Chapter 24: Unpleasant Encounters Ruuth was trimming one of her herbs, humming quietly to herself, when Patrick O’Kiran entered her shop, long brown robe sweeping around him. He tugged his full hood off and glanced over his shoulder at the street as he pushed the door shut. “Someone following you, Patrick?” Ruuth asked, without looking up from her plant. “As a matter of fact, yes. But not today, as far as I can tell.” “I think a Loremaster has taken a professional interest in you.” Patrick smiled. “Maybe that is who has been following me. Is that bad?” “I don’t know; that depends on what you are really up to. The Loremasters usually only get interested in people who are extraordinary, or those who are up to no good. Which are you?” She then pressed her lips together and made a sound almost like a stifled little laugh. “I assure you I don’t want trouble. I am here only to observe.” “There’s something about they way you say ‘here’ that gives me a strange feeling that you are not a visitor from the Tai-emer mainland, or even Hæstra. And while I am thinking about it, your Shay and Erlin are both excellent, but so strangely without accent or recognizable dialect as to be remarkable for their blandness.” “You are well-travelled yourself then, if you are familiar with different variations of both languages.” “It’s important to keep my herb inventory varied. Will you not tell me where you are from?” “I’m afraid I can’t.” Ruuth sighed and stood up, wiped her hands on her apron and turned to look at the Dia Khovaria Monk for the first time since he’d entered the shop. “That’s all right; I have a feeling I might not believe you anyway.” The sun was setting over Sel-kai city, but inside Seylars’ apartment in the Canal Maze, the only illumination came from the fireplace and a few lamps. The full-length shutters were closed, as were the windows and the heavy drapes behind them, isolating the chamber from any outside light or sound. Six men were sprawled about the room on chairs, divans, or the large unmade bed. At first glance, one might assume by their appearance that all were youths, but three were of Elven blood, so appearances deceive. Two of them had already lived to see Kulthea swing around her parent star at least two hundred times. The third—of mixed Elf and high-man blood—was nearing his sixtieth year but had the face and slender body of a teenage mortal. “Masks? We don’t usually wear masks.” Tyrenis, the slender Erlin Elf with sandy hair cut very close to his scalp, held the black molded-felt object away from him by its string as if it had just been sneezed on by someone suffering from Canal Cough. “This is an unusually high-profile operation, and there will no doubt be witnesses.” Seylars rolled his eyes. “We sometimes wear masks on assignments.” “They interfere with my peripheral vision.” Tyrenis said testily. “And I’m the one who’s supposed to nab this thing; I don’t want any unnecessary distractions.” Orian and Teo gave each other the knowing look they had so often—the look that agreed that Tyrenis whined too much about everything. Both were Laan youths of twenty-some years, and both were fighters, outweighing the others in the room by at least fifty pounds. They had little sympathy for the whining little cutpurse. Meanwhile Elkor, the son of a Laan/Dyar mating, waved his long, slender fingers back and forth through a candle flame. “I could just put them all to sleep.” He was a Magician, and while technically the most experienced among the Red Dragons, he was still rather overconfident in his abilities. “Face it, Elkor, that only works about half the time; some people just resist that kind of spell better than others. But since I have your attention, now is as good a time as any to hear your assessment of the target situation.” Seylars finished with a nod. Elkor looked bored. “The Marquess and his Squire share a suite on the third floor of the Barge Inn, with a window directly above the Great Canal. There are two others in their party in a room down the hall. I have noted quite a bit of activity around the Inn by our friends the Nightwings, including one employed there as a hall boy, and one is sometimes a spotter on the roof of the Sable Pelt across Bolgen Street.” “A chance to get rid of a few thorns in our side!” Nallen, a Dyar Elf, lean and short for his people at five and a half feet, smirked, then made a half-hearted effort to suppress it. “I’d prefer to keep them out of this entirely, if possible, but a spotter on the roof and one wandering the halls does limit our entry and egress options.” Seylars rubbed the dragon tattoo on his left temple thoughtfully. “We’ve faced these cousins before; they are not terribly skilled with a blade.” Teo said with a shrug, “Why not try to nab them in an alley again? We should be able to deal with them fairly easily, and it seems unlikely that there will be a repeat of their fortuitous rescue.” “If you and Teo and Nallen have met these cousins before, don’t