to the gypsy, as Aksana had before. The gypsy did not seem to notice, nor did he notice as the creature bent forward and began to drink from the fountain in his chest. Above, Aksana's head, blood drooling from her lips, closed her eyes and smiled.
            "Vhat is this? Vhat does it mean?" Gannon asked, anger coloring his voice.
            "You vill vatch," was his only reply.
            In a sudden flash of fire and pain, Gannon found himself in another place. This time the crypt, where they had fought the undead guardians. Thaurlann stood in the middle of the room, looking into the pool, talking to his own reflection. Gannon listened as the outlander who wished so hard to be a believer chastised himself, alternately accusing himself of weakness, and then denying it, and begging to be accepted. Gannon shook his head at the outlander's assertions of strength. Gannon knew the boy had it in him to be a strong servant of the Church, but Thaurlann still held to the weaknesses of his past. He still had to tell himself he believed, rather than believing. The boy talked too much of what he wished to do, and not enough time doing. Which was a shame, for as far as Gannon had seen, when Thaurlann did act, he acted well, with honor, and with courage.
            "Tell him," the voice said. "Speak vhat you know. It is the duty of the Chosen to educate those who seek to be My servants."
            ""You are veak," Gannon said, shaking his head. His voice and actions were duplicated by Thaurlann's reflection. "The knight of Bane is not the mouth of Bane, he is the fist. He does not talk back to Bane, he listens. It is not his job to question, only to do." "You ask qvestions about your faith, but you already know yourself to be strong in your belief. You must not be afraid to act on those beliefs, nor allow doubt or fear to cloud your judgment. If you are to lead others in to battle - vhich vill happen soon - you must lead by example - as the perfect warrior, the perfect soldier, the ultimate example of the hand of Bane."
            "Very good, My Chosen," the voice spoke to Gannon," you may have undone your failure there."
            Another flash of searing heat, and Gannon was in another place, though he thought he might have heard the faint echo of Thaurlann's battle cry fading into the flames. This time, the Chosen found himself standing over his demon slave, Alethra, as she sat in her restful trance. He was puzzled for a moment, as nothing seemed to be happening, but soon he began to see that which he was there to witness.
            Gannon watched as Alethra stood and walked to the cave where Emistil had been kept. What he saw sent an ice-cold dagger into his heart. The outlander maga, Rhianna, sat on what had once been a white bearskin on the bed, calmly reading through a book. The demon mag Emistil lay bloody and dead on the floor, Rhianna's sword had been driven, point down, through his gaping mouth, out the back of his skull, and into the stones of the floor. At least, Gannon thought it was her sword. He couldn't really tell, as the weapon was blurred, and seemingly faded in and out of existence. Rhianna was different as well, her face kept changing from peaceful serenity to horrible, ugly anger and venom.
            "This von, she is dangerous to the people," the voice said, "yet, she may also be of great use to the Church."
            "I have not broken her, as I should," Gannon admitted, "I vill do so, as soon as You give me leave, Master. I vill reverse this failing as vell."
            "No, you vill not," the voice corrected Gannon, "if you try to break this von, you vill shatter her, and she vill be useless to Me. You are an excellent Hammer, My Chosen, but some things, they are not nails, nor skulls to be crushed. This reqviers a different tool, more subtle."
            A wordless prompting moved Gannon's eyes to Alethra. The demon maga looked both frightened and eager as Rhianna spoke to her. Gannon could not understand the words, probably they were the black language of magic, he thought. Even so, as he watched, Alethra's calm demeanor returned, and seemed to spread to Rhianna, stilling the outlander's changing face, and rendering her calm, peaceful, and obedient. Alethra turned and left the little cave, but Gannon did not follow her. Instead, he found himself watching as Rhia put the book down, leaving it in a puddle of sticky blood on the bed. She stood, looking at the fallen Emistil with an expression of regret on her face. Then her hand came down on the hilt of her sword. The sword burst into painful white light, and Rhianna's face turned to rage again. She pulled the blazing sword from the stone floor and began hacking at the body with it, screaming words of hatred and rage.
            "She vill cost us a valuable tool," said the voice. "You must bring the demon mag to me, before she can destroy it."
            Gannon bowed, "I vill, my Master."
            "I know, for I command it," the voice sounded almost amused.
            Another flash of flame, and Gannon was again in the Penitents Chapel, feeling worn and drained.
            "Yes, My Chosen, you vill recover your failures, and you vill succeed. But first," the flames around Bane's Fist flared, reddish light glinting on the blades and hooks and chains at rest on the wooden rack before the altar. "First, you vill repent..."
            Gannon swallowed past a suddenly dry throat. "Yes, my Master," he whispered, dropping to his knees. After a moment to recover his courage, Gannon's hand came down on the hooked chain of a cilice. Without looking, Gannon fastened the chain, hooks inward, around his thigh, then, with a grimace, latched it tight. The hooks dug painfully into his skin, and the blood began to flow. At the same time, Gannon began to chant the words of the penitents' prayer, and reached for the second cilice. The knives would be next, then the scourge. He knew the ritual, and knew it would take hours. In the stone trench between his knees, blood began to drip and trickle.
            The mighty Hammer of Bane sat upright in his bedroll, managing only barely to contain a hoarse groan of agony. He was in the cave again, the comforting pop and hiss of the banked fire punctuating the snoring and sighing of sleeping bodies. At his feet, his loyal hounds raised their canine heads with quiet whines of anticipation, for their God had awakened. Gannon blinked heavy eyelids, breathing heavily in remembered pain. He felt as if he had not slept at all, though he knew he had been dreaming. A look about the room at which bedrolls were empty told him who was on watch, and thus a good estimate of the time. Dawn was close. Close enough that there would be no purpose in going back to sleep. No, the Hammer of Bane had much to do this day, his God commanded it. With a wince, Gannon threw his blanket off. Dried blood covered his bare legs.

            Rhia watched as the others drifted off their separate ways. Spielos and Aksana to their unpleasant task, Gannon to bolster the troops and strengthen his grip on their loyalty, Anya to plot and stew in her hatred and frustration, Atjets Krel, looking fearful and guilty, off to check on his healing supplies, and pray, Rhia assumed. One by one, everyone left the fire, until she sat alone. She wasn't sure which was worse, being constantly stared at and judged, or being shunned and left to herself out of fear and suspicion. Either way, Rhia knew she should get some sleep. Tomorrow would be a busy day, and, she suddenly realized, it would be Starday. The first Starday since she'd been parted from Heimdall, and she'd promised to check in on him. She was suddenly nervous. Would he remember to keep the whistle visible? Would he have painted it black? Would she find him imprisoned in Melvaunt, tortured, or dead? Who knew what the half-elf outlander's fate would be, traveling with Alexana to face the punishment of the Church.
            Rhia glanced at the opening to Mandrake's - now Emistil's - cave. She debated going to see the elf again, but decided against it. She was tired, and needed to study, then sleep. Visiting with Emistil would likely agitate her again, and keep her from accomplishing either, as well as drawing suspicion from the others. With a shrug, Rhia pulled out her book of Weaving and began to study in the firelight, until her mind was as tired as her body, and she could barely keep her eyes open. Then she gathered her gear, packed it away safely, rolled into her bedroll, sword and sheath in hand, and went to sleep.
            Rhia awakened to a whispered warning. "Shh! Come with me! You have to hide, or they'll get you, too."
            "What," Rhia thought the voice was familiar, but could see nothing in the blackness.
            "Come with me! This way! Don't worry, I'll guide you, keep you safe." It was a woman's voice, and Rhia suddenly realized it was speaking the language of her homeland. "Come on!"
            Rhia followed the sound of the voice, feeling like she was drifting, rather than walking, so deep was the blackness around her. After what seemed like hours of following the whispering voice, they stopped.
            "We're safe here, I think," the voice whispered.
            "Who are you," Rhia asked. There was a wry chuckle in the darkness.
            "Wouldn't want to spoil the surprise," the voice answered her. "Now, I think we'll see something, because you're only partly here, but we should be safe. You should probably watch though, it will help you with them in the future."
            "Wha-" Rhia began, but never finished her question, as the darkness around her suddenly burst into light.
            After a few moments of blinking, Rhia realized the light was not bright, except in comparison to the absolute darkness she'd been in a moment ago. The woman standing next to her pointed, and Rhia looked.
            The dim light came from the fire outside the bandit cave. The fire was being used to heat the rocks that Spielos and Aksana dropped into the pit before them at regular intervals, keeping the water boiling. As Rhia watched, Spielos dropped another rock into the pit, then settled back, and Aksana settled in against him, looking the most comfortable and relaxed Rhia had seen the girl in days. Rhia smiled to herself. If Spielos wasn't careful, he'd wind up with a reason to stay in this land after all.
            "Or perhaps a keepsake to take with him when he leaves," the woman beside Rhia said. Rhia glanced her direction, but was distracted by the realization that they were watching this happen through what appeared to be a giant crystal window. Her feet were on a highly polished floor, but Aksana and Spielos stood on the dirt outside the cave. It was then she saw Gannon. The atjets was floating in the air above the others, watching. A dark presence - only vaguely human-shaped - supported him, whispering into his ear.
            "Don't look!" The woman beside Rhia hissed, ducking and turning away, "You'll attract His attention!"
            Rhia looked away quickly. "Who's attention," she asked, "Gannon's?"
            "No, His."
            Before Rhia could ask further, something black plunged into the boiling water from above. Aksana, sleeping on Spielos' lap, suddenly jerked, and Rhia's vision blurred. As if she were seeing one vision atop another, Rhia watched as Aksana sagged against Spielos, clearly falling asleep. In her other vision, a shadowy copy of Aksana twitched and sat up, leaning over the water, where a shadowy tentacle leapt from the depths and pulled the shadowy duplicate of Aksana into the boiling pit. Rhia watched in horrified fascination as the shadowy Aksana was pulled from the pit by something indistinct, and attacked by it. All the while, Spielos sat quietly, unknowing.
            "It didn't happen that way. He's corrupting their dreams."
            "Who is," Rhia asked the hunched, huddled figure beside her.
            "Him," she replied, without looking up from her knees, her long black hair hiding her face.
            And then Rhia knew who the woman meant. The shadowy figure behind Gannon. She looked up, despite herself, only to see Gannon and the figure disappear in a burst of red flame. Below, Aksana awoke in Spielos' lap, and sat up, looking both afraid and, after a moment, brave. Rhia cocked an eyebrow at that, and at the vision of a reptilian-looking figure standing to one side, observing Aksana and smiling.
            A moment later, the scene changed, and Rhia was watching Spielos again, now asleep against his pack. Aksana was nearby, but she quietly moved away as she saw Spielos was no longer conscious. Again, Rhia's vision blurred, and she saw a translucent vision of two women standing over the white-haired percussionist. She could not see their faces, but somehow knew they were arguing, and about Spielos. She had no idea who they were, and she couldn't hear their words. As they argued, however, a vision of Spielos lurched forward and vomited. What he vomited up was black and putrid, almost like blood, but when it hit the cave floor, it hissed and bubbled, eating its way into the ground like acid. After several heaves, the vision of Spielos sat backward, joining the real(?) Spielos once again in peaceful slumber. The women had disappeared, and Rhia saw that Spielos' looked truly peaceful and relaxed. "He didn't manage to get to that one," the woman on the floor said, "I think because he wouldn't give himself to Him, not even a little bit. I don't think He can touch him, because of that. Not like he can the others, I mean."
            Again, Rhia was about to ask for explanation, but the scene changed.
            This time Thaurlann stood in the crypt, staring at his own reflection in the dragon pool. Strangers, dressed as peasants from somewhere other than the Moonsea, stood and walked around the room, seemingly oblivious to their surroundings. While they danced and spoke one with another, Thaurlann spoke to his reflection in the pool. Rhia watched as the young man spoke with himself, arguing and pleading. Again, she didn't understand the words, but Thaurlann's body language said much to her of self-doubt, and guilt, and determination. Something was slightly off, however, in this scene, though Rhia could not seem to figure out what it was. Then the figure beside her whimpered again, and Rhia saw Gannon and the dark presence appear behind Thaurlann. This time, they seemed just as solid as Thaurlann and the others, and then Rhia shook her head in recognition. Gannon wasn't more solid, Thaurlann was simply just as hazy. She had been seeing a vision from the beginning of this scene.
            As Thaurlann argued with himself, the dark presence reached forth a long, very thin tentacle. It slid unnoticed past Thaurlann, and into the water, where it began to make Thaurlann's image move. Rhia realized Gannon was speaking, saying something to Thaurlann, and that the young warrior's image in the pool was moving as if Gannon's words were coming from it. Except, at some points, the image's mouth moved differently than Gannons, as if it was saying different words. The figure whispered something to Gannon, and the Baneite looked pleased, before once more the two disappeared in a flash of flame. The black, ghostly tentacle did not disappear with them, however. Instead, it coiled itself into the pool. Thaurlann had stepped back from the pool, looking around at all the people, as if seeing them for the first time. The tentacle slithered from the pool and up Thaurlann's leg, forming itself into a sword at the warrior's belt. With a cry, Thaurlann grasped the shadow-sword and began hacking apart the people in the room, killing brutally, without mercy or pause.
            Rhia looked away, and the figure beside her sobbed.
            "He took the gift," she said, "he took what was offered, even if he didn't know it, and now he will be His."
            Rhia didn't bother to ask this time, as the scene changed yet again. She immediately recognized Mandrake's cave, and Emistil sitting on the bed, as if in meditation. She was surprised however, at what happened next. Rhia saw herself enter the cave, and without so much as a sound, draw her sword and stab Emistil in the stomach. The elf gasped, eyes wide with shock, as Rhia watched herself kick him off the blade and sprawling across the white bearskin blanket. With two more slices, Rhia's alter-ego had cut open Emistil's thighs, and blood began to spray as if from fountains. Emistil cried out in agony as the blade then opened his belly, and punctured both lungs. False-Rhia grabbed the elf by his hair and dragged him to the floor, where she then stepped on his throat and watched him squirm in agony as the lifeblood flowed out of him. Just before the light of life left his eyes, Rhia watched herself remove her foot, and then drive her sword into Emistil's open, gasping mouth. The blade drove through the back of the elf's skull and through the stone floor.
            Rhia watched herself sit calmly on the bed, and pull from somewhere the book Emistil had taken from the crypt. Heedless of the blood everywhere, she began to read.
            "What it this," Rhia asked the woman at her feet, "is this meant to be my dream?"
            "Yes," whispered the woman, "but not yours alone."
            Even as the woman spoke, Alethra came into the cave, her elven eyes wide at what she saw. Behind her came Gannon, and the dark figure with him. This time, Rhia could not look away, and she stared at the figure, trying to ascertain what, or who, it was. Suddenly, she felt a cold dread as the figure seemed to notice her, and return her stare.
            "No!" The woman at her feet wailed, and Rhia looked down at last. She reeled backwards in shock, as she realized that the woman at her feet was Rhianna Morrolan. she stared into her own, horror-filled eyes for only a moment, before a flash of red flame tore her away, and she found herself floating above a nearly empty stone room. Something held her bound, and she felt the caress of something dirty, filthy, as it held her. She opened her mouth to scream, fight, anything, but was stymied as her mouth was filled with the same filth, forcing its way past her tongue and into her throat. She struggled, to no avail, as she was gagged, and forced to watch the scene below.
            Gannon, dressed only in a linen smock., fell to his knees before an altar to Bane. As Rhia watched, struggling, the man began to torture himself, cutting and gouging with razor-sharp blades, and flagellating his back and sides with cruel scourges in each hand. She could feel the exultation of the being that held her, foul triumph overwhelming. Then it took her, flying through the stone roof, high over the city of Melvaunt, until the air was so thin she could barely breathe. In the cold, the being finally released her, and she fell. She heard the being laughing, a booming, exultant laugh, familiar, and yet terribly different. She knew she was falling to her death, and as she fell, Rhia turned, to look upon the being responsible for her death. Her eyes met his, and she felt crushing despair. As she fell to her doom, Rhianna Morrolan looked into the face of Valkur. Pitilessly, the godling laughed.
            Rhia sat up with a gasp, shaking her head. Her hand ached where it had been clenching the hilt of her sword through the night. She looked around, but saw nothing in the cave but those who were sleeping, and the guards at Emistil's cave door. Taking deep, calming breaths, Rhia pulled herself together as best she could. Shaking, she pulled a few things free from her pouch and fled to the crypt. There, beside the pool, she sank into the comforting ritual of study, losing herself in her magic. It was the only way she could silence the laughter in her head.

