(Backdated entry)

“Find him!” Ourna plaintively commanded. She had thought her heart wrung to numbness with weeping the night before and in the anger of the morning, but now the rips were open again. Jiulan, her constant, her twin, the other half of her soul, was gone. Her eyes clung to the deep brown of her friend's, the bearer of bad news, expecting him to hop. To Ourna's surprise, Tremaen did not.

Instead, with brow furrowed in the confusion that was only continued from the night before, Tremaen pushed a stray bit of his pine needle green hair from his forehead and studied her for a brief moment. Then, he reached out a hand to her wrist and spoke softly, “Come, not in front of the others.”

Ourna yanked her hand from his grasp easily, spitting, “We're wasting time, Trey. He's out there alone!”

“Yes, I know, and by his own choice, it seems.” This time, Tremaen grasped Ourna by her shoulders. “Come aside and tell me what this is all about. A few moments won't make any difference.”

“No, but…” An image came into Ourna's mind, Tremaen's face etched with the same distrust and disgust as Jiulan's had been, and the proud woman's shoulder's slumped. “I can't,” she eked out. She was barely aware that she was letting him lead her away.

When they stopped walking, Tremaen spoke again, face tight with his own feelings. “Please,” he pleaded, “I have to know what you could have said to him to drive him to this.”

“I can't lose you both. Don't make me do this.” Ourna looked straight into his face and knew that she could no longer avoid this. With a deep sigh and a swallow, she started, “I am…” Again, like with her brother, she could not say it, but showed him the mark of the sun at noon on her brow. With that, her tongue loosened. “Anathema. Exalted. Chosen of the Unconquered Sun. However you say it, this is what I've become…through no choice of my own, I swear it by anything and everything I hold sacred. It just came to me when I vowed to retake the Willows. Jiulan called me a demon, Trey. I don't feel like one.” She
could not look at her oldest friend while she spoke. “I'm not evil!” She found herself becoming defensive. “He called me a demon. What do you call me?”

A hundred things raced through Ourna's mind in the stretched moment that followed. She knew what was coming, the sound of horror, the repeat of rejection. She startled to feel an arm come around her shoulders.

“Ourna,” Tremaen began in a voice that spoke no few emotions, “you remember that your father once wanted to kill me and my entire family for what we are, at least run us out of the Willows.” He chuckled once. “And he might have if not for the influence of your mother upon him. Worst kept secret in the land and it took him over fifteen years to hear it. You and Jiulan as well. Master Mehtar forbade you both to have any contact with me, and Jiulan saw fit to abide by that for a time, anyway, uncertain himself.” Ourna felt soft fingers in her chin trying to guide her face to look at him, and she complied. “But not you. You never doubted me, have always trusted me. Defied your own father, so firm were those beliefs. Sure, it worked out in the end, but your faith has never wavered, no matter what might happen around me. And I am very grateful for it.”

Stepping away from Tremaen, Ourna straightened her shoulders. “I do not want you to stay out of gratitude.”

Smirking, Tremaen replied sardonically, “Your pride clogs your ears. Can you really miss what I'm saying?” He threw up his hands slightly. “Winterwind. Do you remember the day I chose her? After all the family feud was forgiven? Your father gave me the pick of the lot to buy, and I chose her, despite all of you telling me she'd be weak or blind or any number of things.”

“You got lucky.”

“My luck had nothing to do with it. I saw something in her that you didn't, I think. My heart knew it was right.”

Ourna raised one brow slightly. “Are you comparing me to your horse?”

“Well, yes. It's too bad I don't own a mule.” Ourna cast him a withering expression to show her lack of appreciation of humor at that time. Shrugging slightly, he stepped to her again. “But you see now. I'm telling you that I know you, I know you both, perhaps better than you know each other. Either that or I'm fooling myself, which is entirely possible. But either way…” He smiled faintly, warmth in a face of cool angles. “I've heard you say it to each other so much, but now it's my turn. I will not abandon you. I believe you.”

Half of Ourna plunged into renewed anguish at the words, but the other half felt a heavy weight lift from her shoulders. She only managed Tremaen's name once.

“I know I'm no replacement for Jiulan to you, and I wouldn't want to be. Too temperate.”

“We have to find him. Let's go, you and I…” She started to turn, but Tremaen grasped her wrist again.

“Unfortunately, I think I have to be in this instance.” He sighed. “I am as worried as you are, and as ready to ride off after him, but I think I understand all the situations here. Sometimes I hate clarity.”

“You think I should just let him go?” She questioned him in a sudden snap of anger.

“I think you've taken on a responsibility for these people. I'll go whichever way you decide, but I think your place is with them.”

“Trey, this is my own brother we're speaking of.” A little voice in her head that sounded just like her own tried to tell her that he was making some sense, but she wasn't quite ready to listen to it.

“I know.” Tremaen's voice was thickening. “And do you think abandoning them will speak well of you to him?” He shrugged again. “There are other choices, you know. Send someone else maybe, send me, send no one, go yourself. But you have to make one, and soon. That Albrecht is right. Daylight's wasting.”

(Backdated entry)

“Jiulan!” She cried out, louder this second time, though it seemed to Ourna that the thick fog muffled her voice. He was ahead, just on the edge of vision, and she quickened her pace. She had no idea what she would say to him when she caught up to him. Thousands of conversations had passed through her brain on the road since he left, but nothing even remotely seemed appropriate.

Something touched her shoulder, and Ourna turned her head slightly, thinking to see Tremaen behind her. Surely he would follow. Wasn't that his voice she heard calling her name? But behind, there was nothing but gray, a solid wall that might as well have been stone for all she could see. Briefly, the ugly thoughts that Tremaen had now abandoned her as well crossed her mind, a momentary straight razor to her heart. Ourna shook her head. No, not him. There had to be something else going on, something keeping him from her. He was not Jiulan. Tremaen would never leave her willingly, though she couldn't have said why she was certain of that. She seemed to hear a low, dusky, female voice say, as in answer, “He is your Aniam.” Not certain if it was aloud or in her mind,

Ourna could make no sense of the answer anyway. Casting her gaze forward again, the vision of her brother was gone, though the chilly gray was thinning ahead. Almost by instinct, she reached for an arrow, but her hand met only fog, and she realized she had no bow. The idea that she was unarmed was only marginally less troubling than the idea that she had dropped one of the last things her father had given her. “Nakane is lost,” that woman's voice spoke again, sounding like an echo of thought, but again, Ourna didn't understand. Letting out a breath, she muttered about being a fool.

Images flickered in the gray. Everyone she knew and cared about danced through like smoke. Mother, Father, brother again, the militia, Tremaen. Xylanthe, Albrecht, Develan, Tonanti. A small, boyish dark haired man in black. A large bear of a man with claws for fingernails that she knew did pierce skin accidentally in throes of lust. A fog mirror showed not the gold-shot raven and dark eyes of her own body, but lovely woman with hair like spun sunlight and eyes of twilight sky. Yes, she knew this woman. From dreams.

With that, she stepped into a clearing, both in woods and fog, though both still framed the spot all around. There was even a dome of branches and fog overhead, though there was light as if full day shone here. Though these things aren't what she noticed first. It was the girl, a gleefully grinning woman.

“Oooooooh, you're here, you're here!” The strange woman was all in shades of purple, matching her long hair bound up by a giant ribbon. Tilted eyes of teal sparkled, pale-skinned ears drew up to sharp points. Even as the woman clapped her hands like a child with a new toy, Ourna couldn't help but note the strange, ethereal beauty of her. In a way, it reminded her a little of Tremaen. Fey touched. As Ourna's stomach fell with realization of what happened, something else boiled up. “I thought you'd never get here. Come, come!”

Ourna stalked forward trying to recall if she'd ever read anything that would support the idea that one of the Fair Folk could be throttled. She had a mind to try one way or another. “Return me, now!”

Teal eyes blinked rapidly. “Why?”

A couple more steps brought Ourna nearly face to face with the creature. “Because my friends are out there.”

The faerie woman took a step back and blinked even more rapidly. “But I can't. And the trees are on fire and the Hunt is there and he will be so happy you're here. Aren't you happy you're here? Everyone should be happy.”

Ourna simply closed the distance with a step, “No, I can't say I am.” She reached up her hands to grab the woman by the front of her purple cloak, and was staggered back by a face full of…butterflies? She waved them away from her face, but only succeeded after they began to disintegrate into little colored bits of paper, and those vanished entirely.

Now, the fey girl was off to her right, and Ourna turned and started toward her again, determined to get her hands on her captor. She heard the woman let out a squeak, and for a moment Ourna thought she might be getting through to her. Suddenly, however, Ourna found herself on the ground with the air knocked out of her, and something growling in her ear.

Twisting, Ourna tried to get some leverage to counter her attacker, and got a look at him. He was a beast man, a lion man, but softly purple. Somehow, she knew that this was no illusion and pulled her leg to execute a hard kick to his middle, scrambling back. In getting back from him, she felt claws rip along her side. Heart thumping, Ourna really started wishing she knew more of hand to hand fighting.

Growling, the man-beast lunged again, and the fight went in earnest. Ourna surprised herself by managing well more than just defending, though earning a few more scratches for her efforts.

Both of them found their feet, and the man-beast grappled Ourna from behind, one furry arm across her stomach. She was about to twist and do something rather painful to him when a voice rang out “Stop, stop it.” For a long moment, Ourna could almost feel the fey woman's words rattle in her skull, and they had the intended effect, for the attacker had frozen in place as well.

Turning her head, Ourna regarded again the woman, who was chewing on her lip. After a moment, she spoke again, in a less ringing voice, “She's not an intruder, Kierhan. I brought her here. For you.”

Ourna could feel the one called Kierhan change, at the same moment she spoke in unison with him, “What?”

“You saw her, you said you thought she'd be a good mate. It took me a while to figure out which one she was, you know. I had to wait until she shot the bow.” The girl beamed with uncertain pride. “You both can now be happy.”

Turning her head, Ourna saw her own bafflement reflected in a now very human face (though one with amber cat eyes and light purple beard and hair), and tried to dredge up an ounce of patience. Swinging her head back to the girl, Ourna spoke, slowly, “Did it ever occur to you that I might not want to come here and be his mate?”

Teal eyes blinked once, twice, three times. “Oops.” It was clear that the faerie matchmaker had not, in fact, considered that. “Um, do you already have one? The fey boy? I thought I saw a connection with him, so I gave him your things, but…”

“No…no…” Ourna irritated herself further by speaking just a touch too quickly. “I just have friends in trouble, and a thousand other things.” She could feel blood running from the scratches, and they burned like fire, neither of which served to improve Ourna's mood. “I cannot stay here. You must release me.” She was starting to glow a bit, knowing the mark on her brow was now shining, and was vaguely aware that others were now in the room.

“Double oops,” the faerie girl spoke, very softly.

The arm around Ourna finally disappeared with another growl. Craning her neck warily, she saw Kierhan backing away. “What have you brought on us, Keriam?”

“Look, just let me out and we'll all forget this happened.” She twisted her head the other way and caught glimpse of a purple maned lion and the disconcerting figure of a lioness on two legs leaning on a tree in very human fashion. “No trouble.”

“But I can't,” wailed Keriam. “None of us can! It's hard enough when we're not moving, and we're moving.”

“Moving? But I have to…”

She didn't get to finish her sentence as the lioness broke in, voice oddly lispy and raspy, “We should find her a room.”

Keriam started to speak again, but Kierhan snapped, “I don't care what you do with her, just keep that slaving Sunchild away from me.” He stalked out on powerful legs.

“Slaving?” Ourna blinked.

“Melichor never thought so.” A dusky voice answered in her head. Perhaps this is the way fey madness lie.

She shook her head a bit and noted that the lioness was now beside her, holding out a clawed hand. “I am Teleri. I will not ask you to excuse my family, but I suppose it's up to me to offer the excuses anyway.”

Ourna managed a quirk of a smile at the dry tone, despite it all. “Torves Ourna. Call me Ourna. Family?” She placed her hand on Teleri's, unsure if it was supposed to be a handshake or not, and despite finding it most disconcerting. Either way, it seemed to please the lioness.

“I will take you to a room and see to your wounds as we talk.” Teleri kept the hand and led Ourna through a space in the tree/fog dome. “Yes, we are all brothers and sisters. A litter, to be precise.” She must have seen the surprise on Ourna's face. “Our father was of the Fair Folk, our mother a chosen of Luna. Each of us is different though born within an hour of each other. Each of us different, as is the way of the Wyld.”

With a left turn, a little 'room' appeared. It was more of a small cave, really, with crystal stalactites reflecting light. Teleri motioned for Ourna to sit, and she was glad to do so. The lioness woman turned to a hole in the wall and seemed to pull a basin of water and bandages from it. Ourna cleared her throat. “How does that explain why I am here?”

Ourna never thought a lioness head could smirk, but this one made a fair attempt. “Keriam is closest to our father. She doesn't always remember that actions have consequence, or consider others outside of what she wants to do. Though, for the moment she does, and is quite upset.”

“Not enough to let me go, apparently.”

“She can't, she spoke true about that. None of us can.”

Ourna let it go for now. She could see that a different approach was needed. So, she found another topic, to gain information about her captors. “What of Kierhan?”

“Ah, he is our mother's child, chosen like her.”

“And you?”

“I am what you see. As is Cathair, the lion, for the most part. You probably will not see Annwyrn, not for a while anyway.”

“Five of you then?” Teleri nodded in answer while tying the last bandage. “Well, you seem more…” Ourna searched for an inoffensive word.

“Level?” There was that smirk again. “One of us has to be. I'm all done, so I'll leave you now. One of us will bring you food and clothing later. You are free to wander, but take a care not to get lost.”

She didn't wander. Stretched out on a long slab she supposed was a bed, Ourna tried to forget the sting of her wounds. The soft and dusky voice spoke things, much not understood, but she did finally put the names to the faces seen in the mists. Aniam, the small man in black. Melichor, the bear. She reasoned the men were important to the sun-haired woman. Rozacia. Her name was Rozacia. She was a queen, a general, a priest. Fallen. “The worst thing to be is forsaken, and the clarity to know why.”

Ourna shook her head violently. “Leave me be!”

“Be glad to, but I brought food and dress from Keriam. She is afraid to approach.”

Ourna sat straight up and blinked at the one named Kierhan, who stood cautiously at the door. “I wasn't speaking to you.”

Grunting with a slow blink of amber eyes, Kierhan tossed a mound of blue-green cloth into the center of the room. Ourna didn't take her eyes off him as she slipped over to retrieve it, watching him look at the tray in his hand as if trying to decide how to toss that as well without losing the contents. Finally, as Ourna backed to her position on the slab, clothing retrieved, Kierhan made his way over, setting the tray nearby. “I'm…sorry.” He muttered.

“That sounds like it cost you.” Ourna snorted. “Not something you're accustomed to?”

Kierhan looked for a moment like he was going to strike at her, and she prepared to defend herself, but he didn't. He just dropped a meaty hand back to his side. “I said I was sorry. For you being here.”

In return, she made a non-committal noise in her throat. “So, how long am I a prisoner for?”

“You're not a prisoner. You just … um … can't leave.”

Ourna spread her arms as if trying to encompass the cave-room. “And just what is your definition of prisoner, Kierhan? And look at my room.”

He did, and responded, “I will see that you are made more comfortable.”

Both fell to silence, regarding each other for a long moment, before he turned and stalked out.