you think they will recognize you, even with the stupid masks?” Tyrenis was clearly still trying to get out of wearing his mask. “Why don’t we just be sure there aren’t any witnesses?” Nallen smiled in that way he did that made some people uncomfortable. He—like Seylars and Tyrenis—preferred a stealthy approach rather than up-front encounter. In fact, his favored encounter was a knife between the ribs from behind. “You’re just out for revenge because the last time we met these Rhakhaani, you got taken out by a blacksmith with a sleeping dart!” Teo grinned, then he and Orian shared a chuckle. Nallen’s cheeks reddened. Seylars shot his Laan lover an angry look, then nodded to Nallen. “We’ll do what needs to be done. I’ve been assured that we can use whatever means necessary to get this item.” “Excellent.” Nallen glanced over at Teo with narrowed eyes. “We need to succeed here, because this is a critical job for a very important client.” Seylars continued. “The payout is good, but more important, it means more work in the future, and protection. That’s one reason for the masks. And we won’t be wearing Red Dragon uniforms; this has to be anonymous. Politics.” And as if that last word explained everything, everyone else in the room nodded—except Teo, who looked down at his thumbnail that he was cleaning with a small knife. He alone in this room besides Seylars knew who this ‘client’ was, and he was worried that getting involved with the Security Minister’s illegal activities was more than they could handle. One day Koren Maas might decide that he didn’t want any witnesses to his clandestine activities. Randae Terisonen paced the dark stone halls of the Rhakhaan Imperial Palace. He had completed his research and found answers to most of his questions, but he lingered in Haalkitaine for another reason. He sensed that something was seriously amiss here, and it wasn’t just Prince Toren’s mysteriously absent valet. Even though the Pretender’s armies were still far away, Haalkitaine had the feel of a city under siege, both by the mood of the people and the feel of the Essænce. He’d even had trouble Teleporting here for some reason: the Flows were disturbed somehow and were interfering with his spell. And the effect seemed to be worsening and growing in scope… Randae knew that he needed to get out of Jaiman within a few hours or he might not at all. Ren Thraysk had been called away to Lethys on an errand that no doubt seemed important to him then, but Randae wished that the other Loremaster had remained here at the center of Rhakhaan political power and called upon another Loremaster to look into the trouble in Lethys. The only other person here that Randae completely—well, almost completely—trusted was the Truthsayer Jorun, and he was ‘unavailable;’ in a secret meeting of His Majesty’s Privy Council. Rumor was that the White Mage had returned to the city after a long absence. This was also bad news to Randae, who had always suspected the mysterious Magician’s motives, and in fact his very nature. The White Mage had the appearance of an old man, yet his history with the kings of Jaiman stretched back well into the Second Era. Neither Elf nor mortal, old yet ageless, the White Mage was a puzzle. Randae feared that his outward appearance was merely a disguise, yet he could not penetrate the Magician’s Façade. Who was behind it, and why did he have this curious appearance? Priest of Yaarth Yandar Vit Osaran al Delphys The names haunted Randae now. He was almost certain that Yandar Vit was associated with the Priests Arnak, if he wasn’t in fact one of that order himself. I need to get word to the Duke’s son, Lukas, that his teacher could be very dangerous… but will be believe me? It may be too late and he is already under their insidious spell. I must find out what is going on there. But what about Osaran? Could the Archprelate of Purll Kirn be a Priest of the Unlife and have escaped the Loremasters’ notice all these years? It was a sobering thought. But that was how the Priests Arnak worked: through guile and stealth, with fair appearance and advice that seemed sage at the time – even impersonating Loremasters. They corrupted slowly and with seemingly infinite patience, sometimes over generations of mortal lives Also troubling was that there had still been no word from the young Journeyman Loremaster Saen Alister. Saen had been sent to the border of the Northern Frontier to gather information the Pretender’s military movements and had not reported back in some weeks. And Randae suspected that Simcox’s disappearance might have larger implications. He was glad he had thought to Mind Store the valet some time back, memorizing the unique pattern of the valet’s mind so that he could locate him later. The results when he cast his Finding spell were troubling, however: Simcox was located somewhere under the city, possibly in the sewers. And the spell result was faint, as if the man might be near death. Randae