Bandit lair, Mirtul 30

            Spielos awoke just before the first rays of sun would have crested the horizon had he been anywhere but where he was. He stretched and scratched his back, his fingers bumping over the lattice of scars. They were itching more this morning than usual. He needed a bath. Badly. He didn't even want to think what sorts of grime and gunk were sticking to him. He grabbed his pack and left the cave.
            The fire they'd made the night before was embers, but there were still hot rocks. He dropped a few into a jug, stripped off his clothes and began to wash himself, relishing the feel the hot water and the grit of the sand as he scrubbed himself.
            As haze in the distance started to glow, he turned towards it and smiled. He quickly pulled on his clean pants, grabbed his rapier and whisked it deftly though the air. Laughing as the feeble dawn brought light to the land, he practiced his cuts, stabs and blocks.
            Where ever he was, he was there because he wanted to be. Since he first heard Mandrake was a slaver, there was really no question at all of what he had to do. He'd kill them all, and sing over their corpses.
            Maybe then the nightmares would stop.

            Aksana sat on her own bedroll not far from Spielos. She waited for him to say more but then she realized that he had fallen asleep. She sat with her arms around her legs and her chin resting on her knees contemplating her dream as she watched him sleep. Eventually she too was able to fall back to sleep; this time there were no dreams.
            When she awoke the bedroll across from her was empty. She sat up scratching absently at her arm. When she looked down she was horrified to find mud, or worse, caked on her skin; she felt slightly ill. I so need a bath, she thought moving towards the entrance to the cave. She thought about the bathhouse back in Melvaunt longingly. She had only been a few times but she remembered the warm, scented water they used.
            She was so lost in thought that she was several steps outside of the cave before her mind registered what her eyes were seeing; Spielos looked to be just finishing up his own bath. Her face turned as scarlet as her hair and she quickly spun back towards the cave. But rather than retreat into the safety of their shelter she stood rooted to the spot. She chewed on her lip as she tried to decide what to do.
            Hearing laughter she slowly turned her head. He had donned his pants and was practicing with his sword. There was something open and free about the bard that she hadn't seen before; she was totally entranced. Afraid that if she moved it would break whatever mood this was she simply stood and watched as he moved gracefully through his routine.
            Aksana stood for many minutes watching the outlander with a silly grin on her face. As the sky continued to lighten she realized that her chance to bathe was slipping away. Soon the others would wake and Atjets Gannon would undoubtably send them on another life-risking mission. She took a deep breath and screwed up her courage to approach the half dressed gypsy.
            "Good morning Spielos," she said as she approached. She had trouble looking at him without her eyes sliding down to his bare torso. Each time she did so her face turned a shade more red. She swallowed and pushed on with her plan before she lost her nerve. "I see that you have cleaned up some," here she stuttered to a pause and her blush darkened so that her face was nearly the same shade as her hair. "I need to do so as vell," she rushed on. "There is an outcropping there," she pointed to a spot not too far from the mouth of the cave on the side farthest from the sellspears where the rocks made a sheltered nook. "I vould have you stand vatch for me," she finally blurted out, "it vould be unseemly for one of the sellspears to stumble upon me unclothed." She managed to look up at his face instead of the ground.
            Spielos looked at Aksana for a moment, measuring her words. "You are serious?" he asked, but before she could respond, he answered his own question. "No, I see that you are."
            He gave her a wry, lopsided look. "Very well. I will stand watch for you, but this better not be one of these Moonsea games like 'send the outlander out to die' or 'let us show how the outlander, he knows nothing'." He was obviously having trouble not laughing as he finished.
            Aksana looked at him, her eyes serious, momentarily forgetting the distraction of his body. She could tell he was joking but was still disturbed by his words. "I vould never play such games vith you," she said simply.
            She moved hastily to gather up what she would need and moved towards the rocks. She paused at the edge, "vould you mind playing your drum?" She flashed him a quick smile, "I like to hear you play and it vill also let me know you are still there."
            The gypsy nodded and took out his drum. He settled a short distance away, where he could see the path leading up to the area but had no view to where Aksana was and began to play.
            She ducked behind the rocks wondering what exactly she thought she was doing. She knew that she should have gotten Anya or one of the other women to watch over her. That she had not spoke volumes of just how much the outlander had affected her. For no good reason that she could define she trusted the bard, but she was still nervous so she continued to talk to him even though she could not see him. "I know a story I vould tell you. It vas told to me by my mother and I have told no other of it since."
            "Many years ago there vas a merchant who hailed from south of the Moonsea. He vas the brave captain of his own ship. His name was Fergus Barr. Despite the many perils involved in sailing to Melvaunt he did so with a regularity that made him vell known and, surprisingly for an outlander, liked in the city. One of his most loyal customers was a tailor by the name of Ilari Malom. Vhenever Captain Barr vas in town he vould alvays find the time to share a drink vith his friend Ilari. He spoke often of his beautiful wife and daughter back home. Ilari doubted the validity of some of his friend's tales but he indulged him because they vere good ones.
            "One day, vhen Fergus Barr came to Melvaunt, he brought vith him a young girl child; his daughter Deirdre. Just as he had told in his tales her skin was as fair as fresh cream and her hair the color of the setting sun. Vhen he spoke to Ilari he told a new tale, one full of sadness; his fair wife had taken ill and died that spring. He vas heartbroken over the loss of the only woman he loved but more importantly he feared for vhat might become of his daughter. Life on a ship was no vay to raise a young girl. Ilari consoled his friend and together they came up vith a plan. Deirdre vould be betrothed to Ilari's son, Gavril. Ilari and his wife would take the girl in and vatch over her until the two children vere of age to be wed.
            "At first life in the Moonsea was hard for the young outlander girl but she soon adjusted, though she never fit in; vherever she vent her flame bright hair marked her as an outsider. At first Gavril vas dismayed by the prospect of having to marry an outlander but as the years passed he grew accustomed to her exotic looks and eventually came to see her as the beauty she vas. After they vere wed she bore him three children, two boys and a girl, all of whom bore the dark looks of those native to the northern shore of the Moonsea."
            Aksana paused and chuckled a bit bitterly, "but it is not alvays so. Sometimes the children of those children still bear the mark of the southern lands." Finally clean she wrung out her hair and slipped into her clothes wincing just a bit as her pants chaffed against the badger bites on her leg.
            Clean and clothed again she moved back around the outcropping. Her shirt clung to her in places where she was still wet and she had her hair pushed back out of her face. She smiled shyly at Spielos, "thank you, I very much appreciate the favor. I feel much better now." She glanced over at the camp where the others were starting to stir. "Ve had best get back."

            Some time later, her mind more relaxed, and filled with the reassuring power of the Weave, Rhia pulled out her crystal ball and stand. Staring into it, she thought of a friendly face, and the promise she had made to its owner.
            "Heimdall, my sweet," she whispered, "where are you today?"