(Backdated entry)

Ourna tried to mark the passage of time by how many times she slept. After a few, she lost count. She used her time to study her captors. Keriam was fleeting, too afraid to show herself, but Ourna did find her room changed to include a fluffy bed with trees for posts and a living canopy of butterflies. It was clear who had the ability to do that.

She found herself liking Teleri the lioness, despite captivity, and spent long hours talking to her, always having a care of what was said, though the lioness seemed very open herself. Ourna was told of two others in the litter, one dead already of age, having only a lion's life, and the other far too changed to exist this far away from the Wyld places. She was told how the place was made for them, who called themselves Na Teaghlach from a language of the far East. Their fey Father had made it for them after the untimely death of their Mother, and had not seen him since. But for all that, Teleri was closed mouthed about a way out, save that it was through the still unseen Annwyrn, who protected and moved the place.

Ourna even tried to find ways of communicating with Cathair, the lion with intelligence of a man, but both often became frustrated before anything came across.

And always there was the hulking presence of Kierhan, who watched her from the shadows and brought her dinner. Sometimes, he would eat with her, and they would pass a few words. She tried not to feel guilty when she got harsh with him, for though he did try to show some kindness, he was still a captor, and it was still clear he didn't care for what she was.

And then there was the ghost of the past, Rozacia, who Ourna could not shove away.

For a time, the ghost stood quietly next to Ourna, when it seemed the walls of her room had gone to fog. There was a sharp taste to the air, as if someone had salted her very breath. Licking her lips, Ourna was almost surprised to find no salt there. She took another deep breath, and the faint smell of organic rot filtered in. Almost at the same moment, the fog thinned just a bit, and she could see water as far as sight would allow. No river this, it was a power, deep and blue topped with white foam. “It is the ocean,” said the dusky voice. And Ourna could remember the ocean, though she had never seen it.

Ocean. Ourna's heart wrenched in her chest. For all she knew, she was on the other side of Creation from her world. Running her tongue along her lips again, she found salt there, from her own tears. She sat hard down on the floor and wept, long after the fog had thickened to obscure the outside again.

After a time, she felt a hand on her shoulder, and she looked up with her tear-streaked face, expecting oddly to see the ghost. But, the hand was thick and callused, and belonged to Kierhan.

“I'm sorry,” he whispered, and this time, she believed it. Though she had had a care not to say anything of herself, suddenly it came out like a sudden downpour of rain. The loss of her home, the betrayals, all of it.

He growled angrily when she was done, but not at her. For her. And then, he spoke softly, “Come away. Leave your cares for now. Come dine with us tonight, will you? Feast and games will clear the head.”

What could it harm? “Can I have a moment?”

Kierhan nodded. “I will wait outside the door.”

Ourna waited until he stepped out to start cleaning up, smoothing yet a new set of clothes in deep purple and forest green, and tried to ignore the accusatory looks from the ghost in the corner.

Ourna woke slowly, languidly stretching before opening her eyes. The first thing that was clear to her was that she was naked, some sort of soft fur serving as a blanket caressing her skin. Fluttering her eyes open, she sat up and confirmed that, unless Keriam had changed it in the middle of her sleep, she was not in her own room. The bed was soft grass and fur. Chairs seemingly grown right out of the forest walls lined it with a great armoire the same. Instead of living butterflies, there were bones and furs and skins all over. And the past few hours came rushing back, feasting and dancing and wrestling and….

Springing up, Ourna threw back the blanket from the bed. Spots of blood on the soft brown grass confirmed memory.

She had given herself to Kierhan.

No, he had taken her. It was the plan all along. Ourna could see that now. She backed away from the scene of the crime, wrapping her well-muscled arms around herself. Tricks and lies, everything here was tricks and lies, built around getting her into bed with him. Isn't that why she was brought here in the first place? They must have slipped something into her food. All the kindness from everyone, especially him. He hated her, so it must be all against her. He must be away now, planning now how to get rid of her now that he's gotten what he wanted from her. The ghost nodded nearby. Of course, of course, because she wouldn't have done this of her own free will, despite what memory said. Yes, something in the drink maybe. She wouldn't have betrayed Aniam again…no…the green haired boy. She kept confusing them. She wouldn't have given something to someone else first, not again.

Maybe they were in league with her enemies, despite the pity in their eyes when they all knew the tale. It was all on purpose. Ourna pulled herself out of the chair. Surely Kierhan had a weapon around here. She would need it. She couldn't send her hand out to get them. These she'd have to do herself. If she killed them all, maybe the place would fade and their plan to keep her from freeing her people would go on if not too late.

She had found nothing when he returned with a tray, wearing only a pair of pants. Anger fueled, she flung herself at him with a whirlwind of punches and every ounce of strength. “Lying bastard! It was on purpose, all on purpose!”

Kierhan fought back, some sort of false confusion etched into his face. “What…?!”

Ourna babbled and screamed the truth into his face. He must see she knows now. She let herself glow a bit with the light of the sun. If she was going to die for this, then she'd give as much of a fight as she could.

Finally, he backed her into a corner, pinned her on the wall. “I don't know what you're talking about, and I'll be damned to a thousand hells if I'm going to apologize every day you're here, especially when I…”

“Pretty lies.” She kicked him, and he howled, throwing a backhand at her face. Licking the blood from a split lip, she screamed wordlessly and flung herself at him again, pummeling. He had to die, die for her to be free. That's why none of them spoke of the way out. They all had to die.

A sharp prick in the side of her neck made her turn her head, and their complicity was confirmed. The last sight she saw before blackness was Keriam and Teleri, both with tiny tubes for blowing poisoned darts.

When she opened her eyes to the light again, the rage had faded back to nothing, and for the life of her, Ourna could not understand what had made her think these things, though doubt still nagged. The cool cloth covering her forehead disappeared into a clawed, purple furred hand.

“Welcome back, Ourna.” Teleri's distinctive mashed rasp found her ears. “We kept you asleep for a while.”

“Thank you.” Somehow, Ourna knew she had been done a favor. Suddenly, a rush of heat found her cheeks. “Kierhan, is he…?”

“He's fine. Bruised, but fine.”

Pushing back any thought that he deserved it, Ourna relished a bit in the shame. Surely he'd never come near her again. “Tell him I'm sorry.”

A deep-throated wry chuckle floated to her from across the room. “Your turn, then.” Ourna turned her head groggily and saw him, right side of his face nearly the color of his hair. Amazingly, he approached, and Teleri slunk silently away.

Turning away from Kierhan, Ourna muttered, “I think…I think I was turning…” My guilt for enjoying myself on you, she finished in her mind, but did not voice it. “Going mad, maybe. All the hurt and betrayal, it's hard sometimes not to.

She heard him grunt. “Mother said the Children of the Sun were long mad, and that's why I should stay away. Keep from becoming a slave to a mad Sunchild.”

“I wouldn't blame you, for keeping away.” She turned to look at him, catching his amber with her deep brown, and she winced at his bruised face.

“Are you going to attack me again?”

“I don't think so.”

“Then there is no reason. Besides, if you do, I won't hold back next time.”

As Ourna sat up, Kierhan took her hand in his. “If it is your cares that drive you mad, then why do you want to go back to them?”

“Honestly, I don' t know anymore. For all I know, the others are long dead by now.”

“No. While you slept, Keriam and I spoke with Annwyrn. Though she insists on testing you, she has agreed to move us back to where we found you.”

Ourna blinked at Kierhan. “There is a way out? Why didn't you tell me before?”

“Because they..we..like you, and Annwyrn's tests are dangerous. Besides, it is true that we can't leave while moving.”

“I believe you.” She said it more for herself than for Kierhan.

Both sat silent for a moment, and she kept her hand in his. Finally, Kierhan spoke. “Stay. Stay here with us. With me. Don't go back to the world that hates you, that drives you to madness, that hurts you. We won't.”

Not everyone hates me, Ourna thought as an image of Tremaen floated unbidden to her mind. If nothing else, he was still a tie. “How long until we arrive back?”

Kierhan shrugged. “I don't know. Perhaps a couple of weeks or more in here.” Yes, time flowed differently in this place. Ourna found that she wasn't sorry for the extra time. She wanted to stay here for a while more, where every want could be answered. Where she wore beautiful clothes and danced with no cares. Where there was someone to help her not feel lonely, someone she was powerfully drawn to, who she wasn't afraid to touch or have touch her.

“Then, you'll have my answer then.” Scooting over closer to him, she whispered, pleadingly. “Until then, will you help me forget for a while?”

(Backdated entry)

The time passed both too quickly and too slowly for Ourna. Too quickly, for she reveled in developing unfettered friendships with all of them, especially Kierhan. She rarely slept in her own room.

Too slowly, for part of her wanted to go back to her own world, despite all the pain. She cared for her friends outside. And there was poor cursed Tremaen. She idly wondered every now and then if he cared for her weapons for her, whether he hurt himself trying to draw Nakane (as she now knew the bow was called).

And too quickly again because she couldn't make herself decide. One moment, she was lost in the carefree life of Na Teaghlach. The next, guilty for being so. The sun haired ghost was always there, but never had an answer.

Finally, the day came when Keriam told her they had arrived.

Ourna stood in the main room clearing she had first seen an age ago. Sunlight, actual sunlight filtered through the upper branches, and she turned her face to it.

“You're supposed to speak to me, aren't you? Why are you silent now? Do you even care if I stay here? Where have you been in all my crisis? Why won't you tell me what you want of me?” She barely cared that her voice had a twinge of bitterness in it.

“I've tried,” said a dusky voice. “But you keep seeing what was and not what is. Open your eyes.”

Ourna looked around for the ghost, but saw nothing. For a time, she was left with only her own confused thoughts for company.

“You have eyes to see, ears to hear, a heart to feel and a mind to think. When all are going, it's hard to sort it all through, isn't it?”

Ourna turned to face the speaker, the chiming voice belonging to Keriam. The fey woman was dressed much as she was when Ourna first saw her. “I guess so. I don't know why I'm so tied up. I've always been so certain.”

“Or acted like you were even when you weren't. Such is the apparent burden of leadership.”

“You're the leader here, aren't you?” Ourna asked, with sudden understanding. It all made sense.

Keriam smiled with the weight of wisdom, an odd look for her. “Though sometimes I forget.”

“I can't say much against that, now can I?” Ourna was answered with a giggle.

Sighing, Ourna turned to the direction she thought she originally came from. “I just don't know what to do, Keriam.” Out of the corner of her eye, Ourna saw Keriam come to stand beside her, delicate hands tucked in sleeves.

“Might I give a suggestion? You don't strike me as a silly flipskirt girl, so stop thinking like one. This isn't, nor should it be, a choice between men.”

Ourna whipped her head toward Keriam. “I'm not…” she started, but snapped her mouth closed with an audible click.

“Aren't you? Take them out, then think on it.”

“Your brother won't like that.”

Keriam shrugged. “He'll survive. I'll be back soon.” And the fey woman was gone.

Hard as it was, Ourna stood, arms crossed, and did as advised, and found she had her answers all along. For a moment, the sun haired ghost stood in front of her again, only now interposed over a familiar small boy. This time, Ourna took a step forward and embraced the vision. Ghosts and voices vanished back into her.

When she heard a footstep behind her, Ourna expected Keriam. But it was Kierhan who approached, hair wild but beard trimmed. Without saying anything, he simply put his arms around her waist, and she rested her hands comfortably on his arms. She raised up on her toes, and kissed him softly, liking the way his beard scuffed at bit on her face.

“Stay,” he whispered finally.

She backed up just a bit, only to put a little distance between her and him but not completely lose the contact. “I'm sorry, Kierhan, I can't.” She swallowed a bit of a lump in her throat.

“It's him, isn't it, that Tremaen you speak of.” His voice was a bit harsh with some kind of emotion.

“No,” she responded gently. “It has nothing at all to do with him. I wasn't meant to stay here. I wasn't Chosen to live this life. It doesn't matter what anyone else thinks of me, I have something to do, a promise to keep. I may lose sight of that from time to time, but even if I stand alone amongst enemies, I still must stand. For me, for them, and for Him.” It was clear who she was talking of, in a newfound understanding of what she was. The ghost hadn't been here to mock her, but to show her something. She took a deep breath before continuing. “No, Kierhan, I wasn't meant to stay here. And neither were you.”

His brow furrowed deeply, voice taking on the hint of suspicion, and pulled his hands back to his sides. “What do you mean?”

“Back home, there is this practice of building a small corral in the house to put children in while adults work, where they will stay safe and do not have to be watched every moment. Teleri told me your father made this place for you when you all were young, and you haven't seen him since, and given Keriam, has probably forgotten all about you. That's what the den is, Kierhan. A play corral built so your father wouldn't have to watch you.” Ourna let it all out in a rush, then waited.

Kierhan exploded, stepping back to her to try to loom. “Oh, you twist words well. A pretty lie to get me to come fight your fight with you, for you even, like the olden days. I've told you, I will not be a slave. Not to you, not to anyone.”

She swallowed back hurt and straightened her back. “After all…after everything, you still don't trust me. You sound like me in the throes of madness. ” Ourna's voice dropped to a harsh whisper. “I never said anything about coming with me. I had no intention of asking. Hoping you might, sure, but I would not ask it, and would not try to force the issue. So stay here, little boy. Stay in your corral and dance with your sisters, but know that if you do…if any of you do…you will be nothing but untried children for the rest of your days.”

Kierhan started a low growling noise in his throat, but whatever he was about to say or do was suddenly cut off by the chiming entrance of Keriam. “She's right, brother. I've known this since we were children. I should have told you, all of you, sooner, but I've been afraid. When I haven't forgotten completely.”

He squeezed his eyes shut, and said nothing.

“I forgive you, Kierhan. Goodbye. Perhaps we will meet again someday, out there.” Ourna stepped away to go wherever Keriam was about to lead her, and tried not to feel like she had a broken heart. She didn't have time for one.

The two women wove their way through mist and trees to a spot in the den Ourna had not seen. Branches wove themselves into an archway, and lying in front of it was a creature to top the rest in strangeness. It had the head of a woman, purple hair marking it part of this little family, but the body of a male lion. Ourna seemed to recall such a creature in some tale, and it liked riddles.

“Here she is, Annwyrn,” Keriam spoke coolly.

The sphinx regarded Ourna with unfeeling eyes, then spoke in a flat voice. “What is both the strongest foundation, yet can be as shifting as sand, as invisible as air, but can be as strong as steel? What is the ultimate truth that can be a lie?”

Without missing a beat, Ourna replied, “Faith.”

Annwyrn swung its head to Keriam with mouth in a hard line. “I told her nothing, as agreed, Annwyrn.”

It nodded, slowly. “Then let the test begin. Pass through the arch, and find the path that will lead you out, Torves Ourna. Keep your faith, and you will succeed. Falter and you will be lost. You may turn back now, but you will never see this place again.”

Ourna stepped resolutely through the wooden arch.

She stood in a garden, a small one, connecting a small house with a larger one. Garden was a generous description at this point, for it had only recently been planted, and the tree in the middle was but a stripling. The sun stood just above the horizon.

For a moment, Ourna was disoriented, as if something were not right here. She shook her head to clear the uncertainty and pulled her cloak closer in the morning chill. She was home. For some reason she felt as if she'd been on a long journey, but she had never left. It was well into the months of Water, not Air, and it was foaling season.

In a daze, she continued to cross the new garden to the old house. Inside, she found her mother getting the breakfast dishes out. “Good morning,” Ourna spoke absently.

“Goo…” Kayiera broke off. “Is something the matter?”