increased his pace as he exited the main palace into the dark night under a sickle of Orhan. He knew that, despite the best efforts of the city constabulary and the Water Ministry, all kinds of people… spies, petty criminals, innocent indigents… made their home in the wet, putrid warren of tunnels under the city. While in many ways it was an architectural wonder—keeping the city relatively free of disease-breeding garbage and waste—it was a haven for all manner of creatures… some of which weren’t even human. The Water Ministry tired to maintain the iron grates covering the sewer exits along the river—the known exits at least. But even these deteriorated rapidly, and some were sabotaged on a regular basis. Besides these exit grates, there were numerous drains in the streets and larger structures of the city. Most were designed to be too small for a human to pass through, but there were a number of larger access ways intended for maintenance workers that opened onto the street. The sewers required constant repairs, and accumulating garbage often caused backups that needed to be cleared. Randae employed one of these access grates near the palace but out of sight of most traffic. He lightly descended the iron ladder into a tunnel about thirty feet below the street. The Loremaster paused at the base of the ladder for a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dimness. Fortunately, luminous lichens grew here and there on the stones, providing just enough light for Randae’s Elven vision so that he could see fairly clearly without revealing himself. While most people could get easily lost in this maze, Randae maintained a fair idea of his direction by sensing the slight sloping of the tunnel even if it was dry without the flow of water to guide him, or the water backed up and stagnant. All the main tunnels sloped west; feeder tunnels north or south. He was also using his Mind Store of Simcox as a sort of directional beacon, since the valet had not moved in some time. The missing valet was somewhere under the city to the southwest. As annoyingly officious as Randae personally found Simcox to be, he was worried about the old man. Obviously he would not be stationary for several hours deep in the sewers of Haalkitaine of his own free will. He didn’t need to go far before he found several sets of fresh tracks in the muck: some of them large boot-prints with a confident stride that told the Loremaster that those who made them were not likely to be the typical sewer-lurker. Then, as he crept along a passage, Randae could have been blind and still known that people were approaching: they made no attempt at stealth. Most likely the same group who left the tracks, returning back down this path they had come a few hours ago. Still, it troubled Randae that people were moving through the sewers in a manner that implied that they feared nothing that could be down here. It was three men by the sound of it. These people were not his goal, and it would probably be best to simply avoid them. He quickly cast Fly and Invisibility, and drifted up towards the top of the high tunnel just as the trio came around a corner. In the lead was a big, powerfully built man in scale armor that shone softly like mother-of-pearl. He was holding aloft a lantern fashioned to look like a jellyfish. Just behind him was a more stocky man in light brown leather carrying a helm like a dog’s head. A Messenger of Gorath and one of Ulkaya, here together right under the city – practically under the Palace. This is even worse than I feared. Randae pursed his lips. He had failed in his duties if these thugs of the Unlife were moving freely within (or at least beneath) the capital of Rhakhaan. How had it come to this? Had he allowed himself to be distracted by other things? Had Ren Thraysk not been vigilant enough? Were the Loremasters spread too thin? Or perhaps he was just expecting too much. Were the Loremasters supposed to keep out the minions of the Iron Wind, to police the borders of every city and town? Didn’t the indigenous peoples have a responsibility to make their own decisions and (hopefully) know that they must turn away these facilitators of chaos and destruction? Randae pulled himself out of his mental digression. Behind the Messengers lurked a figure in long brown robes—which he was primly struggling to keep out of the filthy water running along the bottom of the sewer. By his pale skin, black hair and pointed ears, he was clearly a Dyar Elf., and with this escort, almost certainly a Priest Arnak of either Yarthraak or Dansart. What to do? Kill them and rid the world of a few vermin, but alert the Iron Wind that someone was aware their activities here, or let the little fish go and see if he could catch a shark. He decided on the latter, but Mind Stored the priest for future reference. After the trio was well out of sight and sound, he proceeded cautiously on toward the valet’s faint presence. As he drew nearer, Randae drew