            Heimdall had been sleeping so fitfully the last two nights that another evening of tossing and turning on the thin, straw pallet did not surprise him. The bandit hoard had attacked this village a mere day or two before his arrival and they were still cleaning up. It was only sixteen miles north of Phlan! He couldn't help but think that if he'd arrived a few days earlier he could have helped stem the slaughter.
            He lay there for what seemed like days. *This is stupid* he thought to himself, before getting up and taking off his shirt. Snarls of bite scars riddled his back and chest, rippling as his muscles moved.
            It must have still been hours from daybreak but he could not settle to anything. He was worried. This had been a long week, waiting with Alexana for her punishment to come, though she had refused to tell him what she was being reprimanded for, and she'd given him a cold, cold look when he'd offered to take her place.
            "Heimdall, do not let me hear those vords from you again, do you understand me? It is the place of the Chosen to vithstand the ire of the Church." But she had added, more kindly, "Heimdall, I doubt you vould survive it." He knew she meant these words to be comforting but they had bothered him more than anything before or since. Exactly what they were doing to her he did not want to think about but he could not help himself and it brought bile to his throat.
            He finally lay back down, lit his candle, and played with the ash-blackened bosons whistle round his neck. His thoughts drifted gently to the lovely mage who had given it to him. He closed his olive green eyes, which looked gemlike in the darkness and covered his face with both hands. For a heartbeat he thought he heard someone else breathing in the room. Heimdall sprang to his feet and drew his sword. "Who's there?" he called. "Show yourself!"
            Someone was standing near the window in darkness.
            Heimdall stood his ground and was about to command the figure to name itself again when the woman turned toward him. The light from the candle on the bedside table splashed across Rhia's face. At seeing who it was Heimdall gasped, sheathing his sword. "What in the world are you doing… wow it's good to see you!" He took two long strides toward her and lifted her in a crushing embrace.
            A moment later, he cried out. She had raked her fingernails so firmly down his back that she now stood with blood dripping down her wrist.
            "Ty's underwear, Rhia! What was that for?" Heimdall shook back the pale hair from his eyes and glared at her, ignoring the odd tingles running down his spine.
            "For disobeying me, servant." If he hadn't seen Rhia's mouth moving he would not have known it was her who had spoken. The voice was huskier, deeper, and somehow reminded him of his Aunt Rujenka.
            "You've never called me `servant' before." He said, voice low and dripping with suspicion.
            She gave him a soft chuckle and turned toward the window. "I have called you servant once before, Heimdall, do not feign surprise."
            "Rhia, what in the nine hells are you talking about?" Heimdall advanced on her only to be met by a strange space in the air where he could move forward no more.
            As she turned back from the window her face seemed to change, it became pale and steely. And the ocean-blue of Rhia's eyes began to fade to white, to almost... glow. Moonlight shown out of her eyes and a gust of wind swept through the room blowing up tresses of black hair all around her like smoke made solid. Electricity danced about the floor. Tiny sparking demons on the warpath.
            "Loviatar," Heimdall gasped, stumbling to his knees in shock.
            Her voice boomed, just as it had the first time he'd heard it. "You have failed."
            His eyes grew huge and he could not help but stare at her. "I… do not understand. What have I done?"
            "You do not know? Foolish man. I gave you one simple imperative to follow… protect her." She took two steps toward him and he managed not to cringe, but only just. "How is it you intend to protect her if you are at such a distance?"
            "Mistress, Alexana… your.. I mean Lady Tjesnitzers ordered me to go and defend one called Rhianna Morolan. To help Rhia." He kept his head down and thought intensely that his explanation sounded feeble, even to him.
            She stroked the top of his head almost absently. "Yes, I know. And this is where I give you your second, and last, chance to take my notice." A moment later and she was crouched before him on the floor. She smiled and gave him a sharp slap.
            Heimdall's eyes closed reflexively and when they reopened he stood on the floor of a stone cavern, and there was Rhia, making odd motions with her hands and trailing strings of what looked like heat-haze between them.
            He heard Alexana's voice beside him. "Bane knows she will be useful. I know she will be useful. She will be useful to the continued prosperity of the faithful. There is danger coming and you will protect her, and Heimdall, know this… if you abandon her as you have abandoned my Chosen, I will be unhappy with you."
            He felt a touch on his arm and a spreading warmth beneath the skin, then quite without warning it felt as though the bone inside the flesh was being broken to pieces. "I am capable of giving you more suffering than even you would like, Heimdall. Do not forget it."
            She released him and he fell to his knees. The wind struck the room, blowing out the fire by which Rhia had been reading. As his eyes adjusted to the dark he realized that he was once again sheltering in his own room, back in the village of Sirenik. He knelt there a few moments, his mouth dry and his heart pounding and blood drying on his back.
            He stayed kneeling the pale light of dawn began to make it's way through the overcast outside the window. Dawn had come. His face clearly showed shock and more than a little fear. His arm still throbbed but it wasn't unpleasant and he touched his back, running his finger over the scratches. So it had been real. "Goddess defend us," he murmured.
            The light in the room grew brighter and glinted off the chain the boson's whistle hung from. With a start as though he'd been shocked Heimdall got to his feet and grabbed his pack, digging through it for a paper and inadvertently exposing his back to the window where the fresh claw marks were completly visible. Finally he tore a page from his journal and took a peice of charcoal from the still smoking fireplace.
            *RHIA,* Heimdall wrote. *Where in the hells are you? I'm in Sirenik trying to find you!* The charcoal broke in his hand and he cursed, rooting through the ashes for another. *The Bandits went through here just before I arrived, there is a trail, if you hurry we can still track them* With what he hoped was a charming smile, Heimdall held the page up to his bare chest.
            As the vision formed in the crystal sphere before her, Rhia could not see her whistle. Instead, she saw Heimdall standing with some sort of sign at his chest. Squinting, she attempted to read it.
            When nothing happened he looked down at his chest. Had his message not been clear? What was supposed to happen? Then, with a jolt he realized he'd done something incredibly stupid, he'd not only hidden the whistle behind the paper but he'd written the message in Illuski. He _knew_ Rhia didn't speak Illuski after he'd had to endure being the only one who could understand Kerri's version of affable chit-chat.
            Hoping he had not just blown his only chance in a tenday of contacting Rhia, Heimdall slapped his hand across his forehead and spun on his heel, raising the the paper again and flipping it up against the wall, again exposing his clawed back to the room.

            Rhia had _just_ figured out that the wording of Heindall's sign was in Illuski, which surprised her, as Heindall knew she didn't know that language. What surprised her more, however, was the realization that she _did,_ actually understand what was written. At least, she would have understood it if Heimdall hadn't chosen that moment to remove the sign and turn around so she couldn't see it any longer.
            Rhia's third surprise came at the view of Heimdall's back. Fresh-looking tracks across his back looked like claw-marks, or - Rhia squinted and moved the view closer - fingernail marks? Pulling the view farther back, Rhia didn't see anyone else in the immediate area, nor any sign of anyone else having been there recently. Still, something to ask the half-elf about when she saw him - wait, why did she think she was going to see him again soon?
            On the clean side of the page he wrote in large dark letters, "Sirinek" and a arrow pointing up. He turned back around and this time made sure the whistle was above the page, which he rested against his stomach. This time his smile was more sheepish than winning.
            And there it was. She would see him again because he needed her to come to Sirenik. She wasn't sure, but she thought she remembered seeing the word "bandit" on the other side of his sign. She'd have to tell Anya. "We're coming, you silly man," she whispered, wishing he could actually hear her. With a sigh, Rhia let the vision go and stood up to go find Anya.

            Heimdall flipped the page over and looked at what he had written. Nothing happened to let him know Rhia had seen him. With a sigh he crumpled the paper and threw it into the smokey embers. He watched as the page was consumed in a mesh of red and black, lines racing around the edges to burst briefly into flame. Had she seen him? He just didn't know, but he trusted Rhia. If she said she was going to look in on him, she would have. Still, when he dressed he made sure to leave the whistle in plain sight.
            Clothed and frustrated, Heimdall made his way from his room to the dining area of the little inn. Perhaps they would let him help with the rebuilding and cleaning up of the town and he could get some information about the bandits who had come through.

            "Anya," Rhia said quietly, as she approached the Warden, "I've seen Heimdall. He's in Sirenik, and I think the bandits were there recently. Heimdall wants us to join him there. I think it's our best bet to find Mandrake quickly."
            Anya, who had been sitting and staring at a chunk of hard dark bread in her hand without eating it, blinked up at the diviner. "Vhat? Heimdall?" She looked haggard; it seemed her sleep hadn't agreed with her, either. "Did he not go vith Manakja Alexana to Mevaunt?" Her mind clearly wasn't on her words, though. She absentmindedly dropped the bread and rose, one hand going to the hilt of her sword, the other settling on her dagger. Her gaze was thoughtful and distant, at odds with her bitter words. "Bane take Gannon, ve do not have the time to vaste on searching this gods-cursed empty tomb. Ve must find this Sirenik and hunt down that svoloch! I vill tell him vhat you have told me. Maybe then he vill so-graciously allow us to leave." She turned on her heel and stalked off, going to argue her case before the Banite yet again.

            Alethra woke suddenly, and this time she knew she was awake, though still a bit confused. She was laying on the floor on her side, and her eyes had definitely been closed. Something had lulled her from reverie into true sleep, and taken her memories from reality into a dream. But none of it made any sense to her. She quietly composed herself and returned to her master's side.
            Alethra found Gannon just buckling on his armor. He stood as she arrived, and she noticed him try to subtly push aside a small, wet bundle of cloth.
            "Ah, it is good that you are here," Gannon said, bringing her attention to his face. I go to pray now, and when I return, we shall make preperations to leave this place. The demon mag, it is to be turned over to the Church, as soon as ve can do so. I vill ask the Bane of Evil for the pover to seal this place, so the bandits, they cannot use it again."
            Before Alethra could asnwer, Gannon turned on his heel and stalked towards the cave entrance.
            When he had gone, Alethra's eyes were drawn once more to the cloth her master had been trying to hide from her. Even in the dimness of the cave, she could see it was stained with blood.
            Duty - more than concern - nearly brought her to follow him, but she knew that he must have some reason for keeping his inury secret. Besides, the relief at being able to leave the cave trumped any doubts she had about her master's behavior. It seemed strange, but she could remember only a few times in her life when her heart felt as if she were truly alive, and not some mindless drone. The hope of leaving this cave gave her a taste of this feeling again.
            Something nagged at her, though. The - she could call it nothing but dream - she experienced sent questions swirling through her mind. She knew that she would disobey her master by what she was about to do. She knew that she would likely receive only lies and nothing useful. But she might never have another chance.

            Anya, who had been sitting and staring at a chunk of hard dark bread in her hand without eating it, blinked up at the diviner. "Vhat? Heimdall?" She looked haggard; it seemed her sleep hadn't agreed with her, either. "Did he not go vith Manakja Alexana to Mevaunt?" Her mind clearly wasn't on her words, though. She absentmindedly dropped the bread and rose, one hand going to the hilt of her sword, the other settling on her dagger. Her gaze was thoughtful and distant, at odds with her bitter words. "Bane take Gannon, ve do not have the time to vaste on searching this gods-cursed empty tomb. Ve must find this Sirenik and hunt down that svoloch! I vill tell him vhat you have told me. Maybe then he vill so-graciously allow us to leave." She turned on her heel and stalked off, going to argue her case before the Banite yet again.
            Thaurlann approached as Anya departed, though his attention for once fixated elsewhere than the warden. "Maga," he said, addressing Rhia. "I found some more items in the tomb. Can you see if you can read anything from them?"
            Rhia looked up at Thaurlann and quirked an eyebrow. Then she put her hand out to accept his new-found treasures.

            Gannon, thoughts obviously not on his surroundings, nearly collided with Anya.
            "Varden, good!" Gannon said, before Anya could speak, "Make preperations to leave this place. I go to pray. Take all that vill be needed out from the cave. At Highsun, I vill seal this place, by the vill of Bane."
            Leaving Anya open-mouthed, the Baneite continued on his way out of the cave mouth. Looking for a place he could pray in peace, he found instead Aksana and Spielos, both wet, and standing near one another. The Atjets did not seem to notice how close they were to each other, instead looking slightly exasperated.
            "Gypsy," Gannon said, almost cordially, "Scout. Make ready. Ve leave here at Highsun." He stood, somewhat awkwardly, as if waiting for them to go start packing.
            Aksana blinked a few times, puzzled by the Atjets manner; however she was not one to question a slightly more favorable temperament from the man. After just a moments pause she noded, "of course Atjets, at once." She slipped past him headed for the entrance to the cave. Once she was behind him where he could not see her she looked back and grinned at Spielos; she was thrilled that they would be leaving this place and had to share it with someone.
            Spielos looked past Gannon and smiled. "It will be good to get moving again," he said.
            Then he turned his attention back to Gannon. "You don't look well," he observed. Spielos turned his head slightly to the side. "Yes. You are a little pale, and anxious. I thought it was the light, but no, it is not. We might want to make sure you are well enough to travel before we set out. Having runny bowels is not the way to start a trip. Or maybe you just did not sleep well?"
            Behind Gannon, Aksana stopped. She put both hands to her mouth and her eyes grew wider with every word to pass Spielos' lips. _This_ was why the Hammer of Bane did not like the outlander; no one from the Moonsea would ever dream of saying such things. A tiny, tiny portion of her brain wanted to say, yes, but it was funny, but she quickly quashed it in the face of what she saw as imminent danger. Hardly missing a beat she turned about and slid back around the distracted Atjets. She seized the bard by the arm, fearing him less than the Bannite. "Of course Atjets, Bane's vill be done," she said as she started trying to pull the outlander towards the cave.
            Gannon simply watched, stone-faced, as the scout attempted to pull the gypsy away. Perhaps he was just too tired, but he couldn't summon the energy to slap the outlander down. Instead, he sighed.
            "You are keeping me from my prayers, gypsy. Unless, of course, you vished to join me?"