Ourna sunk into an old, familiar chair at the scuffed oak table. “I think I had a bad dream. We were attacked, and I got lost.”

Kayiera smiled knowingly. “You know, I had the worst dreams right after I Chose your father. I dreamed that he decided to run off, that soldiers came to take him away, that…”

Ourna laughed, coming back to herself. “Yes, Mother, you've told that story a hundred times.”

“I know, I know.” Kayiera sighed good-naturedly. “But I just want to remind you that change will do that. We've only just finished raising your house. Give it time.”

Looking up and down the table, Ourna asked, “Where are the boys?”

“Oh, two mares dropped last night. They've been up for hours.”

Ourna snorted. “Why did they let me sleep, then?”

Shrugging, Kayiera admitted, “Because I told them to. If you insist on doing your rounds through the Willows this week, you need extra rest.”

“Mother…” Ourna started to protest, but just then, Jiulan strode through the door.

“We got one healthy. About done with the other.” He continued over to

Ourna and tugged on her braid. “Morning, sleepy.”

Jumping up, Ourna clutched her brother to her, much to his surprise. “I had the worst dream, and you left me.”

“Don't be a goose, Ourna.” Jiulan kissed the center of her forehead. There was something about that action that troubled her, but she just squeezed him harder. “Um, you know I have to go teach, right? Have to get my days in before I go play militia with you.”

Ourna let go and sat back down, blushing. “Sorry.”

Three heads snapped around with the sound of someone bellowing. The sound got louder and clearer as the owner of the voice approached. Two men stormed into the room, both completely soaked.

“I didn't do anything, Kotari. The horse kicked over the trough…”

“You don't have to, Tremaen.” The grumbling from Ourna's father was taking on a lighter tone, but the other man sighed. Kotari turned his eye on Ourna. “You brought this on us.”

Yes, in the winter. She could remember the cords binding her hands to Tremaen's as she took him into her family. She laughed at her father. “I know. Not really sure what happened myself.”

And this was all real, more real than whatever nightmare had took her mind. She pushed herself away from the table and went to her husband, reached to trail her fingers in pine needle green hair. “I'm drenched,” Tremaen protested.

“So?”

“Ugh.” Jiulan grunted ribbingly. “It's going to be a long trip this season.”

Ourna turned and stuck her tongue out at her brother, then started to return to kiss her chosen, but her eye caught sight of a large purple butterfly at the door. She furrowed her brow. It was too early for such creatures. It fluttered madly. There was something familiar about it.

“No.” Ourna whispered. “No, it can't be real.”

Worried faces watched her.

“Keep your faith, and you will succeed.” The voice was in her head.

No, no, just one more moment to enjoy this, this what might have been. Let her hug her father, her mother. Let her embrace again the brother that never betrayed her. Let her kiss the man she may never again. The butterfly lifted off the doorframe and floated in the doorway.

Ourna disengaged herself from Tremaen. “Ourna? Where are you going?”

She said nothing, just put one foot in front of the other. Oh, that she wanted to turn back, but no matter how real it felt, it was illusion, and the butterfly was trying to show her the way. She sneaked one last glance back before stepping out the door, and tried not to think that her heart was breaking for the second time in a day.

She went to her knees in the dirt, dressed once again in gifts from Keriam and Teleri, and choked back tears. Voices came to her, though she didn't look up.

“You helped her, Keriam. That's not fair.”

“Neither are your tests, Annwyrn.”

Ourna felt a skinny arm snake around her shoulders and a chiming voice in her ear, and when she looked she saw Keriam, though she seemed…lessened somehow. “Come now. I don't think it's been that long out here. Your friends are no longer here, but neither are their corpses. Kierhan…” Ourna blinked. “Yes, he's helping, though he doesn't want you to know. He thinks they're all alive. With him, Teleri, or Cathair tracking one way, and me tracing your halfling friend another, we can find them.”

Ourna rubbed the back of her hand across her eyes and stood. “Are you…with me now?”

Keriam smiled. “We will see. At least until we find them, and I give you the gift I want to give you.”

(Backdated entry)

Realm Year 748

Tremaen pulled and scowled at the piece of lace on his sleeve. He didn't care that Auntie Aselma had made it, or who she was to the village of Attia, or even that she was coming. It was his naming day, eight years old and nearly grown. He should be able to decide whether he wanted to wear lace or not, and he most decidedly did not. Mother told him he could take it off right after Auntie Aselma left, but he still didn't have to like it.

Fidgeting in a ladder-back chair, he watched his mother flit about the room doing last minute dusting. He always thought that Kiratu Guenlyn was the prettiest woman in the whole world with her light brown skin, eyes, and hair, the last streaked in midnight blue. It only recently occurred to him that he must look like the father he didn't know, because he was all pale and green-haired. It didn't bother him though. A lot of children in the Willows didn't know who their fathers were.

Guenlyn came over and smiled at him, and he returned it. Until, of course, she smoothed down a bit of hair, and Tremaen was morally bound to roll his eyes at her.

The distinctive sound of a stick rapping against a door announced the dreaded arrival of Auntie Aselma. Tremaen hopped off his chair and dutifully stood next to his mother as she answered the door. Auntie warmly greeted Guenlyn, and gave her usual greeting to Tremaen, which meant she stared down her beaky nose at him and scowled, made a passing comment about the lace, then promptly forgot he existed. Mother asked him to go play in the garden. She didn't seem pleased to see Auntie today, and he certainly didn't blame her. He wanted to give his mother a hug, but decided to do what he was told, because he knew Auntie would say something if he didn't.

The tiny house garden held a thousand things, but many he could not touch. Tremaen had done so, once, and he thought he could still feel the sting in his backside. How was he supposed to know the plot under the window was for healing herbs? He just liked the yellow flowers one of them blossomed in the spring.

He pondered for a moment climbing the drooping willow, but the last time he'd tried to swing from it's branches he'd discovered the hard way that he was far too big now to be doing so. His broken arm had only just healed. Staring around for a moment, he spotted the pansies, all in shades of pink and purple. Mother had never said anything about them. Maybe a small bouquet would cheer her up.

Tremaen spent a long time, at least a long time to an eight year old boy, picking just the right pansies and arranging them just in the right way. Of course, he'd gotten dirt all over his new coat, and did his best to brush it off with an equally dirty hand. Failing, he decided that it really didn't matter because he really wanted to give his mother the flowers. With purpose in mind, he headed back in the house.

Mother was still visiting with Auntie in the sitting room, Mother sitting in a silk cushioned chair and Auntie half-leaning on her walking stick, staring out the window, white streaked red hair glimmering with a halo of dust in the sunlight. Tremaen started to burst right on in, but something stayed him right outside the door, just to the side where they did not see him. Both women wore their important discussion faces, and Mother looked most distressed.

“Mehtar Kotari, in Vesh, is looking for apprentices for stable hands,” Auntie said. “Breeding is an honorable trade.”

“For us?” Mother looked down at her hands. Tremaen pressed himself against the wall, brows furrowing. “Aselma, he's my child.”

“The two of you were in my home less than an week. My garden started flourishing, every dish in the cupboard broke exactly in the same way, and Kischy bore a litter of seven-toed kittens.”

“Isn't that what you were trying to do, with the cat?”

Tremaen started peeking fearfully around the corner, flowers forgotten in his hand.

“With no success for many years. Don't you see? It didn't pass him over. It's random in him.”

Mother thumped the table with the palm of her hand. “Why? Why does it matter? I bore the Benefactor a son. The oaths are over. Sending the boy away won't make him come back, no matter how much you wish it. Kiratu women must make their own prosperity now.”

Instead of yelling back, Auntie closed her eyes and hung her head. Tremaen didn't understand a word of what was said, save that they were talking about him. “You mistake me, my dear girl. It's for the boy's sake I come here. He is not like other boys born to us. He is a child of the Benefactor, and if he stays with us he will be lost to madness, or worse. He must learn to be a normal boy to be a normal man.”

Mother slowly sat back down again. Tremaen found his lip quivering. No, he refused to cry. “But why the Realmsman? Surely he'll reject him.”

Auntie spoke slowly and patiently, approaching the chair where Mother sat. “Master Mehtar knows nothing of what we are, not even the rumors that dog us, so he will not treat the boy strangely. He was Chosen into a good family by a level headed woman, who, I will add, I have already spoken to. They have two twin children about his age, a boy he can learn from and a girl. Perhaps at age, the girl will take our boy in. It's the best thing for him, and us, Guenlyn.”

“He will be able to come home from time to time?”

“Of course.”

The flowers fell from Tremaen's hand as he understood one thing. He was being sent away. His mother finally turned her head to see him standing there, and he scowled at her. Whoever these people were, he resolved to hate them. Especially this girl they wanted to choose him.

(Backdated entry)

Realm Year 749

Tremaen backed up against the side of the house. All he had to do was get some bread from the baker's. Easy enough, except for the group of boys that decided to take issue with his presence in town. It was the worst of luck running into them.

He wasn't really sure when he'd dropped the bundle, he'd been running so fast at the time. Of course, he didn't really care at the moment. His shirt was torn in half a dozen places and his left eye was swollen shut, and it was clear the boys weren't finished with him yet. He was certain they were going to kill him.

The biggest boy came forward and grabbed the spot of lace at the throat of Tremaen's shirt, unaffected by any struggling or resistance. “See, he thinks he's a girl.” The shirt tore again as the lace came off and Tremaen thudded hard to the ground.

“So, Grayst, what do we do with uppity freaks who think they're girls?” The big boy asked one of his gang as he reached down to grab Tremaen's foot. Trying to scramble away, Tremaen whimpered as he felt the hand vice grip on his ankle.

“Show him different?” The smaller boy answered with a gleam in his eye.

“That's right, Grayst.” The large bully pulled the tiny Tremaen into the center of the circle. All he could do was throw his arms up and await the beating that was about to commence. Dead at nine was not what he wanted.

Instead of the expected blows, something that felt like a stick hit his arm as if it had fallen softly. Slowly, Tremaen brought down his arms enough to see the head bully rubbing his head and the whole gang looking off at something to the side. “Leave him alone!”

Raising his head a bit, Tremaen got a look at the speaker. It was the girl, Ourna, from Master Mehtar's place. She was holding a little play bow with a half dozen blunted arrows in a tiny quiver on her back. He realized that that was the thing that had fallen, a little child's play arrow, and she had another fixed on the head bully. Blinking baffledly, Tremaen wondered why she would possibly help him. He hated her, and he was sure she hated him right back.

“Why should we?”

“'Cause if you don't, I'll beat you all up.” She shot off another of her little play arrows, hitting the head bully square in the nose. As the big boy wailed about his nose, hopping around, she continued. “And I'll tell my mother. And she'll tell all your mothers. I know who all of you are…cousins.” She spat the last word and dropped her little bow to put up her fists. “Who's first?”

Now, as she spoke, Tremaen watched all the boys start thinking over their actions, and each word brought them closer to their inevitable conclusion. They dispersed in the wake of the girl's undaunted fury, and none took her up on her offer. Of course, they made all sorts of excuses, but they left all the same.

After they had all disappeared down the street, Tremaen looked back to Ourna, wincing as she approached. She probably just wanted to beat him up all by herself.

But again, expected blows didn't come. She just took his face in her hands, businesslike, and looked him over. “You okay?” she asked.

“Um, sure,” he answered, uncertainly.

She straightened, dusting her pudgy hands off on her skirt. “Good. Don't pay any attention to them.”

“Kind of hard not to when they're hitting you.” Tremaen pushed himself up slowly. Why, why was she being so nice?

“Oh, we can teach you things.” She smiled a little at him and offered her hand. “Let's go home, okay?”

Hesitantly, he took the hand. “Okay.” Well, whatever just happened, she had his loyalty. Those bullies were sure scared of her. But he could still hate her, right?

(Backdated entry.)

Realm Year 756

It was an old quilt, pieced from worn silk dresses. Objectively, it was a beautiful piece, Tremaen could admit, but since his great-aunt Aselma had made it, the only good use for it was to keep the dirt and grass from clothing. Which, of course, was the intention today. He would have the ride home to get rid of incriminating evidence, but Ourna lived much closer.

He straightened his lanky sixteen-year-old frame to peer over his handy work, basket placed just so, full of fresh picked berries and the wonderfully light sweet cream his mother made. He'd picked a dozen wild roses he'd happened upon on the way and placed them in perfect arrangement next to the basket. Of course, the majority of the blanket was for sitting or lounging. The rest of his gear was placed way over to the side, covered by the camouflage of his dustcloak. No, there would be no reason to have to reach for either of his blades or the hunting bow today, and no reason to look on them. Besides, he thought as he rubbed at his right thigh, the sheaths for the long knives chafed horribly. He'd hate to have to wear them all the time.

The wind picked up a corner of the quilt, and Tremaen bent to straighten it just as he heard the snapping of twigs and the huffing of a horse nearby. Snapping his head up, he whistled out two short sounds and a long. He only breathed again when he heard the two long in response. It was Ourna.

Quickly, he dropped to the blanket and arranged himself three times before she came from around a tree. Her Realm-raven hair was bound plaited down her back and she had a quilted hunting vest over her green blouse and close fitting leathers. Tremaen had no trouble guessing what her story had been, but then he was a bit more interested in how the clothes fit over her blossoming body.

He watched her carefully put her hunting bow by a tree, then flashed her a grin as she took over the scene and broke out laughing, cheeks turning pink. “How in the world did you get all this out?”

“What, is that how you greet me now?” Tremaen patted the quilt next to him, and she came to join him, giggles trailing. He found himself rewarded with a kiss as greeting.

“Still doesn't answer my question.” She teased, twining a finger in his lengthening hair. “You don't know what I had to do to convince Jiulan that he didn't really want to come hunting with me. I think I might have hurt his feelings.”

“Good.” Tremaen snorted as he pulled away a touch. Let Ourna's twin, Tremaen's supposed heartbrother, have the same hurt feelings he did. However, not at the expense of having Ourna look at Tremaen like she now was. “I'm sorry, but Jiulan…”

“…has been defending you to our father now for a solid week. I told you it was a momentary thing. He asked you to leave only to try to put some water on the fire that day.”

Tremaen felt a little ill. “I guess so. I'm sorry.” Her kissing him again cured him very quickly.

“So,” Ourna started, poking him in the ribs with a forefinger. “How did you get this out of your house?”

“Well,” Tremaen cleared his throat slightly to stall. “Mother thinks I'm out with Kesee..er, Kelry..ah..” He scrunched his eyes trying desperately to remember the name of the girl who'd dropped the veil of anonymity at the last, his first, spring festival.

“Keleen.” Ourna sniffed. “The flipskirt's name is Keleen.”

“I'm obviously not, Ourna.” He replied, indignantly. “I shouldn't have ever….”

“I know, I know.” She snuggled up to him and he, in turn put an arm around her.

They sat like that for a while. Tremaen became aware of his heartbeat thumping steadily faster.

“It's spreading to the Council, you know.” Ourna spoke finally, softly. “Just yesterday, your Auntie actually insulted the Matriarch. I...don't know if it's going to hold for two years until I can choose you.”

He believed, as she did, that they could heal the breach between their families. As it was, it was his own fault, just being what he was. Not that he knew anything, save that he and his family were touched by the Wyld. And Master Mehtar couldn't accept that, being what he was. Tremaen sighed softly, almost wistfully for the closest thing to a father he ever had. “There's no way your father will apologize?”