his saren, easing the slender, slightly-curved blade silently from its lined sheath. He saw an opening in the side of the tunnel ahead, lit from within by a flickering gold light. The Loremaster drifted slowly to the entrance, cautious despite the fact that he was flying silently and invisible. As he looked around the corner, a sensation overcame Randae that he had not felt in some time: fear. Inside the room, slumped against the far wall and facing Randae, was Simcox. In the sputtering light of a lantern on the floor, he looked unconscious and badly beaten. Facing Simcox was a tall figure in a black hooded cloak, turned in such a way that Randae could not make out his face in the shadows of the hood. Without moving, the hooded man spoke. His voice was rough and hoarse. “It took you long enough, Loremaster.” Randae’s fear grew into a terrible sense of dread. The man could apparently see through his Invisibility with ease, or at least he could sense Randae. The Loremaster suspected that this might be a High Priest Arnak, one of only six in all Jaiman. It crossed Randae’s mind then that he may not get out of here alive. He considered just Teleporting away then and there, but with the Flows so unstable, casting that spell in a hurry was a dangerous proposition. And there was poor Simcox. Instead, he cast what protective spells he could on himself while he stalled and tried to put on a brave front. “Normally I don’t go around rescuing valets, but this one is a friend. And look what I find crawling around in the sewer but vermin of the Iron Wind – ” Randae barely got his taunt out before the Priest turned and attacked. The man’s hands slid out of the robe's deep sleeves, fingers extended like hooked claws. He spoke a word in the dark tongue of his evil order, and a pulsating nimbus of deep red light enveloped him. Unminding! Randae felt the force of the spell in his head like a sharp stabbing pain, even as he managed to resist it. The spell of Unminding would have left him completely helpless against the Priest. He shook his head to clear it and in retaliation sang a single note, the Bardic charm of Mastery. But the Priest withstood the spell, seeming to dismiss it with the wave of his hand, which left a glowing trail of scarlet light in the air before him. “Is that the best you can do, Loremaster, sing me a song?” He said with a short bark of a laugh. Randae caught a glimpse of part of his face then: the features of an Elf almost certainly, perhaps Linær. “I have something for you then. Pain.” He said the word matter-of-factly, but one arm extended in a sudden move and red-tinged lightning arced out from his fingertips. Randae raised his hands in a futile attempt to deflect the spell, even as the forks of light encircled him… and every nerve felt like it was on fire. Pain like he had never felt threatened to overwhelm his system. This was not like the Sorcery Spell he knew, it must be something known only to the high servants of the Unlife… his brain, slowed by the agony of the spell, fought to focus. As long as the Priest held the attack, he was losing strength, and he felt his consciousness slipping away. Have to do something unexpected, catch the Priest by surprise… The lantern… Summoning what control of the Essænce he had left, Randae fixed his mind on the lantern and Hurled it at the Priest Arnak. Eyes clenched shut, he didn’t even see if it had connected with its target, but he heard the crash of broken glass and a cry of surprise, and the spell on him was released. He opened his eyes to see the Priest half covered in flames from the shattered lantern as the oil spread over his cloak. “That little trick won’t save you, Loremaster!” He shouted as he started to shrug off the cloak. Randae saw the Priest’s face then as he tore off the hood: it was a Linær Elf, very handsome with short blond hair. And though of a different race, he bore an uncanny resemblance to Osaran al Delphys, Archprelate of the United Orhan Church. Randae knew he wouldn’t have another chance to escape. There was nothing else he could do for the valet. Teleporting was almost certain death, but the shorter-range spell of Long Door was a less dangerous proposition. He opted for the latter -- straight up as far as he could go -- and invoked the spell. Even as Osaran pointed to Randae and uttered the fatal channel of Dark Absolution, he was gone. Randae blinked in the bright light of the afternoon sun. He was floating about a hundred feet above the Avenue of Flame in the residential district just north of the Palace. The cold wind coming up from the south was bracing after the foul closeness of the sewers. His clothes were singed and still smoking from the Pain spell, and his body tingled -- though whether it was the lingering effects of that attack or his barely avoiding the Priest’s most deadly spell of all, he wasn’t sure. He was sure that he needed to get back to his quarters and raid the herb stores he’d recently acquired. People