            Alethra approached the guards outside Emistil's temporary quarters with a confident glare in her eye. Her hood shadowed her eyes, but they clearly glowered at the men. "Do not disturb me, unless my master returns," she said simply, before floating past them into the room.
            She found her loyal pet resting comfortably in the high corners of the room, but she could sense he was hungry. She held out a treat and waited for Nut to snatch the goody out of her hand before even acknowledging Emistil's presence.
            "Your reprieve, it is up," she said. "We leave by highsun. You must know that Rhia lied to you. She would just as soon kill you herself if she could. Escape, it is not an option for you. Entry into the service of the Church is ... difficult for one who is loyal, but for one who resists it can be agonizing."
            She walked closer to Emistil. She looked into his eyes and saw he had no fear of her, no hatred. All the times she had questioned people for information in the past she saw at the very least some discomfort in their eyes, but here she saw nothing.
            "I do not come to intimidate you, only to make my meaning clear. You have nothing to gain by answering my questions, truthfully or otherwise. I expect you will say anything in an attempt to gain my favor, and I realize I risk becoming beholden to you for the promise of more information. But it will not happen. You will be taken to the Church, and you will submit to their will, or you will die. Either way, you have nothing to gain or lose by answering me."
            She paused for several seconds to make her meaning clear. Her visage remained expressionless up to this point, her voice continuously emotionless - if not still lilting with her innate elvish lyricism. But she swallowed hard before speaking again, and she prayed to Shar that the darkness would conceal her and keep it from showing the trepidation on her face.
            "Do you know anything of the - of our." She stopped, and frowned. Rephrasing, she asked, "Tell me of your background. Were you raised by others of your kind?"
            Emistil lounged on the furs that made up Mandrake's old bed, watching her speak with that same, faint smile he always seemed to wear. When she paused for him to answer, he patted the bed beside him, inviting her to sit. "Oh yes, I was raised by... my kind, as you put it. Your question, among other things, suggests that you, however, were not. What could bring you to heel at the call of their church? Slavery, perhaps? Did you grow to the crack of the whip, and seek solace in the shadow of the divine?"
            She accepted his invitation to sit down, keeping her visage calm and even allowing a gentle smile to creep onto her face. "Yes, I vas born into slavery. The Church saved me from that life, and for that I am indebted to them. But I asked about you. Please tell me, vhere did you come from?"
            "As must be apparent in my speech alone, I hail from lands south of these, where the bright sun rules the day and the moon guards the night. Tell me, does that not draw one of your blood, to see the skies bared and the land free below them? Or has the cell become too comfortable, too comforting, to leave?"
            Alethra smirked at his prodding. He seemed determined to turn the conversation around on her. "I vould be curious to see the vorld you speak of. But Shar put the clouds in the sky to protect us from the Outlanders, so they say. So that ve might be hidden from their jealousy." Did she really believe this, though? So long had she dwelled in the shadows she could not imagine such a world, much less whether it would even hold anything for her.
            She shook her head. "Not everyone who follows the rules, or obeys the Church, sees themselves in a cell." As quickly as she could, she shifted the focus back to him. "Did magic come naturally for you? Who taught you?"
            His smile widened, and he cocked his head at her from where he lay against the wall. "Interesting. Your companion did not put it so. My skills attest to my aptitude, though you've had little occasion to see them at their finest. Perhaps you shall, when we've left this place. As for my master, let him remain nameless, for he's long dead... but I have surpassed him in every way. Perhaps the cold Arts draw you more than your angry friend, hmm? Does the dark call to you with cool whispers, little _elf?"_
            The question tweaked Alethra. She shifted herself slightly towards him. Her friendliness evaporated, and she spoke in earnest. "You already know that I speak vith the shadows, and they answer me. You have seen enough of my powers - first hand, no less, felt their cold chill on your skin. Your strength, it is still returning, yes? And, I likevise, have felt enough of your power first hand. You tried to kill me, and might have had the battle turned another way. Shar chose me to speak to the shadows. Did you choose to become a slave to evil and the pursuit of power?"
            "What fantastic speculations you must have had! Unlike you, I am slave to nothing, but I think we pursue power for the same reasons. Is it not true that only the powerful may control their own lives, rather than living by the whim of those stronger?" He reached out, trailing the tips of his fingers down her cheek. "But these questions... they do draw a picture. Is it really me you would ask... or is it yourself?"
            Alethra had complete check of her emotions, so she tried not to recoil, to show weakness. Still, it was impossible not to flinch at his touch. She pulled herself back a few inches, remaining calm and focused on her adversary. His question had merit, in truth. *Am I not trying to convince myself of the path I have chosen?* she thought.
            She recalled her first meeting with Thaurlann, and her genuine desire to hear of his homeland, and her offer to take him into her confidence. But even he had turned quickly against her. Now, she had someone who would not care if she exposed all herself, but he was a villain, not to be trusted. She held back, struggling to even respond to his question. As the warmth of his touch lingered, she felt an even more uncomfortable thought rising. "Did you participate in the... assault on Anya?" she asked.
            His slight smile became a sneer of contempt. "I am no beast, to rut in the mud with the other beasts. No, I've never laid a hand on your Warden." The smile returned, cheerful as ever. "I rather imagine she'd have tried to run me through by now, had I done so. That would have been unfortunate. But what is your interest in such matters?" His hand trailed over hers teasingly. "Did you come merely to speak with... one of your own kind, or one who touches the Weave as you? Or was there something else to it?"
            This time, she didn't even flinch at his touch. In spite of herself, she allowed herself to experience the feeling. Even though Master Korvac had played at being affectionate, he always had a leering expectation behind it. Emistil had a more capricious nature. She was not naive - she knew that she had beauty, even if only to those who could see her as more than a demon. *Emistil, though, would likely try and seduce a demon the likes of the one we killed in these very caves if he thought it might get him some advantage,* she thought.
            Alethra fully removed her hood, allowing the torchlight of the room to illuminate her face, highlighting her emerald eyes. Her voice softened.
            "Vhen you begged for mercy in the cliffs above, I found myself feeling sorry for you, and part of me wanted to pray to Shar that they kept you alive. Why, I do not even know myself. Those who touch the Weave, though rare, have passed in and out of my life before, and I have never been sorry to see them go. You are no different in that aspect, vhatever claim to power you vish to hold onto. But you are unique to me, both in being an outsider and in being an … _elf."_
            She fell silent for a moment, lost in her own mind, gaze fixed on his face. "In a few hours perhaps I lose you for good anyvay. Either you vill be under the constant vatch of my mast – of Atjets Gannon, and I vill have no more chance to speak vith you. Or, you vill escape again."
            Her arm reached out tentatively for his face, and she touched the point of his ear, perhaps trying to discern if it were real or an illusion. There was nothing teasing about the touch, just a curiosity to feel another without violent intent. "You are so strange to me, hard to read, yet you can see right through the shadows into me, and even try to toy with me like a cat. Vhy are you here, in the north, avay from your _bare skies and free lands?_ Vhat is it that you seek here? Just more power? So that you may be beholden to no von?"
            She let the words softly drop from her lips, as if discarding them from her thoughts at random. Then she remained silent, watching his face for some sign that he might have some explanation for her, for any of this.
            He kept still under her touch, hooded eyes dark, wearing that perpetual smile. His pointed ears were real enough, at least. "I only wondered if the stars called to you as the poets have said they do all your kind, keeping them from traveling here. No, this land suits me well enough, still, though still people try to tame it. It is free from those who would bend others to their petty will, if one keeps wary of falling into poor company." He laughed then, and reached up to catch her hand in his. "Freedom is a drug you've never tasted, slave girl, but I think it would become you. I think it would become you very well. Perhaps it is not only I who have fallen into bad company. Like so many things, it all lies in how you view it." He raised her hand to his lips, his smile faintly mocking.
            The female elf's demeanor changed, and her face closed back up into the shadows of stoicism. "So, then, does that mean you vere a fugitive in your own land as vell?" Without waiting for a response, she drew her hand back and stood up. "I am afraid I might have vasted my time and risked wrath from the atjets for nothing. I feel sorry for the pain you must now endure, but there is nothing I can do about it, without betraying my goddess. And, I am not convinced you are vorth saving."
            Alethra turned away and took a step, then stopped. Her head spun back around, followed swiftly by her body, and she walked back towards him, standing by his side. Her hands reached forward and grabbed his head, pulling it closer to her. The kiss she gave him was deliberate, yet at the same time uncertain and awkward. She pulled herself away after only a moment, and backed herself towards the exit without another word. Emistil's chuckle followed her, seeming to slide through the shadows that were her domain.
            With her hood back up, Alethra emerged from the curtain and looked at one of the sellspears nearby. "Bind and gag the prisoner," she said. "Let him say nothing to you." The sellspears exchanged nervous looks; to bind a mag on the orders of a maga in these cursed tunnels was not their idea of a good time. Still, they fetched rope and entered the curtained cave, and if they went with trepidation stamped on their faces, at least they went.

            Astonished though she was by the Banite's abrupt about-face, Anya wasted no time. She hurried back into the tunnels, finding Rhia, Thaurlann and Krel in the main cave to tell them of their new circumstances. "Help me to haul out vhat ve can. I vill claim it in the name of the Lord; hopefully it vill be enough to pay his new soldiers."
            Thaurlann nodded wordlessly and began the task of collecting the armor and weapons left over – his own old chain mail included – and taking them out to the horses. The mysteries of this place still lurked heavy in his mind, but his freshly-renewed loyalty to Bane left no question that Gannon's will be done.

            Thaurlann was cautious to preserve the relics from each body, taking more care this time than he had the first time, in hopes that some new information might be gleaned from their inscriptions. Even if their departure were imminent, perhaps it could be useful information for the Church. Likewise, he delicately rolled the skull around to pry loose whatever treasure hid inside it.
            The skull's secrets proved more difficult to retrieve than he thought. The item had somehow found its way inside the deepest corners of the skull, beyond his reach. He felt duty-bound to return the remains where they lay, as once-proud warriors, but he must remove the evil that corrupted them, however possible. Placing the skull on the ground, he struck at it with his sword, hoping for as clean a break as possible.
            The skull was old, and his sword sharp; the bone split into large shards, one of which held a small black stone tucked into a cranny. He collected it along with the other items before he departed.

            Astonished though she was by the Banite's abrupt about-face, Anya wasted no time. She hurried back into the tunnels, finding Rhia, Thaurlann and Krel in the main cave to tell them of their new circumstances. "Help me to haul out vhat ve can. I vill claim it in the name of the Lord; hopefully it vill be enough to pay his new soldiers."
            Thaurlann nodded wordlessly and began the task of collecting the armor and weapons left over - his own old chain mail included - and taking them out to the horses. The mysteries of this place still lurked heavy in his mind, but his freshly-renewed loyalty to Bane left no question that Gannon's will be done.
            Rhia also nodded, and went with Thaurlann to the storage room.
            "Let's collect anything that might be..._enhanced,"_ she suggested, "and move it to the lab in the crypt. I can more efficiently check everything there."
            She then began to sort items.
            "This should go outside," she said, nudging a chest with her booted toe. "This, specifically, needs to be claimed for the Lord Tjesnitjιrs." There was the clink of coin when she nudged it again.
            "If anyone needs clothing - like Spielos, perhaps, or even a certain brave young knight of Bane, who keeps getting his own clothes filled with holes - perhaps they should go through that crate over there." Rhia nodded to the crate along one wall, filled with various clothing items.
            "If they'll fit on the horses, we should take the instrument, and the furs. They're relatively light, and high-value. The Lord, he needs such things, to pay for his 'volunteers.'"
            Rhia looked around, as Thaurlann carried out all the armor and weapons he could scrounge. She tossed an empty scimitar scabbard onto the pile of weapons. Those item, too would prove useful for Lord Tjesnitjιrs. Outfitting the soldiers, in lieu of actual pay, might prove a worthwhile idea.
            When Thaurlann had returned, she nodded.
            "I'll take this brace of knives to the lab to examine," she said, lifting the matching pair of knives she'd found, each with a gold coin tang, "as well as this little rock you found. You can take care of moving the things I pointed out. The rest, it can probably be left, except for the wine. Spielos would kill us if we left the wine."
            "We should fill all the feed-bags, as well." Rhia nodded to the remainder of the horse feed in the corner, then paused.
            "I'm sorry, Thaurlann, I don't mean to be ordering you areound, I'm just... trying to be efficient, I guess."
            The young knight looked up from his work and shrugged, as if he hadn't even noticed. He had been too busy, though he delegated as much of the work as he could to the sellspears. He made a notable exception in that he wouldn't let any of them touch the chest of money, lest they be tempted.
            As the bulk of the work seemed to be progressing, Thaurlann said, "Perhaps now would be a good time for you to … examine the relics we found. I can check the rest of the ruins to see if we missed anything." He sighed, and then looked around the main cave. "I wonder where the other maga is. Her and that demon bird would be most useful in seeing anything else of interest. Perhaps our scout's keen eyes might also be of use."