“Mother's trying. In this one instance, it's too bad Father is an outlander, unused to wives having the final say. And proud. He's so terribly proud.”

Tremaen took both of Ourna's rough hands in his. “Maybe you should tell them now, show them. You already ride with the militia. Maybe they'll think you're old enough now.”

“Maybe.” She blinked at him.

He found himself kissing her harder than he ever did before. Letting go of her hands to embrace her, he was delighted to find her embracing him back. It wasn't a conscious decision to take a chance, just a response to the liquid flame running through his veins. He started leaning her back, moving a hand to loosen the first button on her hunting vest. For a moment, she resisted him, but he smothered her in kisses until she relented with a whimper. As he was fumbling with the third button, he felt her hands at his waist, fumbling with his shirttails.

Pushing himself up, Tremaen shifted all his weight to his knees to free his hands to complete their assignment. Her hands went still, gripping his shirt with white knuckles. He could see the twinge of fear in her face, a fear he once had. Smiling softly at her, he leaned back forward to kiss away that fear.

Unfortunately, she chose that exact moment to turn her head. “Did you hear…?” She hadn't the time to complete the phrase before his forehead met her jaw with more force than either of them thought.

Tremaen pushed back to rub at his forehead as Ourna let out a wordless yelp and started to scramble up herself. Suddenly, Tremaen fell backward as her elbow accidentally met his nose in her scramble. Tears instantly sprang to his eyes and he moved a hand to his nose, which brought on a new onslaught of pain and water. Feeling the stickiness of blood flow to his hand, he decided that his nose was most likely broken.

He blinked his eyes several times to at least clear them to see and started to sit back up. He could see Ourna on her hands and knees, and Tremaen winced when he saw her spitting blood off to the side of the blanket. He blinked his eyes again and realized that she was quiet and staring straight ahead of her, wide eyed. Following her gaze, he felt his insides freeze up. For, at the edge of the trees, was Jiulan holding the reins of his horse, and staring right back.

Frantically, Tremaen wondered if something, anything could be done to salvage what was bound to happen next, but the pain and the shock kept him frozen. So he just sat as still as a startled rabbit watching Jiulan turn his raven dark head to take in the scene, blanket, basket, state of dress and all. Then, to Tremaen's surprise, the other boy threw his head back and laughed.

Jiulan laughed until he was wiping tears from his eyes with a knuckle. “Oh, oh do I see which way these winds have blown,” he quoted the punchline from an old and extremely crude Seven Willows joke, which earned him a fistful of sod in the stomach, courtesy of his own twin sister.

The action loosened Tremaen's limbs and scooted to Ourna without taking his hand from his nose and held his position defensively.

“Get over here and help us, you goose,” Ourna said to her brother, spitting out another mouthful of bloody saliva.

This brought on another round of laughter from Jiulan, but he did come over and kneel to take a look at his sister's injury. And then Tremaen's.

Some time later, after it was assessed that Tremaen had, in fact, broken his nose and Ourna was now missing a tooth, cold fear returned to Tremaen. He could see his own face, minus certain types of swelling, mirrored in Ourna as they both watched Jiulan.

Jiulan grinned back at them. “Oh, come now, sister mine. You can fool Mother and Father, but I knew you were up to something. I even suspected who with.” He narrowed his eyes a bit, though the grin was still there. “Though not the extent.”

Ourna shot her brother a baleful glare. “We were sparring, right?”

Jiulan blinked innocently. “And I hit you too hard. I am terribly sorry about that.” He turned the look to Tremaen. “And you, I haven't seen in weeks. Did hear that a branch cracked and happened to hit you in the face.”

Tremaen managed to painfully smile hesitantly at Jiulan, starting to see the face of a friend again. “Right. Terrible luck, that.” He stuck out a hand to Jiulan, who grasped it firmly, then pulled Tremaen forward to give him a clap-back hug.

“Yeah, those tree limbs are dangerous.” Jiulan winked, then got to his feet. “Well, I'm going to go back to my horse, and I think it would be a good idea to get my sister home. It'll take me a moment to get ready.” Jiulan whistled off.

Tremaen looked to Ourna, limbs trembling, not really sure what to say or do. She, in turn, let out a long breath as if she were holding it for ages. “That was far too close.” Tremaen nodded in agreement. “Maybe…maybe this isn't a good idea.”

Images of Master Mehtar running him through and spitting him like a pig at feast made Tremaen reply, “Probably not.” And both went home.

The swelling in his nose was mostly gone when the news spread through the villages that Mehtar Kotari and Kiratu Aselma had exchanged public apologies in front of the Council. Tremaen knew that he would eventually be welcomed back to the home of Master Mehtar and Torves Kayiera…and Jiulan and Ourna. But he also thought that the secret magic of the wood meetings was done and over, and the fact that he had ever agreed to Ourna's last statement to him made him want to weep.

(Backdated entry.)

Realm Year 760

“I'm telling you, she's a good horse,” Tremaen stated, with as much certainty as he had the hundred and fifty times before that day. He looked out on the yearling mare he'd chosen with a smile, one foot resting on the bottom slat of the corral and elbow on a post. She was running the corral again, pure white mane and tail streaming behind her. “Look how fast she is.”

Ourna stood next to him with crossed arms, looking in the same direction critically. “She's albino, Trey. Probably blind and weak legged. To her own devices, she'll probably not live. Father always said you had a bad eye for them.”

The smile vanished off of Tremaen's face and his voice took a defensive edge. “Well, he let me choose despite that, didn't he, and agreed to train her? I'll see to it that she wins every race at festival…for years to come.”

“It's not races I'm concerned about. I'm worried about one of my lieutenants losing his horse at the wrong moment to a broken leg.” Tremaen found himself rolling his eyes at Ourna. Her life had become so centered around the militia since she took the reins two years before, it was as if she saw everything through that window.

“I won't,” he replied with finality. With any luck, he added to himself.

He heard Ourna sigh and then say, with some balming quality to her voice, “Have you named her?”

Tremaen smiled to himself. From captain back to friend. May it always be so. “Winterwind.” Turning his head, he caught Ourna smiling softly at him.

“Pretty. Let's put some money on her living up to her name, hum?” She grinned. “Against my Starspell and Jiulan's Moonsong?”

He grinned right back at her. “Done.”

She took on a haughty stance, then ruined it by wrinkling up her nose. “Oh yes, we'll see which yearling will be wearing the festival garland.” There wasn't even a suggestion that any other horse would win. Master Mehtar's war bloods always took the day.

“Ah, so you're taking part this year, are you?” Something thrilled in Tremaen.

Ourna shrugged, looking back out on the horses. “For the races.” She barked out a laugh at herself. “For all my big talk, I do want to try Starspell. From the feast on, I'm on duty.”

Rolling his eyes, Tremaen shot her a look. “Oh, gods forbid Torves Ourna enjoy herself a bit.”

She made a face right back at him. “A bunch of people getting drunk, rowdy, and randy. Breaking out in fights and making messes. Sicking up behind a tree. Getting propositioned right and left. Yeah, sounds like great fun.” Many matches were made at the festival, above all else, it's why people went.

He shot her a rakish grin in return, hoping it wasn't forced. “It surely is.”

“Someone's got to keep it from getting out of hand, and that someone is me and the scant volunteers I can get. I guess it's no use in asking you to help keep some order.”

He just shrugged. “You know, it would help with the rumors. Last I heard, you were one of those that looked at other women. Hasn't outpaced the ones about you and Jiulan doing those…” He started his best imitation of a gossiping harpy. “…unnatural things they do in the Realm.” He threw up his hands. “Because he's always right there with you.”

Ourna made a disgusted noise. “You can't tell me you believe any of that.”Immediately, he regretted bringing up those things whispered in some corners. “No, no, not at all. I know better.”

She grinned a little and nudged him in the side with her elbow, the way he'd seen her do with Jiulan a hundred times. “I'm still hearing I'm one of your flipskirts. How many have fallen to your pretty face in rumor?” He crossed his arms and sniffed. “And I happen to know how much of that is true, Trey.”

He felt his cheeks color a bit, retorting a bit more sharply than intended, “I'm just trying to expand your definition of life beyond horses, orders and shooting things with arrows. I don't mean to imply you should become a flipskirt or do anything like that, really.” He hated sometimes that she knew the things he did, and hated that he was too much of a coward to explain why he did them.

“I know.” Ourna sighed. “But the militia is still a mess. I'm fighting for it every day. I've got so much work to do with that and the farm.” She looked up briefly. “I'm sure you'll find someone to raise a house with, or whatever it is that you're looking for. I'm just not interested in those things. I've got some business to take care of, so I'll see you soon.”

Tremaen nodded, softening his stiff posture a little when she pecked him on the cheek. He watched her walk away for a stretched moment before pounding the corral fence with his fist. “Yeah, I know you're not interested in those things,” he muttered through his teeth.

(Backdated entry.)

Realm Year 762

(The Present)

She was here. Ourna was back and sitting right next to him at the little round table in the inn common room. Several times, Tremaen wanted to reach out and touch her, lay a hand on an arm, something, just to make sure. Lucky chance brought the horses to her, lucky chance let him see his own Winterwind first. So much luck was fleeting. He wanted tangible proof that she wasn't some spirit twisted out by his mind. But, she rarely showed him any favor in front of others and he respected that. She was a leader now, so much more than she was with the militia. Therefore, he contented himself to staring.

Tremaen sat quietly, dying to ask a thousand questions of what happened to her. Something to explain the far away and sad look her face took on in the silent moments, but he restrained. She asked Tonanti to go look in on their enemies after what had gone on with those she'd left behind had been told. Asked. Had something made her, of all people, cautious?

The other left, and they were alone. He watched her pick at her food, and Tremaen risked a hand out to touch her forearm. She was solid and real, but her look was still somewhere else. “Are you sure you're all right?” He asked her softly.

She covered his hand with one of hers, a familiar touch that made him want to smile. “I'm…yes, I am. I just….”

Tremaen used his free hand to almost unconsciously shift one of his thigh sheaths so the long knives would be free of the table, should he need them, as he scooted his chair a touch closer to Ourna's. He hardly even noticed them anymore. “You can tell me anything. You know that.” Anything at all, including admitting to the sign that could mark her brow now. He wasn't certain how much that had changed her, but he was certain she was still Ourna.

She smiled softly at him. Tremaen thought there was some sadness there as well, maybe something that looked like fear, but the last had to be imagination. “I know. It's just too near, I think. Almost unreal. It's not that I don't want to tell you…”

“I understand.” Tremaen smiled back at her, resisting the urge to brush a stray hair from her face. He always had to keep in mind what the boundaries were now.

“In time, Trey.” She removed her hand from his and sighed.

“All that you need.”

They sat in silence for a while before she spoke again. “Do you ever think what might have been? What would have become of your plans for..anything?” She sounded so painfully wistful.

He squeezed his eyes shut and turned his head. I was going to take you out for a ride, he thought, right after Calibration. I was going to make a present of an amulet, but that got stolen, I think. I was going to bring out that old quilt and stretch it on the ground with a basket of berries and mother's sweet cream. I was going to tell you, no matter what you might have said, I was going to tell you what I can't tell you now. All he said, though, was, “No. With my life, and my curse, I can't look forward and I can't regret.” If only that were true.

“That must be nice.” He opened his eyes and turned to her again, starting to say something, but was stopped short by her throwing her arms around his neck and squeezing him tightly. “I missed you, old friend. I can't tell you how much.”

His eyes closed again, almost on their own volition and he nuzzled his nose in her hair. Maybe, maybe he could do it. Maybe it could still work now. “I missed you too. I kept saying you'd be back, mostly to keep myself from insanity. I don't know what I would do if I lost you, on top of everything else.”

Ourna disengaged herself from him, though he did not want to let go. He almost stopped resisting the urge to try to kiss her, until she spoke again. “I trust you, you know that? Beyond anyone else.”

He settled back in his chair and smiled a bit sadly back at her. “I know. Best friend and right hand.” And that was why. The morning Jiulan left, he'd signed up, volunteered, whatever it was that soldiery did. He could press his claim with the woman he loved, but not with the General he followed. He knew he didn't have the…gifts…the others did, yet he was the one at her side. He was well aware that she might order him out to die, and that he would do it. Friendship, that was allowed. She needed it, someone to help her clear her head, not to cloud it further.

He forced himself to grin at her and playfully poke her side. “Well, enough of that, General. We have work to do.”

She laughed at him, full and honest, swatting his hand away. “Don't call me that. But you're right. I guess I've gotten to slack off long enough.”

(Backdated entry.)

Ourna leaned against the door facing the room and the man in it. Her feet wouldn't quite go the rest of the way inside, and she crossed her arms against her hopping nerves. “So…you're all right now?”

Tremaen's back was to her, facing the small window in the room. She knew his face was still crimson to his hairline. “As well as I get.”

Silence fell tangibly between them, save for the sound of her own heart in her ears. Ourna searched for something to say, some place to begin. Taking a breath, she started with the first word that came to mind. “Trey…”

“So, that problem is taken care of. We can all get back to the research, maybe? Have we found anything useful?” Turning, Tremaen visibly struggled to get the color out of his face.

“I thought we should talk. I have some things to tell you.” Ourna took a couple of steps forward, dropping her hands to her side.Sighing, Tremaen spoke reluctantly. “What is there to say? You know how I feel about you, how I've felt probably since I was nine years old.” He shrugged widely. “I've never made a secret of it, really.”Sighing, Ourna rolled her eyes. “You've never made it obvious, either. I didn't know.”

“Changes nothing, really. You know. And I continue. End of story. ” Tremaen turned toward the window again, sighing deeply. “You've always made it perfectly clear where I stand, though I was going to try to sway you. Plans get changed, and here we are. I'm still your friend and lieutenant, and that's where it stays. I'm fine with that.”

“You still had the blanket…you were going to dig it out and go riding with me to the old spot with a basket full of berries and cream.”He spun around. “How…?”

Ourna smiled a little. “I…remembered it. It was a test to get out of the place I was trapped in. Hard to explain really.” She dropped her head a little, not able to meet his gaze with the flashes of light purple hair and strong arms that now invaded her brain. “I really wanted it to be true. I guess it was a show of what might have been.”

“You mean…?” She could hear the dazed disbelief in Tremaen's voice.

“You stayed. I don't think I realized what I had in you until then.” She shook her head, mostly at herself. She had to tell him everything, though admitting some things were harder than others were. “The whole time, every time I was tempted to stay in their charming little world, I kept thinking of you. So yes, I mean. But….” Ourna swallowed. Kierhan. It still pained her to think of him, but sometimes the memory wasn't bitter.

“But you're right. We don't have time for these things, do we? We can't act on our feelings.”

Reprieve. “Right.”

There was a long pause, and then Tremaen's voice was closer to her. “Well, as I said, nothing changes.”

Raising her head, she smiled a little sadly at her old friend. “Nothing changes.” Opening her arms slightly, Ourna closed the distance between her and Tremaen and embraced him as she had done a hundred times in the past, and he returned it. There was nothing else to say. She'd never see Kierhan again anyway. No reason to hurt the man in her arms. One day, she would tell him and they would laugh about it, like they often did about Tremaen's roguish reputation back home.

And Tremaen was still in her arms. She found she didn't want to let go of him, and he, in turn did not pull away. She laid her cheek against his, soft and smooth. The rational woman screamed to step back, turn away now, but the rational woman was quickly overridden. Just a slight turn of the head, a little more, and they were kissing. Nothing existed but the moment.