were starting to notice him floating in the air like some sort of balloon (his Invisibility had shattered of course when he had taken an offensive action against Osaran; Invisibility was a fragile thing, like a soap bubble.) There was little doubt in the Loremaster’s mind that the Priest Arnak he had just encountered was indeed Osaran the Archprelate, using some kind of Changing spell to alter his appearance to that of a mortal when he was in that guise. He must be vain, to basically retain his own features, only shifting what is necessary to hide his true High Elven ancestry, Randae mused. Randae now clearly saw the link between the three names, though how they had come to him remained a mystery. Priest of Yaarth Yandar Vit Osaran al Delphys All were Priests Arnak, servants of the Iron Wind, and so the Unlife itself. Randae needed to get back to Sel-kai. Lukas Austrenos was in peril. Perhaps not imminent danger, but the longer he remained under Vit’s influence, the greater the danger. There was much to do. Jad and Kalen were fast asleep sometime after the first hour of the predawn quintar when a very faint shimmer of light outlined a figure as he appeared just inside the door to their apartment. Tyrenis, Long Doored by Elkor into the room, got his bearings as his eyes adjusted. The bedroom beyond was dimly lit by the embers in the fireplace, but the sitting room where he stood was dark. Tyrenis moved to the door, gingerly undid the dead-bolt locks, and eased it open just a fraction. On the other side in the otherwise deserted hallway waited Seylars, Teo and Elkor, all Invisible, thanks to Elkor’s spells. The Magician had balked at expending most of his Essence energy for the day in this manner, but Seylars had insisted. Just down the hall in another room with the door open a crack were Orian and Nallen, to provide backup in the unlikely event they might be needed. Everyone was clad in plain dark clothes, and, of course, their mask. Tyrenis used all his skills of stealth as he crept to the bedroom and began looking for the item they sought. It didn’t take long for him to find it—in fact the Phoenix Pendant lay on a bedside table, the tiny crystal orb glimmering in the dying firelight. The Red Dragon Thief tested each step on the old floorboards as he approached the bed, his eyes not on the pendant but the two sleeping young men. Both were facing away from him. Huddled rather close together in the center of the bed. What are they, sherks like Seylars and Teo? The thief’s face scrunched up in disgust behind his mask as he reached out for the orb. His fingers touched the perfect crystalline sphere… The Phoenix flashed with a blinding yellow light. Tyrenis cried out and staggered back from the bedside, dropping the suddenly blazing Phoenix and clutching at his burned hand. The embers in the hearth spontaneously erupted to roaring flames, and the room was lit as if it were day. Kalen sat up groggily, but in the blink of an eye Jad was already up on his knees on the bed, positioned between his cousin and the intruder and holding a dagger at the ready. “How did you get in here?” He demanded. Tyrenis slunk backward and drew a long knife with his left hand as Jad slipped off the bed and closed with him. “Who are you!? What are you doing here!?” Jad demanded in a shout, obviously intending to attract attention beyond the room. He reached out and tore the mask from the cowering thief’s face, revealing the Red Dragon tattoo at his temple. “It—it burned me!” Tyrenis exclaimed, still incredulous. Kalen retrieved the Phoenix—now merely glowing as bright as a lamp—from the floor where Tyrenis dropped it and put it around his neck. As he suspected it would, the pendant allowed his touch without harming him. “Looks like our friends from the canal are at it again, but they sent just one little thief this time.” Jad said haughtily. “I’m afraid you are mistaken there.” A disembodied voice both boys recognized spoke from the open doorway to their rooms. The door to their apartment clicked shut and there was a shimmering of the air next to it. A moment later, there stood Seylars, seeming to appear out of nowhere. The Invisibility spell fell silently away from him like a glittering, shattered shell of crystal. “There may be others, Invisible.” Kalen whispered, as Jad, crouched in a fighting posture, glanced from the tall Dyar Elf to the thief, trying to keep both in his sight. Kalen looked helplessly at his sword and dagger, laid out on a table across the room. “Indeed, my young lord, we are all around you.” The leader of the Red Dragons put his hands on his hips and grinned behind his mask. “I would urge you not to call for help either; you would both be dead before the echo died. Your only chance to live is to remain quiet and cooperate with us.” His gaze flickered to a point to Jad’s left and suddenly the Squire felt an intense pain in his right wrist. The dagger was twisted out of his hand, and a huge Laan youth