            "You are keeping me from my prayers, gypsy. Unless, of course, you vished to join me?"
            Spielos stopped smiling. "Ajets Gannon, while I might not like you, you have certainly earned my respect. Even if I wished, I could not fault any of the actions you have taken, save one. To answer your question, yes, I would like to take prayer with you. I think in the southlands your people are misunderstood greatly. I would like to be able to speak the truth as to things when I return there, someday."
            Aksana stopped in her efforts, her eyes grew wide. "You know not vhat you ask," her words were a mere whisper. She dropped his arm and backed away a step. Her eyes darted to Gannon, then to the ground. "I, uh, have to get ready to leave," she pointed vaugly back to the cave. Spinning quickly she retreated toward the bandit's lair leaving Spielos to his fate.
            Gannon's face was impassive, but for the slight crease of his forehead as Aksana fled.
            "Von vould think I had suggested sacrificing her to the Gods," he said, quietly.
            If he didn't know the man better, Spielos might just have thought Gannon had made a joke.
            Gannon's shoulders shrugged, and he looked at Spielos squarely, though without the typical "Mooneye stare" that usually accompanied such direct looks.
            "The truth, Gypsy, you speak it. Ve are not reqvired to like one another, but to do our duty to the Gods. Everything else, it vill hang upon that one commandment. The Outlanders, they do not understand this, as you say. The People, ve love, ve have families, pets, lives, like any others, but all these things, they are ours because the Gods bless us vith them, and because the Gods, they test us, to make us strong enough to hold onto those things ve love. I love my supruga - my vife, and the dyatee - the children ve have together, not just because I somehow 'found love,' vith her, but also because the Bane of Evil, He commands that ve love our spouse. He also commands that ve _earn_ our spouse, and prove that ve are vorthy of their love in turn, and I have done so vith my supruga."
            Gannon gave Spielos a look the gypsy drummer couldn't quite read, then shook his head, and led the outlander back to the place Aksana had bathed herself, away from any possible prying eyes.
            "If you do return to the Outlands, yes, I vish that you vould speak the truth; that the People are, for the most part, goodly people, who revere the Gods, as they are taught, and who struggle, as they are taught, and who prove every day that the vorld, it owes them nothing, yet they vill take from it all that they deserve, as ve are promised." For a long moment, Gannon stood staring, as if seeing the people of the Moonsea, spread out before him, and appreciating, somehow approving of their struggles. Then he turned to face Spielos again.
            "The prayer of the unbeliever, to the Gods it is often an insult. I appreciate your gesture, gypsy, but if you vill not mean vhat you vill say here, it is better for you to turn avay now."
            Considering that Gannon's job description as a member of the Church of Bane included the forced conversion of heretics and unbelievers, the warning could be considered a kindness. Possibly even heretical kindness.
            Spielos nodded, and held Gannon's gaze. "I understand what you say. More importantly, I understand what you mean, and I thank you for it. You call me a gypsy, and I understand that as well, but I do not think you understand what that means. In me you see an outlander, with no status, no history, no oath and no respect for your traditions and ways. There is more. Where you are the hammer against which your people are forged, my kind, we are water that flows across the land. In some places we build up the land, in others we wear it down."
            "In some places, the gypsies, as you call us, are held in such esteem that they may pass through a battle between two armies, and both sides will stop fighting, and allow them to pass. Let me tell you why what I do is held in such high regard elsewhere.
            "My weapons are my wit, my sword and my songs. I hold no lands or allegiance to anyone, save myself and my task. I command no armies. The actions I take, like hunting these bandits, are taken not out of a sense of duty to a lord, but because it is the /right/ thing to do.
            "It is my duty to travel the lands of creation and record what I find, be it good or ill. I compose songs and stories of the brave, steady men, such as yourself, or the most despicable, such as Mandrake, and spread them far and wide so that all may know of the deeds I have witnessed and the reputation of those who performed them.
            "The bulk of the stories we have to tell are more mundane, but perhaps more important. This news can at times mean life or death- a plague in a trading caravan, or bandits on the road. Other times,it can be as simple as a desire to trade between remote hamlets. We carry decrees from royalty across kingdoms and news from the most common of men wishing to wish their brother on the next farm well. We carry news of births, couples taking vows of wedlock, men and women coming of age and deaths. It is such a thing that sent me here to the lands, in fact. The news I carry is truth, as witnessed by my own eyes and heard by my own ears. It is subject to judgment in both this world and the next. If any is found false, we pay for it with our life and soul. A gypsy like myself would rather take his own life than disperse information we know to be false.
            "Most of us, we die on the roads, unsung, forgotten. The ravens pick our bones and the wind scatters our dust across the lands we walked. If we are good at our craft, our stories may outlive us. The tales we manage to tell, the ones people remember, are our mark on the world. In the south, many of the tales about your lands now ring false to me. I can change that, perhaps."
            The bard turned away, to look out over the lake. "I do not seek to utter false prayers, it would be unjust to you and untrue to myself. I only wish to observe so I can do as you ask, and report your devotion truly."
            Gannon looked at Spielos for a few heartbeats. Heartbeats that seemed to stretch into years. The Baneite's face betrayed little reaction, and eventually Gannon simply grunted, nodded, and knelt in the soft dirt next to the water.
            Gannon shucked off his shirt and breastplate, the latter having been only incompletely fastened. Beneath them, his bare skin was pale, though criss-crossed with pink scar tissue. The Baneite's body hair was matted, and a glance at Gannon's shirt beneath the armor showed it to be damp. To an experienced road traveler such as Spielos, it was clear that Gannon had given himself a wet-rag bath this morning. As Gannon began his prayers, hands clasped and raised as far behind his back as he could stretch them, while kneeling and touching his forehead to the dirt, Spielos also saw that Gannon's bath hadn't been meticulous - something of a surprise, given Gannon's nature. In spots across the big man's back were lines of what looked like dried blood. Most of them had been wiped away, but some smudges and missed places remained; enough that Spielos could connect the dots, and recognize the probable source of such lines. Oddly, the skin beneath the blood wasn't broken, only red, as if recently slapped.
            Gannon seemed not to notice, as he chanted into the dirt. The cords of his arms stood out, his position obviously one that caused him discomfort, but the discomfort did not display itself in his voice, which was steady. From what Spielos could hear, the prayer sounded mostly like a litany of the Bane Against Evil's great accomplishments, and of the things for which His followers owed Him gratitude. Unlike many other religions, this priest's prayers to his god did not involve begging, or groveling, or cries for aid. Instead, Gannon spoke of how he had been a valiant servant, and a strong one. He did not ask his god to watch over his family, instead Gannon claimed that his family was strong, and worthy, and asked that Bane bless them with the chance to prove their strength, and to grow stronger.
            If Gannon was any example, Bane's followers did not ask their god to perform miracles of healing and mercy amongst His people. Instead, they thanked Him for giving them the chance to prove their mettle against the harsh world they lived in, asked for further opportunities to test themselves, and made it clear that they expected the blessings that were promised by Bane to those of His people who proved themselves worthy. They also paid Him quite a lot of respect, and - in Gannon's case, at least - swore themselves to His service.
            Gannon's devotions took some time, and throughout that time, Gannon's posture did not relent, nor did his voice. After nearly an hour of this, Gannon let his arms relax, and raised himself to his knees again.
            "Freedom," Gannon said, "can be deceiving." Gannon squinted, looking off into the sky. "Infidels, they think that to live vith rules and commandments, vith betters and servants, it is loss of a man's freedom. They do not realize," he said, "that is is only through obedience and struggle that a man may be free from the veight of sin, and free to lift himself to become the best version of himself." Gannon began to dress himself again, "You spoke of duty and honor, gypsy, and I understand such things. In my experience, many of the Outlanders, they do not. If you do, then you know how these things can lift a man, help him to overcome the base beast that he is so often tempted to become. Duty is not easy, but so little is, that is of vorth."
            Gannon brought himself to his feet, fully the armored Hammer of Bane once again, looking oddly refreshed, for a man encased in steel, who had just spent the last hour with his face pressed into the dirt and his shoulders half-dislocated. "It is the duty of the strong to master the veak, and give them tasks that they are suited for, to challenge their abilities, and help them to become better people. It is also the duty of the strong to protect those veaker than they are, as it is the duty of the veaker to help their master do these things, and to obey him. Vithout the rule of the mighty, the veak vould be destroyed, and left to vander and die vithout direction. Vithout the services of the veaker, the strong vould vaste their lives on little things, and never be free to lead the People to better things. Indeed," he said with a bare hint of a smile, "there vould be no People for them to lead, and vhat good is a leader, if there is no one to follow him?"
            "You vill go one day, gypsy, if the Gods allow it, and you do not demand Their vengeance upon you for your heresies, and you vill have the opportunity - the duty - to speak the Truth of the People to the Outlands. I hope you vill do so, and vith honor."
            With that, Gannon began walking back towards the cave entrance.
            For his part, Spielos followed silently, at first. Gannon had given him much to think about. At least in these lands, it seemed the teachings of Bane meshed well with Speilos' own life: that nothing was owed and you had to fight for what you got. Many times the bard had shouted 'Fortune Favors the Bold!' as he lept into a fight; it was easy to see how if he'd been raised in the Moonsea, it might just as easily been 'Bane smite the infidels' or some other like cry.
            "Ajets Gannon," Spielos began, "I understand you better now, and it is easy to see how out of place I am here. Tell me then, why have you not had me put to death or taken away? It is known in the South that infidels in the Moonsea are often killed on sight outside the ports."
            Gannon didn't stop walking, so Spielos couldn't see his face, but he actually sounded amused.
            "Yes? And it is known in the Moonsea that all Outlanders vorship demons and eat children." Gannon stopped suddenly and looked at Spielos, his face serious, though without the hint of threat that usually accompanied his looks.
            "If I vere to kill or 'take avay' every outlander I met, the only people to hunt these bandits vould be the Varden and I and the sellspears. My duty as a Chosen of Bane is to spread his vorship. It is difficult to vorship anyvon if von is dead, is it not?" The Baneite shrugged. "Do not mistake my vords, Outlander. You have noticed, perhaps, that every outlander here has expressed a vish to stay, or to learn the truth of the People, or at the least, to help the People against their enemies. The larger part of my duty, both as a Chosen of Bane, and as von in position over servants and peshka, is to defend the People from their enemies. If an outlander came here, intending to harm my People, I vould destroy him."
            Spielos chewed his lip as he waited for Gannon to finish. "You might not believe this," he began, trying to hold back a chuckle, "but the Chondathan word for "baby veal cow" sounds an lot like your word for "baby peshka" to the untrained ear. I can easily see how an outlander boasting of how he likes to eat baby peasants to someone might arouse some distrust." The bard failed to contain himself, and broke out into full laughter. "Oh, that would go over so well," he managed to say between bouts of laughter. "Some unwashed sailor babbling in a tavern: 'There is nothing I like more than some roasted baby peshka fried up with some shallots and peppers. Oh, that, see, that is funny."
            Gannon did not laugh, but neither did he give Spielos the thunderous glare that normally accompanied the gypsy's jokes. Instead he waited patiently for the white-haired outlander to get the giggles out.
            Spielos mastered himself and became serious again. "I see. As long as we outlanders are helping your people and remain we _very_ discreet about any," Spielos paused, searching for the right words. "Any incorrect infidel views regarding the divinities, it is unlikely that we will be brought before a tribunal where we would be convicted of blasphemy, have skin flayed and our balls cut off and stuffed in our mouths before we were burned alive."
            "You vould never be brought before such a tribunal for blasphemy," Gannon objected, "and your balls, they vould not be stuffed in your mouth." The Baneite shook his head. "No, blasphemy is punishable by flogging. Heresy, or sedition, _those_ vould get you to a trial, yes. But the balls, vhy vaste them feeding a dead man?"
            Gannon did not elaborate, but turned on his heel and resumed walking back towards the cave entrance. Spielos wasn't sure, but he thought that perhaps, just perhaps, there had been a slight uptick at the corner of the priest's mouth as he said that last part.
            Spielos stood, open mouthed for a moment, before he again followed after Gannon, his steps unsteady from the gut-splitting laughter that shook is body.

            Rhia looked at the garment in her hand, then bit her lip. Her clothes were getting a little... over-worn. Most of what was in the crate was less-than impressive, but a few things looked as if they might have come from the keep, or perhaps some other noble's collection - or a trade caravan. The garment she was holding was one such. An airy, light, white dress. *More like an under-dress,* she admitted to herself, but it would be better than nothing, at least while she let her current clothes air out. She'd seen Aksana go by, looking clean, with wet hair. Spielos had followed later, also looking refreshed - almost happy, even. They weren't leaving until Highsun, so she should have time. Rhia grabbed a few other things from the crate, then headed outside. Apparently there was a place to bathe nearby...

            Rhia felt better than she had in quite some time. She'd found the hidden place to bathe out of sight of the others, and then washed her clothes. She still had to check the collected items for Artistic qualities, and time was running short, so she simply pulled her wet hair back into a quick braid, then pulled on the items she'd taken from the crate, stood, and gave herself a look, s best she could. She'd been right; the off-shoulder dress _was_ a bit thin for the conditions, but it'd have to do until her other clothes were dry. She had about an hours' worth of work to do, but it was all inside, out of the wind, so she should be fine. The cool Moonsea breeze blowing the hem of the dress around her sandaled feet, Rhia made her way quickly into the cave again.