A stretched bit of eternity later, Ourna opened her eyes and pulled back to look into his. “I think we just crossed a line.” It came out breathlessly.

“Yeah,” Tremaen replied. “Do you care?”

“Not really.”

“Neither do I.” Then, he was kissing her again, insistently, as if letting out long years of dreams, and she took it gladly. Kierhan was quickly forgotten. This was now, something happy after so long of pain and grief. The world, the war, the cause…they all could wait for a few stolen moments.

Yet, she did not know that deep inside of her, a harsh reminder grew, and trouble was brewing outside.

Tepet Nishal hesitated a moment to adjust his fingers on the keys of his flute, but instead of the expected soft, dulcet tone, the instrument let out a piercing shriek. Wincing, Nishal lowered the instrument and glanced at his mother. Tepet Tulia dropped her book to her lap with a huff. “He told me you were improving. That will never do in good company. Start again.” With a slight nod of his tiny raven head, Nishal did what he was told, bringing the flute back to his lips in shaky hands. A tremulous breath brought a quavering sound, at first, but after a moment, he fell into the gentle, soothing tune. He could almost forget why his stomach felt queasy, until a woman's agonized scream cut through the house. The sound was followed by another shriek of the flute.

Tulia's eyes flitted toward the door of the sitting room, but she made no move her lithe but rounding frame from the pile of silk pillows she rested on. She seemed to Nishal, however, more like a board trying to lounge. “Again, Nishal, and louder.” He did as asked, though his mouth was suddenly very dry. He tried to push breath through the instrument, and succeeded in making more shrieks and squawks than anything else. Every few moments or so, another scream punctuated the tortured sound of the flute. Tulia tried to appear unaffected, though even child Nishal could see through the effort.

Finally, the screams became constant, and Nishal gave up his musical trials. He put the flute down on its stand and fixed his mother with a grave look. “What's going on? Is that Lada screaming?” Nishal liked the slave woman. She was always nice to him and sneaked him treats when no one was watching.

“That is none of your business, child,” Tulia snapped. “Concentrate on your studies and stop asking questions.”

“He's six, and certainly in possession of his hearing. And, by no account is he stupid.” Helidah appeared in the door, linen sleeves rolled far up her arms and splattered with something Nishal thought looked like blood. The elderly tutor seemed far out of her element, and her gray hair was wild with loose strands. Nishal found a smile for her, even if she was being impertinent with her belated, “my lady.”

Tulia did not respond further than another huff, but turned an eagle's gaze on her six-year-old son. “None of your business, and certainly nothing to speak of. Not even to your father.” She didn't say more, but Nishal could hear the threat of horrible punishments in her voice if he even thought of disobeying. He merely nodded in assent, tongue feeling too thick for speech. Tulia absently ran a hand over her swelling belly and barked, “Now, go, study. Let me talk to Helidah alone.” Nishal bolted from the room.

A few steps out, he halted as the words drifting from behind him took actual form in his ears. “…care how you do it, but it must be done before my husband returns.” His mother.

“But…” Helidah did not continue. Nishal could only imagine the look his mother gave the mortal tutor for daring to question her betters. “It will be done.”

“And do not tell me…” Nishal did not listen further. Instead, he quietly padded down the arched hallway, soft-soled shoes making little noise on the marble floor. He paused at the study room, but did not enter. Looking around to make certain his mother and Helidah were nowhere to be seen, he continued down the hall and turned at the cross hallway toward the servants quarters, though he had long been forbidden to go down there. He knew everyone else had been sent away for a few days or were with his father.

It didn't take long to find the right direction, though each wooden door along the plain hall looked like the next. Nishal merely followed the sound of crying. It sounded like a baby, and when he opened the third door on the left, he found just that.

The tiny room was wrecked. Bloody towels and bowls of water sat haphazardly around. The slave Lada sat propped on a straw-filled mattress. Every stray strand of her gold streaked brown hair was plastered with sweat. Even the pair of braids she wore on each side of her head hung limp. A bundle wrapped in brown linen sat cradled in her arms, the source of the cries. “Are…are you all right, Lada?”

Lada seemed to notice Nishal for the first time, blinking her red-rimmed blue eyes at him. “You should not be here, Nishal.” Her barbarian accent was thick today, giving a strange lilt to his name. “Do not let that kle'chat find you.” Nishal didn't understand the word, but he understood the meaning. He nodded and turned.

Before he could leave, Lada stopped him with his name. The boy turned slowly back, cocking his head to one side. She was adjusting the bundle in her arms, speaking as she did. “I do not think you will not see me again, little one,” Lada spoke softly. “May I ask a favor?”

Nishal swallowed back the stinging of tears now. “Yes.”

“Two. Remember that you rest in my soul, even if I am carried on the wind to the next life. I no longer care if I am not to say such things.” She delicately pulled the wrappings from around the baby's head.

“I won't forget you ever, Lada.” He sniffled, and she gave him a soft smile.

“The other is this.” She held the baby up so Nishal could see it. He could only see the tiny, wrinkled head poking out of the linen, a thick thatch of raven hair sticking straight up. “Remember what you see here, even if you cannot speak of it. Now go.” He started to say something else to the slave woman, but she would hear nothing. “Go.”

The force of the word sent Nishal scurrying, running back down the hallways as fast as his little feet could carry him. He was breathless when he hit his study room. Grabbing one of his books from a shelf, he threw himself down on a pile of pillows in the corner. Just in time, as he heard the music room door slam shut and footsteps in the hall. He opened the book, in case one of them poked their head in, but saw none of it. He forced himself to shove back the strange puzzle of the day so that he wouldn't cry. He couldn't let Tulia or Helidah catch him in tears.

Part One: The Last Days of Innocent Schemes

Usually, in the free hours, students split off or mingled, fought or loved. Some studied. Some moved toward devotions. But this day most, especially the elder students who at least had an inkling of goings on, found reason to congregate in the courtyards, along with no few teachers. The air buzzed softly with faint whispers, light breeze carrying wisps of rumor, some outrageous, some official, and even a few close to the truth. Everyone wondered what 'sudden business' would have their guest weapons teacher leaving so quickly and quietly so close to the end of term. One student did not wonder, sitting with his lean frame propped against a wall. Crystalline blue eyes watched over the book he pretended to read to hide his grimly satisfied little smile.

“Isn't he a cousin through your mother, Nishal?” An airy voice approached from beside the lithe boy, speaking without preamble.

Nishal dropped the pretense of reading by shutting the book and laying it aside. He grunted a laugh. “Not that he would recognize even if it were more than a distant relation, Layli.” Frowning, he watched the figure across the courtyard head toward the gates. Even from where Nishal sat, he could see the signs shouting for all of Creation to know the man was Dragon Blooded.

“Still, it was a cruel thing to do.” Nishal felt her sit down next to him, her hip against his.

“What makes you think I had anything to do with it?”

“Maybe because he failed you in the last major exam?” Layli didn't wait for an answer. “I'm not sure that warrants ruining a life. Really, Nishal. One of these days someone is going to figure out where these nasty little rumors originate.”

Rolling his eyes, Nishal shot back defensively, “I do not use that tactic that often.” The distant figure disappeared into the gate. “Only when there is enough to validate, and I know action will be taken.” He looked over at his old friend finally. Layli blinked pale blue eyes rapidly, a visual of realization dawning in deep within her pale haired head.

“You mean it's true? About him and the boys?”

Smirking, Nishal answered sardonically, “Why do you think he failed me?”

Layli scowled slightly. “I take it you refused, then.” Her voice was edged with a hint of anger, which meant she was truly mad, eyes flashing in the direction the former teacher had disappeared.

Sighing deeply, Nishal scrubbed a hand through his shoulder length black hair. For anyone but Layli, he would leave it at that. Instead, he began, “Three days before the exam, he made an offer of extra lessons. No one thought I needed them, but since everyone knows I'm destined to be Legion fodder…” He trailed as she nodded once. Being a son of two military lines did have certain expectations, no matter what said son wanted. But Layli knew all about that bitterness, and Nishal felt no need to dwell there. “Anyway, I went to meet him at the appointed time, and after a very twisted and one sided discussion of certain aspects of philosophy, it became very apparent that his chosen weapon for the evening was not one often used on a battlefield. When I refused, he threatened failure. I honestly didn't think he'd have the absolute gall to do that, given who my father is.” He looked off toward the gates again.

“But that's just it, isn't it?” Layli almost sounded rhetorical as she pieced things together.

“Yes. I made some delicate inquiries after. From what I can gather, he didn't take this position to teach weapons so much as prey on those of us not fortunate enough to be…blessed, but have a great deal to lose.” Nishal grunted softly. “I was one of the older ones. His mistake. If he had only just asked…he certainly isn't a bad looking man. Oh the irony.”

“And the school decided to risk getting rid of him rather than have a score of angry parents.” He could almost feel her arch a brow. “I suppose his exams will be…adjusted.” He answered her with a grin. They sat in silence for a time before she said, softly, “You really should be careful, Nishal. I would hate for anything to happen to you.”

“They believe they cannot be touched, that they can do anything they choose, no matter what the Order teaches. Sometimes they must be reminded that we cannot simply be abused or ignored, and we must take on that ourselves.” Nishal pulled his legs to his chin and rested his head on them, looking at Layli again. She fixed him with a small smirk, 'absently' playing with a lock of pale hair that was already taking on a bluish tint. “No offense.”

“None taken. I know twisting philosophy for one's own ends when I hear it. I certainly do not ignore you.” Her eyes took on a mischievous glint. “Though I make no promises about abuse.” She snaked a hand over and pinched him lightly, well out of sight of anyone.

Nishal laughed. “Why are you still friends with me, anyway?”

“Because I choose to be.” Layli stuck her tongue out at him, a hint of old days when they were still equals.

They sat in silence again, comfortable, Nishal feeling warm and good. In a short time, they would have to go their separate ways again, Ledaal Layli disappearing into a world Nishal would probably be lucky to ever touch. But for now, all was well. Or would have been save for the young girl that came skipping along. The tiny girl had the same dark hair as he, the same lean bone structure. She had not had enough time to start taking on any sort of aspects. The smile vanished from Nishal's face and quickly replaced with the best false one he could muster. “Hello, Timri.”

“There you are! Mother wrote.” Timri bubbled. “She sent along a couple of things.” The child handed over a small box of some sort of sweets, the token gift to Nishal that Tulia always sent for appearances. His smile became more forced as his sister kept speaking. “She says that she and Father are coming to the end of year recitals. Isn't that wonderful?”

“Splendid,” Nishal answered, a lot more dryly than intended.

Eyes widening into a disgustingly cute plea, Timri stated, “You will play. The sunset swan song. It's my absolute favorite.”

It took every speck of Nishal's resolve not to grimace, keeping his smile pasted on. “Of course.” He bowed his head. Timri squealed and bounded off like some puppy.

Layli had been silent the whole time. Now she spoke, pale eyebrow arched high. “You were saying?”

Nishal sucked his teeth and swore softly. “Yes, well, there's ideals and then there's practicality. That one I have to be nice to so that she might be willing to throw me a few scraps from her table if I reach dotage, or risk being cut off by Mother dear. So I'll play that bloody awful song.” He opened the box of sweets and took one, offering silently to Layli.

Taking one of the sugary sweets, Layli smirked. “And anything else she wants?” Nishal merely snorted, popping the candy into his mouth.

A gong sounded. The courtyard quickly started clearing. Nishal and Layli, in contrast, slowly dragged themselves up and started walking toward the hall for afternoon meal. They would have to sit at two different tables, of course. Before they reached the doors, Layli leaned close and whispered, “Can you get out tonight?”

“Of course.” His mood improved a bit.

“Meet me on the roof of the House of Knowledge at midnight.” She flashed him a small grin. “I have a present for you.”

The rest of the day went quickly until Nishal found himself in bed, blanket tucked up to his chin and stomach doing flips. It took an agonizing length of time before the rest of his housemates were asleep, before it was close enough to time to rise and creep quietly toward the 'pot room. After a short stop to relieve himself, Nishal slipped out a 'secret' door. Everyone knew about it, even the teachers, but they pretended they didn't. Most of the time, the teachers turned a blind eye to small amounts of rule breaking, so long as one wasn't stupid enough to get caught at it. Therefore, Nishal took a very circuitous route through passages, hallways, windows. The hardest part was the courtyard, as the guards kept a close watch, but moonless shadows hid him from their eyes. At almost exactly midnight, Nishal found himself on the roof of one of the classroom buildings.

Layli was already there and he took a moment to watch her. She stood silhouetted against the stars, lit softly by a few errant candles from not too distant windows. The breeze caught her hair and lifted it, made her dress dance around her legs. Nishal swallowed his heart and cleared his throat.

They didn't exchange a single word. Days upon days of public restraint drove them straight into each other's arms, releasing flurries of pent up kisses. No thoughts intruded on Nishal, just a single-minded drive toward pleasure, hands instinctively finding the right places.

Layli clasped a hand on his wrist before Nishal got her dress to the top of her thigh. “Wait,” she whispered. For a moment, a small panic gripped him, the little part of him that every day expected her to spurn him. They had been friends since the first day of school, lovers since they were old enough to discover such things, but there was the little nagging fear that one day she'd realize he wasn't good enough for her, planted on the day she Exalted. However, the tiny smile on her face quickly smashed his fears almost as soon as the thoughts entered. Layli beckoned with a finger while guiding him with the hand she held. Nearby, she had placed out a blanket with a small bottle and two glasses. Letting go, Layli dropped gracefully to the blanket and motioned for Nishal to do the same. Doing so, he watched her curiously, tucking his legs up underneath himself. Delicate, pale fingers disappeared into a pocket and her smile widened as she pulled out a small wax pouch and held it up between them. “One benefit of Grandfather being Cynis,” she began conversationally, “is that he has some absolutely wicked ideas about how one should relieve stress before last exams.”

Nishal said nothing, just returned her smile and waited expectantly. This wasn't the first time Layli's grandfather had sent special treats, and they were always far, far better than anything Tulia ever sent. Layli picked up the bottle and poured a bit of red liquid into each of the cups. “You'll like this, I think. The best effects are achieved with wine. Getting the wine was the hard part.” Fine powder followed the liquid, then she picked up both cups and held one out for Nishal. He took it and clinked his together with hers before drinking. “Now, take off your clothes and lay back.”

She didn't have to say it twice. In a very short amount of time, Nishal was naked and sprawled on his back on the blanket. He got the idea that she was waiting. She lay beside him without touching him. Nishal closed his eyes. After a time, he became aware that he could feel the soft breeze on every tiny hair on his arms, then every part of his body. The stone of the roof fell away, and then he was floating. His limbs filled with warmth. And then she was there, touching him, over him. Each caress went to the edge of pain, though her weight seemed nothing. Nishal was nothing but a coiled ball of pleasure, and he found himself with a mouth full of blanket to keep from announcing their illicit meeting to the entire school.

Both were breathless when she left him, each mirroring each other in lying sprawled and panting. Nishal still had the floating feeling, but the sensitivity left him by increments. “Well?” He heard Layli ask playfully.

“I think I may be in love with your grandfather.” Layli giggled at him. Suddenly, Nishal had to get off the blanket, stumbling to his knees and making it only a marginally acceptable distance before emptying his stomach of every meal he'd ever eaten in his life. “Of course,” he cracked weakly when his stomach settled, “the comedown is a wicked bitch.” He turned and tried to smile at Layli, barely able to keep himself upright for the dizziness. Cramps settled into his shoulders.