appeared, spun him around and held him, his own dagger now at his throat. He struggled against the hold until he felt the blade pressing against his skin – and his arm twisted back so hard he was afraid his should would be pulled out of its socket. “Stop! Please!” Kalen begged as he saw Teo move the dagger to his cousin’s neck. “Don’t fight and I won’t hurt you.” Teo whispered. Jad relaxed. There was no point in struggling against this man’s strength right now. Maybe he could catch him off-guard though… Once Jad was incapacitated, Tyrenis closed with the unarmed Kalen, his long knife ready to slash or stab. On the roof, Cricket of the Nightwings heard Jad’s raised voice and knew that something was very wrong. Someone had gotten in past Wren. His very first thought was worry for his friend, but he was already reaching for the whistle hanging around his neck. He blew two short and one long blast from the small metal tube, which emitted a sound almost beyond the range of human hearing. It was like the high-pitched squeaking that bats made, and it carried far to those who were trained to listen. He doubted Wren could hear it in the building, but others on the roofs could. As soon as he had sent the signal, Cricket slid down and hung partly off the edge of the roof upside-down, peering at the window into the cousins’ rooms. The shutters were closed, but he could see light through a broken louver, and could make out voices… Cricket maneuvered himself so he could see better through the louver, and by dangling at an angle that hurt his shoulder, he could get a fair view of the room. One cousin was huddled by the bed, the other was held with a knife at his throat by a very large youth. And there was Seylars of the hated Red Dragons, wearing some ridiculous mask, gleaming long knife in his left hand, grinning and gloating over them. Cricket sucked in air through his teeth and hated himself that this had somehow happened under his watch, but he knew full well that acting now, alone, was doomed to failure. He just prayed to Cay that Moth or someone would get here fast. Seylars stepped further into the room and removed his mask. “No point in keeping this on now, I suppose; you know who I am. These things are an annoyance.” He nodded towards the window, and Elkor appeared there, in a crouch with arms extended towards the cousins, fingers splayed forward. Then Seylars turned back to Kalen. “So nice to see you again, Kalen Avanir, Marquess of Endar.” He bowed slightly, clearly mocking Kalen. “Can’t say I feel the same.” Kalen said very quietly, and swallowed. “As you can see, you are outnumbered and helpless. No one can pole up the canal to rescue you this time. Just hand over the bauble and we’ll be on our way.” He stepped towards the Marquess and held out his hand, fingers wiggling impatiently. Kalen hesitated. He had no doubt that he would give up the pendant to ensure Jad’s safety, but it was as if some outside influence was making him pause, making his own body resist his order to hand over the Phoenix. He looked over at his cousin. Jad was putting on a brave face, but his pale blue eyes were wide. Kalen saw a trickle of blood on his neck along the edge of the dagger-blade. Finally, agonizingly, he drew the Phoenix from around his neck by its chain and held the orb out dangling in front of him. The crystal was dark. “Take the pendant then! Just leave us alone!” “That’s being reasonable, young foreigner.” Seylars extended his hand. “Be careful!” Snapped Tyrenis. “The orb burned me!” Seylars glanced over at the thief in only partially concealed contempt. Then, prudence taking precedence over pride, at the last moment he switched from reaching to hold the orb itself to clasping the chain. Just as he closed his hand around it and before Kalen had even released it, he said. “You northerners are so trusting. Did you really think that we would just let you go?” No, indeed. I’m afraid that, after all, we can’t leave you alive to identify us.” He turned to Teo, who held his knife at Jad’s throat. “Kill him.” Even as he said it, he pulled back with his left hand, ready to knife the Marquess in the gut. “No!” Kalen screamed, clutching reflexively back at the Phoenix chain. Tethior returned to the Vault of the Crowns in the heart of Jaiman, but this time he came alone, without his Changramai guard. Andraax was not there – and any bodyguards he could have brought would have been superfluous anyway. Even before the blue glow of his amulet had faded, he strode to the Unicorn pillar. The Crown seemed as before, and the tiny multicolored lights continued to blink in their different patterns and sequences deep behind the black glass panel set into the column. Though the Artificer could not read every pattern detail, it was obvious that the Unicorn Crown had been attuned to a new heir! He gingerly touched the black glass in several spots (still – as always -- a bit unnerved by the warmness of the material in the chilly