            She'd left her clothes laid out by the fire to dry, and, after reflection, left most of her gear on her bedroll. She was going to be leaving here and living on the road for who knew how long, so Rhia had decided to live the next few hours as lightly as possible. She'd slung one of her belts across a shoulder, so her sword was at hand, but out of the way on her back. The pouches on that belt hung at waist level, and were a little harder to get to, but she didn't anticipate having to do anything hyper-quickly, at least not before they left.
            For the moment, she stood in the laboratory-seeming portion of the crypt. She'd lain everything out on the top of the stone block that served as a work table. With everything prepared, Rhia reached once again into the fabric of the Weave, and worked her Art. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed a little different. She could see the faint tracings of the Weave, touching everything. Her eyes glowed with a soft blue light, and as that light fell on the objects before her, Rhia was able to see how those objects touched the Weave. Unfortunately, "not at all" seemed to be the best way to describe it. None of the objects glowed the way something tied to the Weave should do under her enhanced vision. Not even the little stone Thaurlann had found in the skeleton's skull. It remained as she had first seen it, black, highly polished, roughly an inch long. Possibly valuable, but not magical, at least not any longer.
            In her disappointment, Rhia almost missed it. She'd mistaken the glow as merely a reflection of that from her eyes. When she'd moved to collect the items, however, the angle of the light coming off the wall to her left did not change. She looked again, closer. To her surprise, a glow was coming from the side of the stone block, the side facing the wall. Excitedly, she knelt and looked more intently at the stone block, letting her vision meld more fully with the Weave. In a few seconds, she'd deduced that the glow was coming from _inside_ the block, rather than from the block itself. She was no scout, but even Rhia's untrained eyes eventually found the small hidden door, and the hidden latch that would open it (the light streaming through the edges of the door, outlining it for her helped a great deal). Excited as she was, Rhia hesitated before pressing the hidden latch. What if it was trapped? Would the others be able to find and help her in time? Despite her better judgment, Rhia's fingers worked the latch anyway, and with a click, her heart exploded.
            At least, it felt that way to the diviner, as the door swung open and she saw the powerful glow of the scroll hidden behind it. Ignoring everything else she saw within, Rhia's trembling hand gently closed around the brightly glowing scroll, and she removed it from the cubby. She took a moment to try and calm the trembling, then opened the very old velum, and her eyes fell on the glowing runes it contained. They were in Ruathlek, the language of magic, and she was able to discern that the scroll held a Weave that involved raising the dead. Not really a surprise, given the location and guardians, but Rhia was unable to discern much more than that. She frowned, frustrated. She could probably figure it out, eventually, despite her aversion to such things, but it would take some time, and she wasn't quite ready to sit down in the crypt and try to figure it out just now - not when just anyone might come stumbling along. Instead, she rolled the scroll closed and slipped it into the soft leather sleeve of her dress. Then she turned her attention to the other items in the cubby. None of them glowed, but they were interesting just the same. A brown suede pouch, what appeared to be a silver inkpen - extraordinarily rare, if it was as old as she thought it should be - and a vial.
            She looked into the pouch first. it clinked when she lifted it, and the blue glow from her eyes glinted off the metal of ancient-looking coins. *Just coins,* she thought, and tucked it away into the pouch on her belt. The vial contained a silvery liquid, but the liquid didn't glow, so she assumed it was something mundane, like quicksilver, or a metallic ink. It, too went into her pouch. Lastly, she looked at the inkpen. It was ancient, made of silver, and decorated with intricate scrollwork. The decoration was delicate, beautiful, but didn't trip any memories or recognition in her head. With a happy sigh, Rhia slid the pen into her pouch. A last look showed the cubby to be empty, and so she closed it and stood. She still had a few minutes left of magical sight, and decided not to waste it. Leaving the other items on the block for now, Rhia moved out into the pool room, where the glow from the pool nearly blinded her. She averted her gaze, instead taking the magical torch they'd left on the floor after the fight and investigating the dark corner Alethra had looked into before.
            The alcove was dark, but between her eyes and the torch, the markings on the walls and rubble were clear, and profane in the extreme. There were signs she didn't know, but also obscene pictographic images of women with bat wings and tails and other devil- like creatures performing unspeakable acts. Looking closely at the lines, Rhia saw that they appeared to be scratched directly onto the stones with tiny claws. None of it glowed, however. Disturbing as it was - and it sent chills down her spine - nothing in here appeared to be magical in nature.
            Rhia briefly considered using another of the Weaves she'd prepared for the day, but decided against it for now. The images were too disturbing. Instead, as the blue glow in her eyes flickered and died, she moved to the pool again. Setting the torch down, she leaned over the side of the pool and gazed into the water. Her mind wasn't focused on trying to see anything, and so the pool didn't respond. Eventually, she climbed up onto the stones, squatting on her toes, and continued to stare into the water, but seeing only into her own thoughts. This place was strange, and dangerous. Gannon's decision to seal it was likely a good one, but the call of knowledge pulled at her. What should she do? Tell Gannon about the scroll? It was likely what Mandrake and Emistil had been seeking, and if not, Emistil, at least, could likely make good use of it.
            *Well, not _good_ use, but something noticeable, at the very least.*
            Lost in her thoughts, Rhia remained, perched on the side of the magic pool, for some time.

            Feeling guilty but unwilling to go back outside Aksana poked around at her stuff and eventually got it put into her pack satisfactorially. Looking around she noticed the box of clothing left behind by the bandits. Since she had given her spare set to Anya and the badgers had made a mess of the ones she was wearing she decided it would be best to pick out some more. She wrinkled her nose at what she found but it was better than nothing.
            Just as she was finishing up with her scavenging she heard her name mentioned. She glanced up and found Thaurlann looking in her direction. She stared at him for a moment, giving an inward sigh. Then she nodded her head and moved over to him. "You have need of my skills, yes?" She followed the outlander as he began his search of the rest of the cave.
            Aksana stared suspiciously at Rhia when they came across her staring into the dragon's pool. Moving around the edge of the room away from the maga she continued their search. When she came across the hidden cubby she paused and examined it carefully before opening it. She was surprised, and a little disappointed, when she found such a carefully hidden spot empty.
            She called Thaurlann's attention to it before she moved her search along to the alcove at the back of the room. The scratches on the wall made the back of her neck prickle and she did her best not to look at them. A slight glint caught her eye and she picked up a key out of the dust and debris on the floor. Not far away she found a second key. Wondering vaguely what they might open she pocketed them for the time being. Kicking over a small pile of rubble she pulled out a square of wood, turning it over, she found it to be a chessboard. Looking more closely she noticed a few of the pieces lying nearby. Further searching surprisingly uncovered the entire set.
            Moving to a spot near the door she presented the chest set to Thaurlann and pulled out the two keys.
            When they'd finished their own search, Rhia stepped off the edge of the pool and approached Aksana and Thaurlann.
            "I didn't want to prejudice your search by telling you where I'd been." Rhia smiled. "I found a compartment in the lab area. Not much in it, really. An ink pen, some silver ink in a vial, and some old coins." The diviner pulled the items out of her pouch and displayed them. "They're not magical of themselves, but I'm thinking they might be part of a powerful Weave. With some time to study them, I can figure it out, but at the moment, I'm just guessing." She shrugged, holding the items out for the other two to examine, is they wished.
            "I can check the things you've found, if you like, to see if they have been worked with the Art, though I doubt it. The keys look interesting though. Oh, and Aksana, I've noticed you're fond of knives. The pair I left on the stone in the lab, they are not magical, but they seem very well made, well-balanced. I can't imagine Anya objecting to you taking them for your own use."
            Rhia glanced at the dark corner again, and frowned. "I have the ability to understand those 'writings,' but I am unsure that I want to do so. What do you two think?"
            Aksana narrowed her eyes as Rhia pulled out the additional items. More like you hoped that we would not find them, she thought to herself. She looked at the items but made no move to take them. At the mention of the dark corner and its foul writings she shook her head, "leave them to the dust vhere they belong I say."

            As the bulk of the work seemed to be progressing, Thaurlann said, "Perhaps now would be a good time for you to... examine the relics we found. I can check the rest of the ruins to see if we missed anything." He sighed, and then looked around the main cave. "I wonder where the other maga is. Her and that demon bird would be most useful in seeing anything else of interest. Perhaps our scout's keen eyes might also be of use."
            Rhia looked at the garment in her hand, then bit her lip. Her clothes were getting a little... over-worn. Most of what was in the crate was less-than impressive, but a few things looked as if they might have come from the keep, or perhaps some other noble's collection - or a trade caravan. The garment she was holding was one such. An airy, light, white dress. *More like an under-dress, * she admitted to herself, but it would be better than nothing, at least while she let her current clothes air out. She'd seen Aksana go by, looking clean, with wet hair. Spielos had followed later, also looking refreshed - almost happy, even. They weren't leaving until Highsun, so she should have time.
            "I need a bath, Thaurlann. While you look through the rest of the cave and collect things, I'll get clean, and then meet you in the crypt."
            Rhia grabbed a few other things from the crate, then headed outside. There was a place to bathe nearby, and she was going to use it.

            She'd left her clothes laid out by the fire to dry, and, after reflection, left most of her gear on her bedroll. She was going to be leaving here and living on the road for who knew how long, so Rhia had decided to live the next few hours as lightly as possible. She'd slung one of her belts across a shoulder, so her sword was at hand, but out of the way on her back. The pouches on that belt hung at waist level, and were a little harder to get to, but she didn't anticipate having to do anything hyper-quickly, at least not before they left.
            For the moment, she stood in the laboratory-seeming portion of the crypt. Thaurlann hadn't arrived yet, so Rhia had lain everything out on the top of the stone block that served as a work table. With everything prepared, Rhia reached once again into the fabric of the Weave, and worked her Art. When she opened her eyes, the world seemed a little different. She could see the faint tracings of the Weave, touching everything. Her eyes glowed with a soft blue light, and as that light fell on the objects before her, Rhia was able to see how those objects touched the Weave.
            Unfortunately, "not at all" seemed to be the best way to describe it. None of the objects glowed the way something tied to the Weave should do under her enhanced vision. Not even the little stone Thaurlann had found in the skeleton's skull. It remained as she had first seen it, black, highly polished, roughly an inch long. Possibly valuable, but not magical, at least not any longer.

            Anya wiped the sweat from her forehead, looking at her work with grim satisfaction. The last of the goods from the caves were being secured to the heavily laden packhorses, strung out in a line with the rope they had found. The sellspears, eager to be returning to civilization, had sprung to work with a will; there were horses enough that each of them would ride from this place. Still, it would be a slow trek back through the rough ridged wilderness, laden as they were. Her eyes tightened at the prospect, but there was nothing for it; she had to keep the good of Lord Tjesnitjιrs in mind, and the sale of these goods would be sorely needed to pay the Lord's sellspear army.
            Passing the reeking pile of dead bandits with a prayer of thanks that the wolves seemed unwilling to enter the lake-filled valley, she entered the caves for what she hoped was the last time. She found Spielos, Krel and Gannon in the smoky main cave, where Krel knelt in prayer beside Paryev's body.
            "It is highsun," she announced without preamble. "Time to go."
            Gannon quirked an eyebrow at the Warden as she interrupted Krel's prayer, but said nothing. When the Talontar had finished his devotions, Gannon spoke to Anya.
            "Have the men eaten? There is food left that ve vill be unable to carry vith us, and much travel to do. The men should eat of vhat is here before ve go. I vill seal the cave vhen that is done. For now, I go to see vhat the maga, she has found."
            Anya threw up her hands in frustration as the Banite left. Still frightened of the curse on the tunnels, none but those ordered by Gannon would enter them, and so they had been little help in dragging the stores from the bandits' stockpile. *See them mounted, feed them, vhat next? Vipe them vhen they use the latrine? The outlander... Thaurlann. He has been much more helpful than these dogs. I vill see that his service, it is revarded vhen ve return to the Keep.* She stalked back out into the light, barking orders that the sellspears were, for a change, happy to obey.

            It was apparent when they arrived back at the cave that Gannon had things on his mind. Spielos also noted that the sellswords were moving about with the purpose of trying to look busy so they didn't have to do much work. *Ah, life on the trail,* Spielos mused. *it's the same everywhere.*
            An idea hit him. *And walking when you could ride is a fool's game!* Grinning from ear to ear, he walked over to the stable area and set about finding a horse that would suit him and some riding gear.

            Gannon made his way into the crypt. He found Rhia, Aksana and Thaurlann standing around a collection of things, Rhia not dressed for traveling. Aksana looked up when Gannon entered. He did not look angry, or injured; she hoped that meant he had not killed the gypsy for interrupting his prayers.
            "Maga, it is nearly time to go, vhat have you found?"
            Rhia looked up and nodded.
            "Atjets, we have found many little things, none of which seem hugely important, nor magical, but of interest." She showed the Atjets what they had discovered, and shared their thoughts on each, including the items from the cubby.
            Aksana dipped her head and stood by passively as he examined the items they had found. Upon seeing the keys, Gannon's eyes flicked to the giant door they had failed to open earlier.
            "Those keys, have you tried them in the door?"
            Rhia felt like an idiot.
            "Ah, no. Not yet."
            Without waiting, Rhia grabbed the keys and moved to the door. When Rhia grabbed the keys Aksana made a slight movement to stop her and then checked herself. "There vere traps," she said softly. Emistil had claimed to remove them but she trusted the demon about as far as she could throw Gannon. On just a quick check, without opening it, Rhia soon discovered that the brass key seemed to fit.
            "Atjets," she called, "I think we can open this."
            Aksana backed up a few steps, ready to run from anything the foolish maga released.
            Rhia looked over at Gannon, one eyebrow raised in question.
            Gannon thought the maga was, perhaps, a bit eager, and was about to suggest Rhia wait until he could round up some reinforcements, when Alethra entered the crypt. He looked at the elf, then back at the human woman, without saying anything.
            Rhia misunderstood the head movement and assumed Gannon and the rest were hanging back to avoid potential danger. She pressed downward on the now-unlocked door handle. It moved only slightly, not far enough to release the latch. Frowning, Rhia looked closer, jiggling the door handle in an attempt to see what was holding it shut _now._ Rocks and debris turned out to be the culprit, and Rhia sheepishly remembered her earlier use of the pool.
            "It won't open," she reported. "I think the passage beyond is buried in rock anyway." She shrugged. "I think we're done here, unless someone wants me to try and translate those evil-looking scrawlings in the other room."
            Gannon shook his head. "Do as you like, Maga. I vill seal this place forever, in less than a candlemark. Make ready, all of you."
            Thaurlann shrugged noncommittally. "This place yields nothing but evil everywhere we turn. We should just go."
            Rhia nodded, quickly categorizing in her mind what could wait and what had to be dealt with immediately.
            "The altar, Atjets, it should be returned to the village, yes? With some of the monies in it, to replace the tithes that were stolen?"
            Gannon snorted. "The tithes, they belong to the church, Maga, and the villagers, the cost of replacing the altar -and the tithes- it is theirs, for they vere veak enough to let both be stolen."
            Rhia opened her mouth to object, but Gannon raised a hand. "Still, vhat has been taken from the bandits, it belongs to the lord of this land. If he should chose to give to the villagers an altar for their vorship, and coins, to help rebuild vhat has been stolen and destroyed, vell, that is his right, and the villagers, the vould likely be thankful." The big Baneite shrugged. "Of course, they may think their lord, he vill do such things every time they let their chapel be raided, and so become lax in their duty to protect it, who knows, vith peshka."
            Rhia shook her head. "So I can load the altar then?"
            Gannon gave her a curt nod, and Rhia, without thinking about it, gave the man a quick curtsey before collecting the items they'd found and heading for the bedroom. *What the hells did I do that for?*
            Gannon watched Rhia go, the gauzy dress floating about her knees as she moved. *Vhy did she do that?* he thought, *Perhaps she is accepting her place, after all? That vould be good.*