No smile ghosted Layli's face. Instead, her brow furrowed deeply and she smoothly made her way to him. “That was just Heaven Dust. It shouldn't do that, even to…you.” She planted a hand on his forehead, then felt the rest of his face. “You're burning up! I thought you felt a bit warm earlier…were you sick earlier?”

“A little queasy.” Nishal let her brace him back to the blanket and help him with his clothing. He couldn't keep hold of much of anything. “But I didn't think anything of it.”

Layli felt his face again, alarm apparent in her voice. “We've got to find you some help. Come on.”

He shook his head and immediately regretted the move, as it took several heartbeats for the world to stop moving. “We'll get in trouble.”

Taking him by his shoulders, Layli looked him straight in the face. “Either you're going to be spending the last few weeks of school in a new dormitory or you're very ill. Which ever, you need help now.” Concern was etched in her face, and that was enough for him to acquiesce to her.

They went the straight way down thorough the empty classroom building. Nishal was finding it hard to walk and had to stop every once in a while. Each pause seemed to bring a hint of panic to the usually unreadable face of the young woman. During one, he whispered, “You really do love me, don't you. I love you too.”

She kissed his cheek and dragged him on. After a short eternity, they were found. Shouts made their way through Nishal's addled brain, something about being in trouble, and Layli explaining. It seemed to be taking a long time. And then there was pain, as if something grabbed the left side of his body and wrenched it. Vaguely through the haze, he sensed he was falling, every muscle in his body joining the others in contracting and releasing. A metallic taste filled his mouth. More shouting preceded unfamiliar hands on his body right before darkness fell.

In the Shadows of Dragons, Part 2: To Live and Die

“…seized again.”
“The fever broke…”
“…some kind of palsy…”
“I doubt he'll regain much use…”

Nishal supposed the healers thought they were doing him a favor, propping him up in his sickbed so that he could see out the window overlooking the courtyard. Working his jaw a bit, he watched his fellow students meandering their way across cobblestones to various destinations. He tried to be happy that he had feeling again in the left side of his face and that his tongue was no longer swollen where he had bitten it. But he could only stare at the healthy children and wonder why no one had shoved a pillow over his face yet. When he thought he saw Timri crossing by, he almost wished someone would. She, however, spared no glance for his window.

A servant silently adjusted his pillows while another brought a tray. Nishal closed his eyes. Maybe today half his meal would not dribble down onto the sheets. The slight girl deftly tucked a napkin under his chin and settled in at his bedside. Nishal could feel the spots of color on his face as the first spoonful came toward him. He found out earlier that there was no fighting. This tiny servant was far stronger than she looked.

And so he was being fed like a babe when she entered, a faint breath of air heralding her. Nishal suspected that was on purpose, to give him time to shove the servant away with his good arm and attempt to feed himself. Layli would know that he would not want her to see that. With a great deal of effort, Nishal lolled his head around to gain a view of the rest of the room. Layli smiled a smile he did not return and lowered herself to the spot vacated by the servant. “On the bright side, I don't think you are legion fodder anymore.”

“And I am saved that horrid song.” Nishal's voice came out slightly slurred, and that was an improvement.

“I would have come earlier, but it seems they conspire to keep me away. They say…without saying, of course…that I'm wasting my time.”

“Perhaps you are,” Nishal responded bitterly.

Layli snorted with a very unladylike sound. “If there is anyone who could figure out how to survive, it would be you. Your mind still works.” Nishal said nothing. “Unless, of course, you've already decided to lay there and take what has been given you like a cheap whore, in which case, my Nishal is dead.”

“It doesn't matter. My parents are coming. They will not stand for this…weakness.”

“Or is it you that won't?” She leaned over so that her burning bright eyes were a hand's span from his. “Unless there is another Cathak Bertram in the world, your father is missing half an arm, and Tulia can be handled. If it's pity you wish, you will not get it from me. I am willing to help you with all my resources, but you have to try.”

“I must be able to stand on my own!” The slurring got worse and he inwardly winced at the spittle that hit that lovely face. “A feat,” he continued softer, “that I cannot even physically manage.” And they have Timri, he thought, but didn't say aloud. Perhaps that's why he still drew breath. They were waiting for his parents to make the merciful choice.

Layli delicately wiped at her face as she pulled back. Her face was stone as she spoke with great control, “Fine. Contact me when you decide to live. Otherwise, I mourn my love.” And she was gone. Nishal stared at the ceiling, swallowing down a lump. Let her be angry. It will make it easier for her. Opening his eyes, he turned his head toward the window and into the eyes, for an instant, of a large, black bird.

Despite her words, Layli returned the next day. Nishal kept his face turned toward the window, saying nothing. He felt her weight on the side of the bed, felt the heat of her body warm against his side, and tried not to respond to the touch. “Nishal…” He tried to pull away, but he could manage little more than a flinch.

“Why do you insist on seeing me like this?”

“I have something to tell you. They asked me to.” Layli's voice was soft. “It's Timri.”

Nishal snorted. “What did she do this time, excrete jade and make the world spin?”

“She's dead.”

Nishal rolled his head around and blinked. “Dead?”

Layli nodded her pale head. “They found her this morning at first light, near the steps of her dormitory. It looks as if she fell from the top.” She frowned. “Don't look at me like that, Nishal. I certainly had nothing to do with it. No one has said anything, but I've heard she was covered in scratches and that something had pierced her through one shoulder. They think it was an animal.” Nishal tried to hold back his reaction, but it bubbled up from his stomach and broke through his teeth. He chuckled, and the more he chuckled, the harder it was to contain.

Layli scowled faintly. “I don't see the humor in this. She may have been a horrid little girl, but she was still a child.”

“Ah, my friend, but you do not see the world as I do.” It was Tulia's face he saw. All she had was a broken son now. “Help me.” Nishal drug the words out of himself between chuckles. “I would like to be able to at least sit up.”

In the Shadows of Dragons, Part Three: An Education in Blood and Service

The fly buzzed softly around in spiraling circles, lazily making its journey downward. Kotari adjusted the cloth on his face and watched the black speck, just for something to focus on in the blood tinged twilight. The fly lit finally on the brown iris of what was once a young girl. The boy watched it crawl around for a moment before taking off again. He could scarcely credit that this thing that looked like a broken wax doll once laughed, or that she had valued a bright string of beads that lay flung from her right hand. With numb reverence, Kotari picked up the little string of beads and placed them in a cold hand. He always thought it a kindness to do such things. Standing, Kotari scrubbed the back of one grubby hand across his eyes and told himself the stinging was from the smoke of fires that still smoldered in the remnants of the town. He cradled the other arm for a moment, the one that was arrow pierced a few hours gone, then tried to go back to his dogcart. He forgot even to pat the poor creature on the head.

“What happened here!?” The noise caused Kotari to whip his head around toward the speaker. Though not addressing him, Kotari could not miss his master's voice. It was loud, deep, and crisp, all the better to be heard across a battlefield. This certainly qualified, though the young officer who was being addressed stood only an arm's length from the speaker.

“They came in the afternoon, Lord General, all wild and screaming. There was little we could do!”

“All I asked of you was to see the servants and slaves protected, and now we've lost half of them and three quarters of the supply carts. Not to mention one of the towns we were called to help protect. Explain yourself!” Kotari hitched the dog back to the cart with bumbling fingers and urged it forward toward the shouting. He felt a little better knowing his master was upset.

“I…Sir, no one attacks unarmed slaves and servants.”

“So you weren't prepared.” A dangerous edge creeped into the general's voice. “They teach you this in school?”

The junior officer ran a finger under his collar. “Of course.”

“This isn't a school, Teshar. Real warfare is not run by civilized rules. You will follow orders to the best of your ability, and your new orders are to replace what supplies were lost and be able to move them, if you have to pull the bloody carts yourself. Understood?”

Teshar's spine stiffened. “I am no slave. My mother…”

“I don't care who you are. You knew when you signed on with me what you were getting. You question me again and I will send your ashes back to her.” A surge of pride shot through Kotari despite everything. His master, the Lord General Cathak Daymar of the Eleventh Legion, was the fairest of men and never played favorites. He watched the young lieutenant scurry off. The feeling didn't last long, however, before the numbness settled in again. Kotari guided the cart to a stop a few feet from the general and stood to be acknowledged.

Without preamble, the general began to strip off the great jade breastplate and settle it into the cart. Kotari was large for his nine years, but not quite large enough to haul his master's armor to take it for care. With his shoulder hurt, it would still be a struggle with the dogcart. The animal whimpered softly as the weight settled into the cart, and this time, Kotari did scratch it behind its ears. “Take special care of the left, it's an awful…” Suddenly, the general saw Kotari. Few masters ever looked at their slaves, fewer still with any sort of care. “You look off, Kotari.” Something odd seemed to cross General Daymar's features, but before Kotari could think on it, his master asked, softly, “Your mother is among the dead?”

Kotari was glad of the facemask he wore, not because of the smells. Those he was almost used to. He was glad because it kept the general from seeing the lip the boy bit to keep from quivering. “Among the dying, my lord,” he answered, finally, in a soft, childish voice.

For a moment, the general had that odd, careworn, distant look again. Kotari even thought there was something of fear in that look, but quickly decided he had to be mistaken. It broke when Daymar put his hand to his forehead and sighed. He looked even on the verge of apology, but said, “You should go to her.”

“She would wish me to do my duty, and I will do it.” Kotari longed more than anything to run to his mother's side.

The general gifted Kotari with a slight smile. “You're a good boy, Kotari, and I do not want you to regret. Besides, you should let that arm heal a bit. I long took care of myself long before you came along, and think I can manage for a night.” He seemed to be teasing a bit. The smile disappeared to the general's usual sterner face. “I will need you in the morning, though. I will have to think, and I need you to read.”

“I will be there at first light, my lord.”

“Good. Don't forget to get that shoulder looked at again. I will not have you down from an infection that could be prevented.” Kotari nodded in response. “You may go.” For some reason, Kotari hesitated, despite the hard lump that was starting to form in his throat, or perhaps because of it. His master fixed him with a raised brow. “Is there something else?”

“You're going to get them, right? The men who did this?” Kotari hated that he sounded so meek.

General Daymar's face darkened. “I will see that they are run down to the last man.” Bowing his head, then the rest of him, Kotari scurried off. Truly the fairest of men, his master.

Kotari wound his way through the ruined town, feet fleet with sudden haste. He swept past still burning timbers, leapt over crumbled stone. He dodged men with faces covered like his own gathering spent arrows, gathering the dead, looting. Despite everything, the boy noted the last and resolved to tell the general. Daymar did not stand for looting, especially among his own people. Kotari did not need to mask the tears that started slowly coming up from within, not now. Part of it was from the smoke of the great pyres now being set outside the town. None of this was new to the boy. It seemed to him that his life was marked by time on battlefields. Such was the way of service to a great general. Finally, he approached the roped off area full of the wounded from the supply train. Moans and weeping filled the air, and even through his mask Kotari could find the subtle stench of corruption. There would be more dead soon. Slowing his pace, Kotari scanned the contorted faces for his mother. He almost walked straight into the plump, sandy haired healer. “I'm sorry, Aradi. Where is my mother?”

The matronly woman said, kindly, “Come with me. I will talk to you while I change your bandages.” Kotari complied, following Aradi off to the side. Aradi was a paid servant, some even said some lord's bastard, but she always helped, no matter who needed it. With practiced fingers, Aradi began unwrapping Kotari's shoulder after seeing him to a blanket to sit on. “It's very bad, child. Lada will not last.”

“You said so, Aradi. I am ready.” Kotari wanted to be brave. He did his best to keep from flinching when Aradi pulled off the old poultice from his wound. He didn't even cry out when the arrow hit him. But he needed his words to face what happened to his mother, to convince himself.

“Aye, so I said. But you must know that she is no longer awake for long, and when she is, the fever has made her delirious. You have seen this in others. She makes little sense when she speaks, and often mutters in her native tongue.” Aradi looked at the wound critically. “I don't think there is any festering. You should heal well.”

“Thank you, Aradi.” His voice was distant while steeling himself. Aradi finished putting pungent herbs and bandages back on the shoulder.

“Come then.” Kotari followed, but saw nothing, focused on what was ahead. After what seemed ages, Aradi stopped, and gently pushed him forward. Reaching to his face, Kotari pulled off his mask and went to his knees beside the red soaked blanket that thankfully hid the mortal wound Lada had taken early in the day. With a pale, shaky hand, Kotari reached out and carefully brushed a strand of brown hair from his mother's face. Her chest rose with shallow breaths still, but her softly darkened skin had taken on a shallowness and seemed to stretch over her lean bones. His fingertips brushed that skin and found it aflame with fever, as Aradi had said. For lack of anything else to do, he tried to arrange her white streaked brown braids over her shoulders in such a way as to not wake her.

Lada's eyes fluttered open. Snatching his hands back, Kotari whispered hesitantly, “Mosha?” He used her word for 'mother'. Glassy blue eyes found him, the same color as his own. In everything else, he took after his unnamed father. Some whispered in places where they thought not to be heard that he looked very much like the Lord General, a fact that normally made Kotari happy. This night, he wished he had more of his mother, so that her image would never fade from him.

“Ah, little one,” Lada spoke, faintly. “I may have a sweet in my pocket.”

“Mosha?” Kotari blinked back wetness.

“Remember what you see here.” She faded a bit. “I will get you an orange, for your studies. Remember that….brother. No, I cannot say that.”

Kotari realized she thought him another child. Perhaps she thought he was his master's son, Jiulan, but it made no sense. “Mosha, I'm Kotari.” He took her hand in both of his.

The glassy eyes blinked. “Kotari? I have a son named Kotari. He is an honorable boy and strong. He would make a fine warrior.” She blinked again as Kotari smiled, though his tears were now free. “No, you are my boy. Remember me, my little prince. Keep your promise.” With that, Lada fell into the language of her youth. Kotari wished he had learned more of it. He caught a few words and phrases, mostly things about moving the tribe away from danger or cooking over the fire spits. Yet every word was a gem, now that they were the last. Finally, she silenced and seemed to fall back to sleep. Sniffling, he bowed his head.

Suddenly, Kotari was thrown back with a sudden burst of strength from his mother. Despite her wounds, she half sat up, eyes wild. “I cannot stop it! It weeps, and will not be placated!” Lada fell back with her final sigh. Somewhere from high above, Kotari heard the screech of some bird. And then he fell to sobbing.

He was still sobbing when Aradi returned. By then, he had let go of his mother's cooling hand and was sitting on his knees helplessly. The healer coaxed him to his feet and guided him away. Behind him, Kotari was aware that two men were taking Lada's body away. She was a slave woman to everyone else, and would warrant no more than the general pyres. Remembering his promise of long ago, Kotari snuffled and wiped away his tears, thanking Aradi again for her help. He had something to do.

Quietly, Kotari crept away from the town, shoving down feelings of guilt and wrongness. No one could see him do what he was about to do, for even the good general would surely see him whipped or worse. Even at his age, Kotari was aware of what heresy was, but he could not and would not deny his mother the one thing she ever asked for herself. Therefore, he found a stand of tall trees outside of the town and turned his body round and round until he faced the direction the wind would blow the ashes of the pyre. It would have to do. The wind was blowing east, and Kotari stared off for a long time. Somewhere out there, the trees grew thicker and taller. Somewhere in those places Lada had grown up, free among her people. Under the full pale moon that had risen, Lada would be carried home. The thought gave him the strength to swallow back guilt, and Kotari raised his hands up out to his sides the best he could. He clapped them together once, twice and a third time, each time pulling his hands all the way back before clapping. The wind seemed to pick up a bit, shoving his raven hair into his face. “Wind that blows, wind that lifts the wings of birds and brings the rain, let Sensari Mehtar Lada live only in my soul and carry hers to the next life. Let the wings of ravens beat and carry her home.” He repeated the clapping, closing his eyes, and dropped to his knees to pray. After a time, he slowly hurried back to the main camp and his cot, close to the side of his master's tent.