room). He was not trying to alter the programming – that would have required considerably more effort – but to gain more information about the one who had attuned to the Crown. The island kingdom of Urulan had been the one true Elven kingdom in all of the Six Realms of Jaiman. As such, it had had fewer rulers than the kingdoms populated by mortals, and there would be fewer potential heirs. He watched as the lights changed. The heir was not ideal in terms of lineage, but the crown had accepted her – yes a woman – at least temporarily. Tethior marveled at the sophistication of the Crowns and the bravery (or sheer bravado) of this woman, who apparently put the thing on. Perhaps she didn’t know that if it hadn’t accepted her, it would have killed her on the spot? As Tethior continued to study the lights, he began to suspect that Andraax had indeed subtly altered the programming of this crown. The Crowns had originally infused a certain docility in their wearers towards their fellow monarchs on Jaiman. This condition seemed to no longer exist. Just was intriguing was that the fixed border protections had apparently been lifted, allowing the wearer to shift the Crown’s protective powers at will within the island of Urulan. This was quite a feat, as Tethior well knew. He had manually altered the borders of ‘Zor’ to become the little area of land around Gryphon College after the kingdom had destroyed itself, and that reprogramming had been a major effort for him. That Andraax had apparently managed to alter the Unicorn so that the wearer could shift borders at will… the thought awed him. Once again, he was humbled before the mental powers of this Essænce Lord. Though of course Andraax had always been the one to lead the way in the Essænce/technology fusion. All these artifacts were essentially of the Essænce, but the manner of their control and the subtlety of their sophistication came from Andraax’s experience with what he liked to call the “instrumentation interface.” He had always resisted a verbal control interface because it was too imprecise and vulnerable to infiltration, especially in a world where magic provided the means to imitate a voice almost perfectly. The Essænce Lord maintained that the best interface protection here came through demanding very sophisticated knowledge by the user. And perhaps he was right. Even Tethior could barely alter the programming, and he had been the primary creator of the actual Crowns. Had Andraax lied to him? He said that he wasn’t tampering with the programming. Clearly the settings had been altered. Holographic circuits and time suspension and information stored in crystals… these things were beyond Tethior, like magic would be to a man with no talent for the Essænce. Who else could have done this? Only an Essænce Lord…a chill went down the Artificer’s spine. Only an Essænce Lord. Andraax was not the only K’ta’viir still alive on the Shadow World. Teo hesitated, and this moment of indecision — or mercy —saved Jad’s life. At that instant of Kalen’s shout the Phoenix Pendant flared to life again, but this time a needle of bright red light shot from the glowing crystal orb to strike Teo in the face. The big Laan youth screamed and staggered back, loosening his hold on Jad. At the same time, a jolt of energy shot up the chain to Seylars’ hand. The Dyar Elf let go with a cry of surprise and pain, recoiling from Kalen and the pendant. Then he recovered his nerve and tried to snatch it away again. The Squire, not one to miss an opportunity, jammed his elbow into Teo’s gut and twisted away. The Red Dragon staggered back and dropped the blade, his hands frantically rubbing at his eyes. Even as he snatched up the knife Teo had dropped, Jad knew that he had been spared as much by the Red Dragon’s hesitation to cut his throat as by the magic power of the thing Kalen held. He silently promised himself he would not kill Teo if he could avoid it. Seylars on the other hand… Kalen jerked the Phoenix away from Seylars’ grasp and held it aloft, the sphere still glowing with a coruscating red-yellow light. “Get back or it shall strike you down as well.” Kalen whispered, trying to sound as threatening as possible, though he had no more idea how to make the Phoenix attack Seylars than how to walk on water. Cricket, seeing the sudden turn of events, decided that now he might be able to make a difference. He lowered himself till he was hanging by his hands from the gutter, then he swung back, and forward—throwing all his weight against the shutters. He prayed that the gutter would hold and the shutters and window would give way. The leader of the Red Dragons hesitated. What should have been an easy victory was again slipping from his grasp. Teo was blinded and in pain, Tyrenis was injured and the blond brat was free and armed. Why didn’t that cursed Itanian Warlock tell me that this magic item was a powerful weapon? He thought angrily. Will Teo be all right? He shoved that last thought