            Aksana sighed in relief when nothing happened when the maga tried the door. "If there is nothing further," she said to no one inparticular. She didn't wait for an answer before she moved to the other room to examine the knives Rhia had mentioned. Finding them to her liking she picked them up and carried them with her back to the main sleeping area of the cave. She looked over at the guards in front of the side cave where the bandit's demon was being kept as she tucked two of her old knives into her pack, replacing them with the new ones. She bit her lip, curiosity nearly overwhelming her.
            Leaving her pack where it was for the time being she took a deep breath and strode purposefully toward the curtain partitioning off the smaller cave. One of her instructer's words rang in her head as she moved; always act like you know what you are doing and that you belong there and very few people will question you. Head held high she hoped that his words were true in this case. Her outward appearance of calm assurance held as the sellspears looked at her but did not stop her. As the curtain fell back behind her she let out a breath that she hadn't realized she had been holding.
            As her eyes fell upon Emistil she smirked at his trussed up condition. "Got vhat you deserve now?" she asked as she squatted down in front of him. The nearness of him made her skin tingle and she rubbed her arm trying to make the feeling go away. "There is little I can do for you demon except perhaps mention in my report that you have been cooperative." She narrowed her eyes, "and maybe fail to mention your earlier escape attempt, though I suspect that Atjets Gannon vill have plenty to say about that himself." She licked her lips knowing she was taking an incredible risk merely being in the same room with him. She knew she needed to hurry. "Von simple qvestion I have for you. Do you know me or von like me?" She reached up a slid the gag down so that he might answer her question. She expected him to lie even if he did not so she watched for the telltale signs that he was hiding the truth.
            Emistil spat out the gag with disgust, watching Aksana with narrowed eyes. "As you say, you have little to offer me. Why should I answer you, when no gain lies in it?"
            She smiled sweetly, "for the pure joy of sharing the truth?" She sighed, why had she thought that she would get anything but trouble from the demon? And yet, she had to at least try. "As I say, my report back to the church, it could be good or bad."
            "And as you say, your report is bound to be overridden by that of your warrior-priest." Emistil gave her a cynical look. "Or do you claim that your word might weigh as heavily as his?"
            She shook her head slowly and frowned in mock sympathy. "Your situation, it looks very grim indeed. One would think you could stand to hedge as many bets as you could." She shrugged easily, "it hurts me little if you do not answer." She hoped that was true. "I vill just ask the next bandit ve catch." Her eyes glinted dangerously and there was nothing friendly about the smile she gave him this time, "and there vill be others I assure you." She made as if to replace the gag.
            "But will they have the knowledge you wish to obtain?" His smile was smug. "Perhaps you should be thinking of ways to earn my aid, rather than my enmity." His murky eyes followed her as she moved, unblinking.
            Aksana hesitated. His smug smile irritated her. "How do I know you even have the knowledge?" She felt like she was quickly getting in over her head on this one. "I vould be more inclined to think such thoughts if I believed you had anything." She narrowed her eyes, "make me believe, or ve are done here." She regretted her decision to mix herself up with the demon.
            "You, or one like you..." Emistil made a show of considering the matter. "One with your unmistakable hair, perhaps? What could you offer me that would be worth such knowledge?"
            Aksana gritted her teeth. "Vhat vould you have of me," she ground out. She was going to get caught and she wasn't going to get anything out of him but vauge answers. It would all be for nothing. "Vhat does a demon mag such as yourself need from a lowely scout?"
            Emistil's smile widened. It made his eyes gleam in the dim reddish light of the braziers. "See to it that I can escape my bonds when we have left this place, once we reach the road, and I will tell you what you wish to know."
            Treachery, then, was his price.

            When he saw no objection from Gannon, the blond outlander retrieved that baubles that he had found in the tomb, as well as what few other scant belongings he had. Having spent most of his time directing traffic and helping search the caves, he hadn't had a chance to take a bath like the others – with the exception of a rather brief dip into the seeing pool that left him feeling even dirtier.
            When Thaurlann emerged into the open air, he immediately went to his steed, Lightning, and loaded some more food into the saddlebags. Then, deciding to take advantage of the high sun – hidden as it was behind clouds – he stripped off his armor and undershirt, leaving only torn breeches underneath. He led Lightning out into the shallow water, and then ducked himself down. He spent a few minutes scrubbing Lightning's underbelly with the water, working out some of the dirt from the trail. "If I had time I'd give you a proper bath, too," he told the horse, rubbing him on his nose.
            After returning to the relatively dry land, he led Lightning back to where he had shed his armor and clothing. He reached into one of the saddle bags and pulled out a set of black clothing he had retrieved from the bandit's booty. He grabbed a new pair of breeches first, and almost stripped off his old ones before realizing he was in full view of Anya. He wouldn't have cared so much if it were just the other male sellswords, of course. Thinking quickly, he ducked behind lightning to change, and then emerged a few moments later with the new clothing sticking to his damp body. Hopefully he'd have a little time to dry off before Gannon finished whatever prayer was needed to seal the caves, and then he could put his armor back on before the ride.

            From the time Alethra returned, she sat quietly by her master – though suddenly it seemed strange to call him that, even in her thoughts. For some reason every time the word entered her mind she could hear the elf's chuckling voice mocking her in her head. Alethra had been steeled by the Sharran training enough to protect herself against the taunting of a desperate prisoner, but did what she see in Emistil frighten her that much?
            She had no regrets about letting him go to his fate, after seeing his true nature. *But why did I kiss him?* She questioned herself. Normally she had tried to live her life by whatever order she could, be it her own or that handed down to her by others. Never would she act so impulsively. Perhaps she just wanted the experience from pure curiosity, and she knew that Emistil would be willing. Or perhaps she really did harbor some sentiment for him, despite herself.
            When Rhia asked about the pictographs, Alethra said nothing. Instead she looked over at Gannon expectantly, waiting to obey his orders, resolving herself to remain under his mastery for the time being.

            Rhia left the armful of things she'd collected from the crypt on her bedroll. She then grabbed a small sack from what she had begun thinking of as the "loot room," and headed for the bedroom. The irony that the rest of them had been sleeping on bedrolls on the cave floor, while the prisoner was given the luxurious, fur-covered bed had not been lost on Rhia, and she frowned. One more thing, she supposed.
            Rhia stopped outside the curtain, noting that Emistil's guards looked... uncomfortable. *And not just the 'here comes the outlander vitch' uncomfortable, either.* Suddenly, she grinned. It had been a while, and these two were unlikely to actually _tell_ her anything useful, so Rhia dug out her favorite shiny copper coin, winked at the guards, and flipped it into the air, whispering in ancient Ruathlek.
            <"Copper for your thoughts,">
            The coin rang with the matallic 'ting' that always accompanied a good coin flipping, but in Rhia's ears, the sound stretched, expanded, and then opened into the now familiar jumble that was the surface thoughts of those around her. To the guards, nothing seemed to have changed, except that the maga had flipped a coin into the air, which then seemed to disappear. Of course, seeing that happen led their minds immediately to thoughts of demons and heathen magic, fear and respect and, in one case, a little lust. Rhia hadn't expected that, and nearly lost her concentration. She managed to pull herself together though, and passed between the two men, both of whom, once she had passed, quickly spat through their fingers.
            Rhia stepped into the room, bag in hand, seeming a little distracted. It was difficult to tell in the light of the cave, but her cheeks looked slightly flushed. She stopped upon seeing the room's occupants. Emistil, tied up, and Aksana, seeming about to finish gagging the elf. The maga did not seem to have heard the elf's words, but she stood silently for a moment, studying the two of them.
            Rhia hadn't heard the conversation between Emistil and Aksana, but it was clear by both the look on her face and the surge of terror in her thoughts that Aksana felt as if she'd been caught doing something wrong. There was anger there, as well, and frustration. The scout's thoughts and emotions were so strong that Rhia actually got visions from them. The visions very nearly caused the diviner to lose her grip on her Weaving yet again, but again, she managed to hold her concentration - barely.
            Emistil's thoughts had been of escape, unsurprisingly, but at Rhia's entrance his surface thoughts stilled, and he merely watched the two of them, letting events unfold around him like a sleeping shark drifting in the currents. He didn't seem alarmed by the diviner's entrance, nothing at all like Aksana's surge of guilty fear. Instead he smiled his familiar smile.
            Aksana had been struggling with the anger and outrage at his request and the very slight temptation to comply with it when Rhia walked in. She spun to face the outlander her eyes going wide. She had been feeling that she was going to get caught but she had thought it would likely be Gannon; she was totally unprepared to deal with the witch. Her mind raced as she tried to sort out what she should do now. Walk as if you belong, she repeated to herself gaining some control of her emotions. She quickly slid the gag back in place before the demon could make matters worse; staring into his eyes as she did so she felt as if he were laughing at her. Her face calm, if not her thoughts, she turned back to Rhia. "Vhat is it you need here, vitch?"
            At the word 'need,' Rhia saw a quick vision of a woman who looked very much like Aksana, but subtly different. *A relative; sister, mother?*
            "Ah," Rhia said, "I'm here to pack up the altar. Atjets Gannon says it can be taken back to the village." She held up the sack in her hand, "Need to empty it first, though." Rhia glanced at the bound elf, "I hadn't wanted to do that in front of him, but I suppose he can't do a lot tied and gagged like that." Rhia quirked an eyebrow.
            "Why _is_ he tied up? And what is it you needed in here, Aksana?"
            Aksana sniffed dismissively. "That is the vay he vas vhen I came in. A precaution against his demon tricks I vould think." She mustered up her haughtiest expression. "Merely to check the demon, the sellspears, they vill not come in here. Von does not know vhat tricks he is capable of." She knew very well the tricks and lies he was capable of now. She was torn between trying to flee gracefully and holding her ground. In the end she decided that staying would be less suspicious than leaving.
            Aksana had managed to get herself somewhat under control, and Rhia wasn't seeing visions any more, but she still heard things, and those things gave her insight.
            "If he was like that when you came in, why was the gag off? Somehow I doubt you were offering him a drink." Rhia's eyes narrowed a bit.
            "As you say, one never knows what kind of tricks Emistil might pull. Why would you do something so dangerous as taking off his gag?"
            Aksana fought the urge to fidget. What was she supposed to say now? That she had been conspiring with the demon? She glanced down at Emistil with a slightly guilty look despite herself. "As long as I vas here I thought I vould qvestion him about," she hesitated just slightly, "the bandits' prior activities. They may give us some clue as to vhat the bandits, they do now."
            The emotions behind this one were very strong. Rhia saw the same woman again, this time with a collar around her neck, and bandtis counting coins and laughing. That was replaced by Emistil, whispering "See to it that I can escape my bonds when we have left this place, once we reach the road, and I will tell you what you wish to know."
            Rhia stiffened, and her eyes darted to Emistil's face, then back to Aksana. Very carefully, she spoke.
            "And what did he have to say then?"
            Aksana turned her head and spit on the ground in disgust, "nothing helpful." She wanted to blame it on Rhia's interruption but she had to admit that he probably didn't really know anything useful. She glared at the man in question. He was likely just using her to get what he wanted; that was more like what she expected from people. She gritted her teeth; hanging around all of these weak outlanders had made her momentarily forget herself. She had wanted to believe so badly.
            "He does that," Rhia agreed, before realizing she was responding to Aksana's thoughts, rather than her words. "Makes you spitting mad, I mean," she tried to cover the slip. She looked at Emistil as well. Flickers of association surfaced in his thoughts, there and gone again like distant lightning in stormclouds. When her eyes moved to him, the clear thought that he was sure she would have tried to escape, had she been in his place.
            "Well, whatever he said, I wouldn't trust him. He remembers what he wishes to, in what manner best serves his own interests." Rhia sighed. "Is there anything else you need to do? Should I give you a moment, or can I start with the altar now?"
            Aksana seemed to miss Rhia's slip. Momentary thoughts of doing violence to Emistil flitted through her mind but were quickly discarded. "Yes," she said giving a malicious smile to the elf, "there is something I need to take care of before we leave. Do vhatever you need," she waved dismissively at the alter as she moved to leave.
            Rhia's eyes widened as she _saw_ Aksana writing a death warrant for Emistil, and using one of Alethra's crows to send it to... *She's a Sharran!*
            Rhia's hand darted to her hip, but the sword hilt it sought wasn't there, it was still hanging at her shoulder. As Rhia moved to reach for the hilt, her mind detected another in the room. Thoughts that were not quite human. Turning, Rhia's eyes searched the ceiling, trying to penetrate the shadows.
            "Who's there?"
            A sudden quorking noise from above interrupted the conversation. The black-feathered raven of Alethra's had remained perched in the corner after its master had left, but with events in motion it decided to return to its master and report. After all, she had expressed concern that the elf would try to flee, and he had already made some sort of overture to the red-haired one, although it wasn't imminent. With the human wizard's return, though, it seemed that the elf might be moved out of Nut's sight.
            The raven flapped its wings, making a brief flurry of noise as it took off, beating Aksana to the exit and pushing its way through the curtains and out into the main cave.
            Aksana turned at the curtain as Nut called attention to himself. A look of horror crossed her face as she realized Rhia wasn't the only one who would know what she had been doing. Her eyes darted to the outlander and she noticed where Rhia's hand was. She wasn't sure if the witch had been about to cut her down from behind or if she was going after Nut but she wasn't taking any chances. A quick flip of her wrist dropped one of her knives into her hand; she kept it partially shielded with her body so that it would be harder to spot. As Nut flew by she crouched down, ostensibly to get out of his way, but it really put her in an easy combat crouch. Her eyes never left Rhia.
            Rhia closed her eyes and took a deep breath.
            "That damn bird," she said, "one never knows where a raven will be poking its nose... or a crow." She turned again to face Aksana, not reaching for her sword any longer. "Spies for Shar, they call them, don't they?"
            Aksana's eyes narrowed as she studied the witch. Rhia no longer seemed about to draw her sword; it must have been the raven after all. She relaxed slightly keeping the knife close to her side. "Yes, that is vhat the peshka call them."
            "It's amazing," Rhia said, "how much truth there can be in the tales peshka tell." Rhia met Aksana's eyes and held them. "Of course, they also say red-headed children are trouble, and not to be trusted, don't they? I wonder," she said, softly, "what the Sharrans think of those peshka stories." Rhia smiled, though the expression never touched her eyes. "Of course, to know that, one would have to find an actual Sharran, and ask her, I suppose." Rhia looked at Aksana for a beat.
            "Tell me, Aksana," she asked, "what _do_ they think?"