Though Kotari slept little, he arrived right at first light to help his master dress. The general mentioned nothing of Lada, simply went on as if it was a normal day. Kotari found himself grateful for it, finding the routine comforting. A servant brought the general his breakfast, a boy Kotari had never seen. He supposed Teshar must be carrying out orders with alacrity now. As General Daymar began eating, he instructed Kotari to open one of the war journals his master always carried and start reading. It's how Daymar thought best, hands and mind open while someone read from various tactical books. Today, it was one of the general's own journals, and the topic was fighting among trees. Kotari would never say it aloud, but he was certain that he must know more about warcraft than some soldiers. He was halfway through the selection when one of the older officers entered. Kotari stopped reading and silently went about some of his other activities, completely unnoted by the officer. He did, however, note his master's surprise.

“How is it you're back so soon, Lieutenant?” General Daymar put down the piece of melon he'd been absently eating.

“We found them. They didn't get far. All of those that attacked the train are dead.” The woman sounded a bit uneasy.

The general clapped his hands together, pleased. “Good work. Though I sense there is something you're not saying.”

“That's just it, Lord General. I can't take credit for any of this. Most were already dead when we found them.” Even Kotari could feel the sudden tension in the tent, though he forced himself to keep working and not watch.

“What happened?” The officer's unease was reflected in her general's voice.

“Most were already dead,” she repeated. “It looked as though birds had gotten to them. The rest…they fell on our mercy, begged us to protect them. Before we could do anything, they were attacked. Just them, none of ours. It was birds, a whole murder of stormcrows. I don't like it, not at all.”

General Daymar dismissed the officer shortly, with orders to get ready to move. When Kotari dared to turn from his darning, he saw that his master had gone pale. The great general was afraid.

In the Shadows of Dragons, part 4: Secrets, Lies, and Everything In Between

With leg cramping and heavy breathing, Nishal collapsed back into his sickbed. One circuit of the infirmary was quite enough to leave him physically exhausted and frustrated, but he did see that his left leg was getting stronger. However, he didn't believe that he would ever be able to walk again without dragging it, though he had something to try. Not so hopeful was his left arm. No matter what he tried, his hand stayed clawed against his chest, elbow bent. The muscles simply refused to cooperate. It was the right, then, that he used to wordlessly shove away the miraculously strong servant girl when she tried to cover his thin, sweating frame with a blanket. She bowed her head and made her way out, but not before opening the window next to him. Perhaps, Nishal thought, the girl did have a brain.

Closing his eyes, Nishal calmed his breathing and searched for the blessedness of sleep. Sleep meant no pain, no cramping, but such things also kept it from him. Nor did the heat help. He loosened the belt on his robes to try to catch some of the scant breeze on his skin. For a bit, there wasn't much relief, but slowly, the breeze picked up. He was floating on the edge of unconsciousness when he realized the bulk of the soft breeze was coming from the wrong side. A small, tired smile crossed his face and he opened his eyes again, and found himself looking into Layli's face. Her fingers were dancing about a foot above his body, stirring the air to cool him. She smiled back at him. “Sleep, if you need. Don't mind me.”

Nishal made a move to pull his robe back over himself and sit up. “Quite impossible, really.”

Layli chuckled softly. “Oh, come now, it's nothing I haven't seen.” As if to prove a point, she took a good long look at him. “Though I say you've gotten thin. I will see that you're fed more.” She made no reference to Timri or the conversation, and Nishal was grateful for that. He was even more grateful that she seemed his same old Layli. He also had no illusions as to why he'd gotten so much attention from those that staffed the infirmary in the last two days.

“You are much too good to me,” Nishal responded, with real warmth.

“Nonsense.” She brushed a bit of damp hair from his forehead with soft fingertips. “I'm told you're surprising everyone, and you're working very hard to recover.” She dropped her voice to a soft purr. “Perhaps I should reward you, yes?”

Nishal blinked. “Maybe later. I'm quite…” He cut off with a groan. Layli was hearing no protest. Suddenly, the cramps in Nishal's leg seemed much less all of a sudden. It occurred to him briefly that perhaps she was feeling lonely, but he didn't really care, especially when she hiked up her silver-gray silks and carefully straddled his hips.

Nishal had no choice but to let Layli do what she wished, and whatever she did, it sent sparks through him, making him feel more alive than he had since the night on the roof. He sucked his lower lip in to cut all sound to a whimper, conscious of the fact that anyone could walk in at any time. She ran her tongue along his jawline to his ear and whispered, breathlessly, “I am going to miss you terribly when you leave.” He could only whimper in response.

“CAW!” Both Nishal and Layli jumped at the noise and turned their head toward the window as one. They had an audience of one giant black bird. It cried again, and Nishal thought that its oddly intelligent eyes were studying Layli as if trying to make some sort of decision.

“I have seen this bird before. I wonder why it's here?” Nishal mused, softly. “It has odd timing, I think.”

“This is no bird.” Nishal blinked up at Layli, who was studying the bird right back with drawn brows. “Speak, spirit.”

“CAAAAAAWWWWWW!” The great black stormcrow lifted from the sill, feathers ruffled, and Layli gasped.

“Nishal, your parents are here!” She scrambled off of him, straightening her silks.

Fumbling one handed with the ties of his robe, Nishal asked, “But what did it say?”

“That I do not command it.” Layli raked her fingers through her pale mane. “But I get the feeling…” She waved her hand. “Later.”

Fear belatedly seized Nishal's stomach and he wildly grabbed out for his old friend. Inwardly, he cursed himself for this, but he did it anyway. “Don't leave.”

Layli took his hand in hers and smiled softly. “Don't worry, I won't let them harm you if I can stop it.” Her look turned puzzled as she shot a glance at the place the bird vacated. “And I don't think it will either.”

“What do you mean?”

“Later.” She kissed his fingers and went to the other side of the room, making herself unnoticeable.

Nishal's heart beat hard for what felt like an eternity, yet he managed to prop himself up and put on what he hoped was a calm demeanor. Finally, the infirmary door opened. Tulia stalked in, alone, pale face full of venom and every ounce directed toward Nishal. The dust on her travel clothes spoke that she'd hurried, and her hair was wild. She obviously did not see Layli.

“Where's Father?” Nishal winced even as he blurted out the question. It showed Tulia he was afraid of her. Nishal struggled to pull himself together. He was far too out of practice in dealing with his mother.

“Getting Timri's belongings and making arrangements.” Nishal gathered some strength from the fact that his mother's voice broke, though a voice in his head told him that emotion would make her dangerous. “I wanted a word with you alone.” Tulia closed in on the bed and towered over it, wind ruffling Nishal's sheets in her rage.

“I'm touched,” Nishal returned, dryly.

“What did you do to her?” Tulia spat. “How did you do it?”

Nishal blinked a couple of times. “Really, now. I believe I was just past fever dreams, and I can't recall wasting a single one on Timri. Do you really think I came to, dragged myself over to her dormitory with one arm and one leg, broke in, overpowered her and threw her off a roof? You're not being rational, Mother.”

“My only child is dead.” Nishal narrowed his blue eyes as Tulia bent down over him. “You're not worth half of what she was. And now look at you, broken and useless. I should have kept the pillow and left you with your slave whore mother. I can't believe I gave you my name.”

“What?” Nishal hissed the word in shock, but something in the back of his head started turning. He couldn't finger it just then, but he knew Tulia had just made a mistake.

“Now, what did you do to my child? I know you have friends. I know how you think. Perhaps you convinced your little sorcerer-spawn pet that I'd let you live if Timri was gone. ” Tulia planted both hands on either side of Nishal's head.

Whatever else Tulia might have said was cut short by the sound of a clearing throat. Tulia snapped her head around and Nishal let out a breath. Layli was pure ice as she glided back over, spine straight and chin slightly raised. Despite age and practice, Nishal wouldn't have given half a spit for Tulia's life at that moment if Layli decided to lash out. “I will assume, my lady Tulia, that you speak out of grief and therefore will take no offense for myself or Nishal,” she said, smoothly, every inch a daughter of the Dynasty even at fifteen. “And I will pretend I heard nothing. However, I do suggest you say nothing further that you may regret. Grandmother does not take insult lightly, and neither do I.” Nishal didn't think he could have loved her any more than he did at that moment.

Tulia's rage, however, was such that she did not take the out she was given. “Your grandmother should be ashamed of you. Why do you waste yourself? Surely this creature can't bed you that well.”

Nishal recognized the look on Layli's face and felt his own smirk forming. “I wouldn't know,” Layli began, shrugging languidly, “I've never had him in a bed.”

“Not true.” Nishal drawled at last, drawing on Layli's insolent tone. “What were we doing before my lady mother…I mean, Tulia…came in?” He didn't even have time to consider that provoking Tulia might not have been smart before the woman's grip clasped around his throat.

Everything happened in the brief instant before Tulia had time to squeeze. Nishal futilely gasped for a breath, aware that Layli had raised her hands and started muttering. He put his hand on Tulia's wrist. And then the bird was on her. Taking a breath of sweet air, Nishal coughed it out, watching Tulia fall back, arms trying to protect her face from the stormcrow spirit. In turn, it attacked with beak and claw relentlessly. Layli came to his side and started muttering softly, a different speech than before. “Dragon of air, lend me your scale…”

“Now you sic it on me!” Tulia screamed out as a talon raked her cheek.

“STOP!” Another voice entered the fray. Still gasping for air and rubbing at his bruised throat, Nishal saw the slender, muscled form of his father charge into the room. He didn't go for his sword, however, just struggled to interpose himself between the spirit and Tulia. “I keep the promise.”

The bird backed off as Layli's arching shield of air glimmered into place around Tepet Tulia and Cathak Bertram. Cawing loudly, it gave Bertram a baleful look. “You have failed once. Do not do so again.” Layli translated, softly. Yet the bird did leave, swooping out of the window with a great whoosh of its wings.

“Bertram!” Tulia whined. “Did you see that? That's how your son…”

“Shut up, woman, and leave us.” Tulia's petulant mouth opened and snapped shut with pure outrage. “I'll speak with you later. And for the sake of all sacred, get hold of yourself in the meantime.”

Tulia finally seemed to halfway pull herself together. “Forgive me,” she said, sounding almost sincere. “These are trying times, and I lost myself.” She left in such a way as to make people believe it was her own idea. Layli let the spell drop.

Cathak Bertram then took a chair near Nishal's sickbed. Dropped into it really, looking old and tired despite not having a single hint of gray in his raven hair. His slender body was the very image of physical perfection, lean and well muscled, save for the fact that his right arm ended right above where his elbow should be. Nishal studied his father, testing his throat by swallowing before even thinking about speaking. Bertram beat him to the first words, however, directing a much softer voice toward Layli. “I'm afraid you've been caught up in things that should never have been your business, and I'm sorry for that. You are Ledaal Layli, yes?”

Nodding, she said, almost faintly, looking pensive. “Nishal has long been a loyal friend, and I owe him my friendship in return. I will do what I can to help him and his f…blood. There is nothing to forgive, and nothing that I will hear or have heard, honored one.”

Bertram let out a breath and gave her a tired smile. “Thank you.”

“I'll go, then, and make sure you are not disturbed.” And Layli glided out of the room.

“Father, ” Nishal said, hoarsely. His mind had been spinning the whole time, trying to make sense of the whole strange scene. “What was that thing?”

Bertram sighed and rubbed his forehead. “The simple answer is that that is the creature that took my arm. I dare not say more than that.”

“I thought you lost it on a Wyld Hunt.”

“I did.”

“Layli said it was protecting me.” Nishal tried to recall every story he heard about the hunt. None were ever from his father. Tulia had been a horrible, hulking presence in his life, but his father was a stranger, often absent.

“It probably was, though I thought not to see it again. Something must have happened.” Bertram sighed deeply and leaned back.

Nishal took a leap. “Does this have to do with my mother…my birth mother?”

Bertram squinted his dark eyes at his son. “She told you, did she?” He shook his head and waved his hand a bit. “I guess there's no putting that wine back in the jug. You are far too clever for your own good, you know that don't you?”

“So why don't you tell me, then?” Nishal swallowed a few more times, throat still sore from Tulia's gifted strength.

So Bertram began his tale, and as his father spoke, the pieces started falling into place. And finally, Nishal remembered something he promised he'd never forget, the raven-haired baby. His own blood sibling.

Bertram's Tale (one of my few delvings into first person. Get it while it's hot!)

The trees grew close in that part of the world, giant oaks, rowans, pale topped trees I'd never seen before. I know that even further east they grow larger and denser. We weren't even that far out, as far as those things go. The mission was one of those things that's supposed to paint you in gold glory, a Wyld Hunt for an Anathema who'd stolen the moon power, a wily shifter. I certainly didn't know how long the thing had been rampaging, but it and some allies got a bit too close to one of the few protectorates that the Realm has out in the Scavenger Lands. Given what happened after we caught the thing, Daymar and I, I can't even recall exactly how we caught and killed it. I know we lost quite a few troops. Turns out, it was the least of our worries.

Under the command of Tepet Chazi, Tulia's father, you know, we'd set camp in a clearing we literally had to make. It was General Chazi, Daymar, a mere Lieutenant in those days, a sorcerer named Sholdaza, and myself, plus a full talon of Chazi's mortal legion and a handful of servants that set out there. I suppose the real tale begins when Daymar and I dragged back the body through the trees along game paths. I remember then feeling like we were being watched.

A great cheer went up as we came in and dropped the broken thing right in the center of the cramped camp. We were tired, very tired, and all I wanted was a rest. Daymar would never say anything, but he was tired as I was. The fight wasn't easy. I motioned over my personal servant and scribe. Helidah wasn't fit for the kind of tramping around we had to do, but she was a mortal niece by an elder brother of mine, already dead of age, and I had wanted someone I knew I could trust. Later, she would appear to be my wife's woman, but not at that time. Even then, my niece was going gray, and she struggled. But before I could get dinner and everything else, General Chazi called us to his tent.

“The job's done, Lord General, ” I ventured as Chazi motioned Daymar and I to sit. He wasn't a big man, more short and slight and bald as an egg, though that lack of hair was made up for in the bushy eyebrows that perched over dark, piercing eyes. My eyes were so drawn to him that I failed, at first, to notice that Sholdaza was already present, the slight, wispy woman in wholly impractical thin silks standing in one corner, lighting a brazier. Of course, the thin silks could have been explained by the badly kept secret that she and the general were lovers.

Chazi merely grunted in response until Daymar and I were both settled in camp chairs of our own. Sholdaza joined us on a pile of cushions, looking both languid and enigmatic at the same time. Finally, Chazi spoke in his voice like two stones rubbed together, “Congratulations, boys. People will be talking about you for a long time.” The praise made me smile. It didn't last. “However, the job's only half done.”

I turned my head a fraction, just enough to see Daymar's eyebrow shoot up, a reflection of me. “Sir?”