out of his mind. At least Tyrenis had the presence of mind to draw his dagger and shield the helpless fighter, even if he only had the use of his off-hand to fight. “Elkor!” Seylars snapped, even as he backed towards the door. Time to call in the reserve forces… The Magician raised his hands and a greenish aura danced along his fingers as he began to mutter a spell. But he wasn’t able to finish his Sleep invocation, because through the window right behind him crashed Cricket, glass and splintered wood spraying out around him as he landed right onto Elkor. The Magician screamed as he fell onto his hands and cut them on the glass shards. Cricket managed to roll to his feet, practically unscathed, and draw his own knife. As the man he had tackled started to get up, Cricket kicked him hard in the head. He collapsed on the floor with a grunt, unconscious. The Nighwing took in the full situation in the room: The cousins, now almost back to back, faced the other people in the room, one with his dagger ready and the other holding the mysterious glowing pendant by its chain. Moving towards the wide doorway to the sitting room was a smallish Erlin Elf holding a dagger in his left hand; his right palm and fingertips were red and covered with blisters. He was pushing the much larger Laan youth behind him toward the door out of the apartment. The Laan was blinking rapidly and tears streamed down his flushed cheeks. His hands were moving fitfully along the path in front of him, as if… he were blind. It seemed like these northerners might not have needed his help after all. Still, Seylars the ringleader seemed unhurt, and Cricket knew that old saying about a trapped animal. Seylars’ pale glance darted from the cousins to this new threat – who must be one of the Nightwing observers and so not to be underestimated – and that glowing orb that had blinded Teo. Where were Nallen and Orian? As if in answer to his unspoken question, he heard the sounds of challenge and then of blades clashing in the hallway behind him. No help from there. “All right, young Northerner, you win again.” He moved to sheathe his knife. “We’ll go, and no one else gets hurt.” He heard the door open behind him as Tyrenis and Teo retreated. There were shouts and more clanging of swords. “And take him with you.” Cricket prodded the unconscious Elkor. Seylars sheathed his long knife and stepped forward, but instead of bending to pick up Elkor, he drew two slender blades from his boots and flung them and Kalen and Jad. But just as he was releasing the knives, a bolt rocketed into the room from the destroyed window and caught the leader of the Red Dragons in the shoulder, knocking off his aim. One knife dug into the wall over Jad’s head, the other grazed Kalen’s shoulder, hit the windowframe and clattered to the floor. Seylars looked at the window, then at the wooden bolt protruding from his shoulder, his expression one more of incredulity than pain or fear, as if he could not believe that he had actually been wounded. Then in through the open window drifted another youth with a crossbow, his cloak swirling about him in a rather unnatural manner. “Well, that was close! Good to see you, Bat.” Cricket smiled but didn’t take his attention off of Seylars, who was looking paler than usual, and raising his hands in surrender. “And who in Charon are you?” Jad demanded, even as he turned to examine his cousin’s wound. He was relieved to see that it was just a small cut across the top of the shoulder,. “That’s… complicated…” Cricket began, but stopped when a greenish light enshrouded Seylars – and he was gone. Wren at that moment burst into the room, followed by a disheveled and frantic-looking Bertram and Taluk in nightshirts with swords in their hands. Taluk’s blade was red, and Bertram had blood soaking into on his sleeve. “Are you all right!? Taluk demanded. “By the Lords!” Jad exclaimed. “It’s about time! You missed all the excitement.” Taluk lowered his sword, looking relieved. “Actually we had a bit of our own in the hallway. “More Red Dragons crashed through the window?” He ventured. “No.” The Squire sheathed his dagger with an impatient gesture then pointed at Cricket. “He did. Knocked out their Magician right as he was going to turn us to toads or something.” “Good job!” Wren grinned at Cricket. “So it seems we are not even safe locked in our own rooms in this city!” Kalen said with disgust. “So who are you anyway?” He looked from Cricket to Wren to Bat. “It appears that you know each other. Have you been watching us too?” Before answering, Bat turned back to the shattered window and pulled the drapes shut. “Yes, at the request of Hiiri Taldin, he was concerned for your safety. “And now I think perhaps we should move to a more secure room where we can watch over you until the Loremaster returns, then he can decide what is best.” He nodded to Wren. “Loremaster?” Jad and Kalen said at once.
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