            Alethra felt the coming of her pet before it ever left the three in Mandrake's former quarters. A tinge of tension not her own alerted her to the fact that _something_ was happening. She picked up her eyes and saw Nut soaring into the room towards her. The raven perched itself on her outstretched arm and yelped out a loud, sharp, krak sound. Alethra gave her pet another treat, which it heartily swallowed before continuing. It followed with a series of low, throaty rattles that a casual observer – such as the nearby Atjets Gannon – might mistake for a nonsense. Alethra, though, stayed fixed on every sound, until at last it finished and then returned to the sky, disappearing back into the shadows of the ceiling.
            "Atjets Gannon," Alethra announced. "Ve should check on Emistil." Without missing a beat, she explained, "Vhen I remembered that he boasted of casting spells vithout a spell book, I ordered him bound and gagged until ve could leave this place and keep him under vatch. Rhia might have misunderstood vhen she vent in there to retrieve the altar. I think there is a … disturbance about to ensue."
            It was unlike her to explain herself so fully, or even to speak so plainly to Gannon, but she knew she had a duty to protect the other Sharran, as well as keep Rhia – or Emistil – from replaying the events in her dream.
            *"She vill cost us a valuable tool,"* Gannon heard his dream echo in his head.
            "Ve should go, now." Gannon put down the bag of feed he'd been abou to take out to the horses and made towards the cave where Emistil was being held. He did not hurry, but neither did he dawdle.

            Aksana's knuckles tightened on the knife she held. She felt cornered and that her options were rapidly running out. The taunt about her hair cut deep but she carefully smothered it. She returned Rhia's icy smile, "I vould not know. Perhaps you should go and ask Alethra; the ravens, they are her pets after all."
            "Yes, but Alethra, doesn't use them to send reports back to her superiors. You do that. You decide, with your words, who lives and who dies. Like Emistil here. You're going to kill him, with words." Rhia sighed, raising her hands. "Put the knife away, Aksana. I'm not going to attack you. I don't care if Emistil lives or dies, and I hate slavers more than you could imagine. I do wonder though, how Spielos is going to react when he finds out that you're a spy for the Sharrans. How he'll feel, knowing your job is to get close to people, earn their trust, and then betray them to the church."
            Aksana's blood ran cold. She knew; how could she know? Her eyes narrowed as she stared at the witch. At first, as Rhia talked, she began to relax, and then her last statement sunk in. Aksana felt cold dread settle in her chest. Spielos knew she was not what she said; she had told him so herself, but she was not sure he had figured out just _who_ she worked for. What if the witch twisted her words and poisoned him against her? She began to feel panic slip in. He was just an outlander gypsy, she wasn't supposed to feel anything for him, but she did. In that moment she knew that she cared very much what he thought of her. She was angry that Rhia had somehow tricked her and the glare of her eyes showed it. "He knows I am not vhat I say," she spat at Rhia trying to convince the witch that the threat was not as real as it was. She did not put the knife away.
            The force of the images was almost overwhelming, and Rhia honestly felt bad. She didn't _want_ to be cold and manipulative, hells damn it, but she was here, in the Moonsea, and she had little choice, especially with the thrice-damned Emistil watching the entire conversation.
            "You know that's not enough. Even right this second, you're doubting yourself, I can see it in your face. Right now he thinks you're just a mooneye with a hard life; when he knows you willingly serve as a spy for the church..." Rhia shrugged.
            "Maybe he doesn't have to know. Maybe, after we talk about what goes into your reports, privately, before you send them, maybe it'll become clear to me that you aren't betraying any of us here, and even if he does find out, I can vouch for you to him, tell him I've seen what you sent, and that he has nothing to fear from you. Maybe."
            Behind Aksana, the measured, clanking metal tread of Gannon approached the door.
            "Maga! How long does it take you to pack one simple altar?"
            Aksana didn't want to be held ransom by the witch and she briefly considered how she could turn the situation around, but the heavy clank of mail approaching forced her hand. Her eyes still shot daggers at Rhia but she gave just the slightest of nods before Gannon burst into the room. She would have to bide her time and see if she could work this out later. She shoved her knife back into its sheath with enough force to bruise her wrist. Stepping up to Rhia she grabbed the sack, "ve vere just finishing up Atjets; vern't ve maga?" She shot Rhia a dirty glance as she held the sack out to be filled.
            Rhia nodded in return, and moved to open the altar.
            "We weren't sure whether it would be safe to open it in front of Emistil, but we didn't know where or how to move him," she offered as an explanation to Gannon.
            The big Baneite looked at the bound and gagged elf, then at the two women and frowned.
            "It is nothing but books and money, no? There is no harm if the demon knows this, in fact, he probably already knew vhat is in the altar. I vish to seal this place, and soon. Let us go."
            Gannon glanced at Emistil again and his frown deepened.
            "Did I not see manacles in the cave? Let us find if there is a key, and secure the demon."
            "Yes, Atjets," Alethra said in agreement. Addressing the other two women, she added, "He said earlier he could remember certain spells without reading his spellbook, so ve should remain vary of him until we return him to the Brotherhood."
            She turned to Aksana, then, and added, "Ve should keep his mouth bound as vell. He may try to turn us against each other." The tone was not strict or overbearing, but genuinely protective. Aksana narrowed her eyes at Alethera's mild chastisement but said nothing in reply.
            Alethra focused her attention for a brief moment back on the bound elf, eyes meeting his. Then, just as quickly, she turned back and followed Gannon out of the room.
            The Baneite left the room and headed back to where he'd thought the manacles were. He felt more than heard Alethra follow him.
            "The manacles, vonce ve have found them, you vill use them to bind the demon, then bring it outside. I do not wish it to be left alone."
            The companion "demon" he addressed nodded dutifully, although Alethra did not relish the thought of spending more time with Emistil before she could further process the last few day's events. As long as she kept him gagged, perhaps he would not be able to try and manipulate her any further.
            She retrieved the manacles from Thaurlann, who apparently had been trying to figure out whether they might have been used by the bandits while they were there. The grimy condition of the things made it near impossible to tell. More for her own sense of comfort than Emistil's, Alethra cleaned the cuffs as best she could with some spare cloth. When she brought them to Emistil, she made no effort to speak to him, or even acknowledge him as anything other than a nameless prisoner to be moved. She applied the metal manacles before removing the makeshift binds, then directed him ahead of her to rejoin the others outside. He did not speak to her, only watched her with knowing eyes until it was time to move.

            Rhia watched as Alethra left, then looked at Aksana, shrugged, and proceded to open the altar. She removed the three books, setting them on the bed, well away from Emistil. Next came a pouch, which she also placed next to the books. Then she motioned Aksana closer with the bag, obviously intending to scrape the silver coins out of the hidden chamber and into the bag.
            When Rhia motioned her over she complied with the same tense silence. She had fully intended to leave the chamber and send her very tardy report but she found she had no desire what-so-ever to send one now. In fact she wasn't sure she would even tell the witch about the note tucked safely away in her pocket; after all it mentioned Lord Tjesnitjeers' pet witch quite prominently. It might be best just to burn the thing and leave it at that. She would likely get in less trouble for sending no report than for sending a false one. Suddenly Spielos' offer to leave the Moonsea seemed more seductive; to leave all of this behind might be for the best. She bit her lip and glared back up at Rhia, but if the shalava poisoned him against her all that would be gone too.
            Rhia scooped the coins into the bag, several hundred silver coins glittering in the torchlight briefly, before falling into the bag with a musical metalic clinking. She suddenly gave Aksana a direct look, a slight frown creasing her forehead. For a moment, it looked as if the maga was considering whether or not to say something. After a few moments, during which the last of the coins fell into the bag, Rhia spoke very softly, pitching her voice so that Emistil could not hear - she hoped.
            "If you have a report written already, perhaps you should burn it, and we can start again. I had considered just telling you not to send any reports at all, but if you were to suddenly stop reporting, _they_ might send someone to check on why. Assuming there isn't someone here already." The maga shook her head, "it's better to send carefully interpreted versions of the truth than it is to cut all contact, or to lie." Rhia gave Aksana a grim smile, "I wouldn't want to be responsible for getting you killed by your masters, after all."
            When the last of the coins was safely in the bag, Rhia took a scrap of burlap cloth she'd been using in her saddlebags and gingerly wrapped it about the chalice, which she then placed inside the now empty altar, being very careful not to touch it with her bare hands. With a sigh, she closed the secret compartment once more.
            "Now," she said, in a more normal voice, "we just need to get someone to load this on a pack horse, while I pack the rest. If you could take the coins to Anya? I think she'd appreciate being able to keep her eye on so much wealth for our master." Rhia paused. "And Aksana, thank you." She didn't specify for what.
            Rhia's words sent fear rippling through Aksana, they echoed her own thoughts so closely. She stared at the outlander with wide eyes. Numbly she took the bag of coins handed to her and backed out of the room. Once through the curtain she stood panting, feeling like she had just been running. When she realized that the sellspears were looking oddly at her she pulled herself together and walked away as if there was nothing unusual at all.
            Rhia watched Aksana walk away, then turned her attention to Emistil. She looked at the elf calmly for some time, not saying anything, just watching him, listening for his thoughts.
            As Aksana left, he was thinking of the secrets Rhia and Aksana had revealed before him, weighing how he might use them to his benefit. When Rhia turned to him, those calculations fell silent, replaced by a mildly curious thought of how Rhia herself would respond to having her actions documented by "this church." He idly let his mind wander on the subject; it seemed he really knew very little about the Church other than what he'd been told by Paryev.

            Aksana quickly found Anya and handed her the bag. "These coins, they are from the bandit's lair." Anya accepted the bag with a surprised oath, shooting suspicious glares at the sellspears nearby. As soon as they were handed over to the warden Aksana turned and walked away, not in the mood to talk to anyone just yet. All of the fires had been put out in preparation for their leaving so she could not dispose the note. Instead it sat in her pocket and felt as if it were burning her chest like it had in her dream. She wandered over to the horses and sought Raisa out. She set about saddling the horse and loading her gear. The work helped to take her mind off of the situation she had found herself in. At least Raisa was in fine condition, ears pricked forward and glossy-coated.

            At the right moment, Rhia put her hand out, and, as if out of thin air, her shiny copper coin smacked into her waiting palm. With a smile and a small flourish, she made the coin disappear into her bandoleer. Then she put the pouch from the altar into a pocket, picked up the books, gave Emistil a slow wink and a smile, and exited the room.
            "There is an altar to Talona in the room with the demon mag," she told the first under-occupied sellspear she found. "The mag is bound and gagged, he cannot hurt you - especially with such a holy artifact nearby. Please collect the altar and put it on a pack horse. We are returning it to the village from which it was stolen." Seeing the unhappy look on the sellspear's face, Rhia gave him a cold smile. "One who helps in such a righteous task is likely to see blessings from Grandmother Apple, I would imagine. Just as one who hindered such a task would likely feel Her... displeasure."
            The sellspear cursed under his breath, though she noted it was _very_ softly. Regardless, he shuffled down the tunnel toward the other cave. Moving on, Rhia spent the next few minutes packing her things, both on Sarai and on one of the pack horses, which she had appropriated for her own use. It seemed there were plenty of animals available, despite the number Anya had commandeered to carry primarily feed for them all. When she had finished with the packing, Rhia found a dark spot and changed back into her breeches and blouse, settling her bandoleers, belts and knives comfortably into their accustomed positions. Dressed and packed, Rhia took one last look around the cave, shook her head at the lost knowlege and the strange events of the past few days, and headed outside again, into what passed for sunshine in this gods-forsaken land.

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The Second Cycle