“I want its allies destroyed. I don't want them causing any more trouble.” Chazi cleared his throat, doing nothing for the gravelly sound.

I found myself blinking. “But they didn't fight for it. I doubt they'll be much of a problem now.”

Chazi scowled at me. “Are you questioning me, Bertram?”

I shook my head very quickly. “No, sir.”

The whole time Daymar had just been sitting there, frowning thoughtfully. “I think,” he finally began, “what my cousin means to say is that we're not certain they were allies. The Ardacks are a small tribe and it very well could be that the Anathema frightened them into rendering succor to him. They obviously weren't willing to die for him.”

Chazi waved his hand. “At best, they're heretics. I want them either dead or in service. It shouldn't take long. Women, children, all of them. I'm not going to get called out to this forsaken place to take care of them when they find some other way to cause trouble.”

Daymar leaned forward. “I don't agree.” I had the sudden sinking feeling in my stomach of one being inexorably drawn into the middle of something. “If it did use fear, we should be the more enlightened beings we're supposed to be and show mercy.”

“How dare you.” Spittle flew from Chazi's mouth.

“I'm not in your legion and I'm not married to your daughter, so I can dare.” Daymar did spare me a rather sympathetic look. Not so Chazi. His look demanded a response. All I could do was shrug.

“But I have this command,” Chazi said in a low, dangerous voice. I knew this one. Tulia did the same thing sometimes. I wanted to warn Daymar, but he caught on.

“I'll do what's ordered,” Daymar said after a long, tense pause. “But under protest.”

“Doesn't matter.” Chazi waved his hand again. “Neither of you will have to do anything. I'll send the men out. They should be able to handle it.” I found myself letting out a breath.

“Simple enough matter,” Shodaza parroted, voice soft.

With that, it was clear we were dismissed. Chazi did exactly what he said, sending out about half of the normal troops that very day while I was resting in my own tent with Helidah. She went about her tasks with a pale, frightened face, but didn't say anything until I asked.

“I just don't think it's right killing helpless women and children. I know their girls don't fight.” Her voice was soft.

“We do what we must.” I couldn't let her see that I was just as troubled as she.

“You…you won't…?”

“Not if I can help it.” It seemed to be enough for her. “Daymar says that Chazi just wants to heap glories as much as possible, and this will do it, since we got the Anathema. That's quite enough for me.”

It took three days for word to come in. Shortly after dawn, two men and a woman stumbled back in, every scrap of clothing torn and bloody. Chazi called Daymar and me to the tent again. There was no need to summon Shodaza. She was already there, silks thinner than normal. We all sat to listen to the report.

“Speak, then.” Chazi wanted to hear them one at a time. This one was the woman, first for being lest hurt than the other two. I remember her being a solid, stalwart type, but that day, she was drawn and trembling. “How goes our victory?” The whole appearance seemed to be lost on Chazi. “How far back are the others?”

“There are no others, sir.” The woman spoke very softly. “They're all dead.”

“What happened?” I asked, the shock in my voice reflected on every other face.

“What did those barbarians do?” Chazi asked.

“It…it wasn't the people, sirs. We found a group not long after setting out of here and engaged them. It didn't take long. After that, we set camp. About…about midnight…” The woman started shaking harder. “I woke up with the watch screaming in pain. The moon and stars were all blotted out by this great mass of birds, all of them black like crows.”

“Ridiculous. Crows are carrion eaters. They don't attack people.” Chazi scowled.

“They weren't normal. Big old stormcrows, and smart. There was this one big one…I think it was a raven, maybe, like a stormraven, only…it commanded them. The birds tore everyone apart. Nik, Torren, and I just barely got out. We had to tell you.” Finally, the woman just broke. I felt a chill travel up my spine, but tried not to show anything. Daymar wore his characteristic thoughtful look. Sholdaza gave away nothing. Chazi however, did not believe a word of it. At least, not until Nik and Torren reported the same things.

“A spirit.” Sholdaza offered at the end, calmly, twisting a great ruby around on her finger. “Some sort of protector spirit. I will go and see to it.”

And so Sholdaza left with all the confidence of everyone in her accomplished abilities. Daymar and I both had a very bad feeling about the whole thing as we conferred later, alone. But we waited to see.

Midday on the third day after Sholdaza left found Daymar and I around a cookfire, waiting for Helidah to finish the stew. Our scene was repeated all over the common areas of the camp, sounds of games and laughter floating to us. Something wet hit my shoulder. At first I thought it rain, but the sky was clear, sun beating down on our little clearing. I reached up and touched the spot and my fingers came away red. “What the…?”

I didn't have time to finish my question. I looked up and saw a black bird, and then another. I turned to Daymar, who now also had little red droplets on his shoulders. Helidah screamed, a sound echoed by all other servants and no few soldiers. The sky darkened with hundreds of wings and droplets were replaced with chunks that hit the tents and ground with splatting and squishing noises. Everywhere around, archers brought up bows to shoot at the birds, but the clamoring stormcrows didn't attack. They just kept dropping the red chunks all round us.

As suddenly as they appeared, the birds were gone, only their presents and a few carcasses to show they had been there. We finally got a look around. Daymar bent over and picked something up and brought it to me, answering my unfinished question. “Sholdaza.” His find was a whole finger, severed but still bedecked with a large ruby. Helidah went behind the tent and retched loudly. “I don't guess her meeting went well.”

After that, Chazi's passion to destroy the tribe intensified, despite the fact that the birds took more and more every time. There was nothing neither Daymar nor I could do about it. Now we were honor bound to get those that took the life of Sholdaza, though we both knew that there was only one outcome if we did. Both sides would most likely be ruined utterly. We two are still considered the best strategists around, so it was then though others were slow to recognize, and so we put our minds to it. It was decided that the remainder of our forces would be split into three, the theory being that the birds couldn't take all of us. One would get through. So I took the left flank, Daymar the right, and Chazi would go straight down the middle and thereby take the encampment of the tribe. Chazi took the spot he considered the most glory. He said it was his right.

I never made it to engage the tribals. A little over a day out, the birds attacked, the giant raven right in the fore. I still wake sometimes hearing the screams of my men as they were torn apart. The spirit itself dived right at me. I barely had time to raise my blade and get my arm over my face. Had I not, beak and talon would have found my face. As it was, I knew pain. The bird was smart, finding the exact place where jade would not stop it, the vulnerable spot between gauntlet and greeves. Its great beak broke flesh, broke bone, and I fell back, feeling my death. Other birds began pecking at me, breaking me. I tried fighting, and my wood anima kept back the normal birds, but not the spirit. Black spots floated in my vision as I felt my arm completely separate. Before I passed out, I thought I heard a voice.

Miraculously, I did wake again. I lay in a place between trees, a skin of a great cat cushioning me. I remember trying to lift my right arm and finding only fire and pain in the stump that remained, though at the same time I still thought I could feel the fingers. I must have groaned, because immediately I was attended to and first saw the face of my savior.

She had the grace of a hunting cat as she dropped her tall, hard frame cross-legged beside me. Callused fingers delicately put a skin of water to my lips. “Drink,” she said, voice thick and low, heavily accenting bastard Riverspeak. I didn't at first, watching the lean, sun browned face and eyes like midday sky. It was her clothes that gave me pause, the soft leather vest and pants of the tribe. Her bark brown hair was in two thick braids on either side of her head, wound through with beads of wood and shell, and the vest was painted with birds, marking her important in the tribe we'd marked as enemy. Even so, I could not help but to think her beautiful. She snorted at my hesitance, a most unladylike sound. “If I wanted you dead, I would have left you to the Morghest.” I drank of the warm water with some sort of herbal tang to it. Almost immediately, I could feel some of the pain wane.

“I had to take more of the arm. Sometimes, she corrupts the wounds.” The tribal woman pulled the waterskin from my lips. “But you will get better, dragon man. The stump is clean.”

“Thank you.” It was the only thing I could think of to say. She responded with a wary look. “I'm Cathak Bertram. A...warrior, a planner for warriors. I keep history too.”

“You are dragon man. You heal quick.”

“Yes. I am chosen of the wood dragon, though my family is fire.” I didn't know what words she knew, so I kept it simple, and hoped for forgiveness.

“No fire without wood.” She smiled for the first time, teeth surprisingly white and straight.

“Just so.” I smiled back.

She cocked her head to one side. “I am Mehtar Lada, Sensari of the Ardack people. I am princess and priestess.” I must have given her a confused look before she added the last.

“Why?” I finally asked. “Why did you save me? It was you I heard, wasn't it?”

Lada's head dropped and her whole being spoke sadness. “Too much death. Your people kill mine, your people die. So you kill more of mine, and more of yours die. It must stop. For you, there are others. For us, we are the last.”

“You told it to stop hurting me. Why can't…?”

“I put you under my protection. I cannot do for all. Don't worry, dragon man. Just the Morgest must believe.” She sighed deeply. “We were not always as you see. Once, we had great city and ruled nations. The Morghest was protector, fought for us, noble spirit. She fought the dragon men then and drove them back, but….” Her brows drew together as she searched for words. “Others came. The beautiful madness in shiny armor.”

“The Shining Host…Faeries. And call me Bertram.”

She nodded. “Where our city was now is madness, and so was the Morghest driven mad as she fought them. Since…we cannot control her, only suggest, plead. She keeps old oaths, but in her own ways. She protects, avenges, but will not hear us unless we can get her attention. Now, too far, too much. I am last priest, and cannot do enough. I have to beg you to stop what you do so she will stop.”

“You got the wrong man, Lada.” I felt sad for Lada and her people, but what I spoke was true. “Our leader won't listen to me.”

She put her long fingered hand on my shoulder then. “Your people took our chief, my father, so the Morghest took yours. Right before she went for you.”

I wondered briefly how I was going to explain this to Tulia. It was the oddest thing to think of as the chill settled into my gut. Then I thought of the other. “Daymar. The other dragon man, is he…?”

“Fine. He held back.” Smart man, I thought as she spoke. Salvaged his own men knowing all else was lost. He always did say that sometimes one has to break the rules. If only I had done the same. I let out a breath.

“Then he is in charge.”

“Will he listen? If I get my people to speak? Will he and the rest meet?”

“I…think so.”

“Meet me here, then, when you get answer.” She gave me fresh poultices and drink…and directions back…then disappeared into the trees.

Daymar embraced me when I returned, and Helidah fainted when she saw my loss. Both were happy, though, for they had given me up for dead when I did not return. At the first possible moment, I took Daymar into the camp and relayed all that Lada had told me. He, as usual, frowned thoughtfully for a good long time, rubbing at the stubble on his chin. “Are you certain of this woman?” He asked at last. “It could be a trap.”

“Why should she save my life only to lie? No, I'm certain of her.”

He raised one eyebrow at me and searched my face with his eyes. “Are you certain you are clear on this?”

I swallowed and nodded. Daymar agreed to the meet.

It took two days to arrange. In the meantime, we lost a few more men, those we sent out to hunt, to the birds. Daymar almost cancelled, though he was willing to believe that the Morghest thought the armed men a threat. Finally, though, the remnants of the Hunt stood face to face with the bedraggled remnants of the tribe. Most were elderly, or very young, sick or injured. I wondered if it wasn't already too late.

Then, Lada stepped forward. Her vest was plain now, and braids unadorned. She stood straight, face utterly blank. She gave us a bow of her head, then turned to her people, saying a few things I didn't understand. The assembled tribe gasped, and one small girl stepped forward and held out her hands. Lada gave the girl her painted vest and a handful of beads, then turned back to us. Daymar asked me what was happening, and I could only shrug. Finally Lada approached.

“This is what must be.” She fell to her knees in the dirt. “To save my people, I give myself. To save others from the Morgest, I give myself. I am last priest now, until others grow to take my place.”

Daymar and I exchanged looks, and he spoke. “We don't understand, priestess.”

“If you agree, dragon men. My presence and bond will protect you if you let me live. My people will leave the lands of the dragon men and never return if they will not be hunted again. Others will take my place in the tribe, and you will not be bothered again once that is done.”

Daymar frowned, and I felt a little ill. “You understand, priestess, that if you come with us, you will have to live as a slave. We all will have to keep the secret of the bird spirit, otherwise those not bound by this promise will come for you, and it all begins again.”

“I understand. I will be what I must.” I could tell it pained her, and Lada's sacrifice touched me. Daymar did not seem unaffected by too.

“I'll take her,” I said, in a rush.

Daymar peered at me for a moment before nodding once. “So be it.” He turned to the remainder of the soldiers. None of them objected, all wanting to put all this behind them as quickly as possible. So the tribe wept, and our people packed as I took Lada by the hand and gave her into Helidah's keeping.

Officially, Chazi and Sholdaza, along with a large number of soldiers, died at the hands of the Anathema. Daymar and I were highly recognized for our role, including getting a personal letter from the Empress herself. We said nothing of the Morgest, and I did my best to give Lada a good life under the constraints I had. Daymar and I hardly spoke after that beyond what was needed for duty. He never wanted to hear of Lada. He stiffened up every time I tried.

And I gave her a child. Tulia did not know the truth of things, and she angry and reluctantly presented the child as hers. I know she would have done something stupid otherwise. For some reason, she was jealous of Lada, probably because the slave managed a child before her.

I returned from acting in the only capacity I can now, advisor to the legions, to hear that Lada had died birthing a second child, and I thought it was over forever. Why the Morgest has returned, I don't know. I can only speculate that something has happened to the tribe and now it is drawn to Lada's blood. Forgive me.

In the Shadows of Dragons, Part 5
A Rare Event of Unvarnished Truth

Layli pulled the door to the infirmary quietly closed behind her. She glanced about the hall in front of her, but saw no sign of Tepet Tulia, and was glad for it. She really didn't want anything to pass between them that could not be waved off. A few soft words to a servant insured that the men would not be disturbed. Near the door was a pair of soft-looking chairs in velvet. One was occupied with several hastily dropped books, therefore Layli lowered herself into the other with unconscious grace. Despite what she said to Bertram, the things she saw and heard tried to piece themselves together in her mind. A protective bird spirit, promises, Nishal, Timri, all part of a larger puzzle. Layli put a fingertip to her lips and softly bit the nail. The great man must have brought something back, holding this large secret probably for some greater good, if all tales of him were to be believed. A people's protector, with one of the people, on whom he fathered Nishal. Yes, that made sense with what she saw. Of course, little else did. Why would the spirit kill Timri, for Layli was now certain that was the case, for Nishal being hurt? And why the specific piercing of a shoulder? For the crippling? Was the child's death merely a message? But then why hadn't it shown itself before? From all Layli understood, Tulia had always been a horror to Nishal, and taught Timri to be so as well.

Layli lifted her finger from her lips and waved it, as if the motion would push away the questions. She probably shouldn't care, but that wasn't the reason. No, she knew she didn't have all the pieces of the puzzle, and she wouldn't ask. If Nishal wanted her thoughts, he would provide the answers anyway, and she was certain he would. Folding long fingered hands in her lap, she settled in to wait. Her eyes drifted, and found the seat of the other chair with its haphazard pile of books. The leather cover of one was etched with the name “Timri”. Perhaps there would be some answers after all.

The journal yielded little in cursory glance. The child had not been one to keep it full. Either that, or she already had understood the need to keep some things not written where prying eyes could find. Most of the other books were school tomes. Layli almost passed all of them over, but one caught her. “Herbs of the Isle and Their Uses” was not an uncommon book…for mortals. It was not normally found among the belongings of nine year old Dragon Blooded.

Layli knew a small incantation that would open a book to the last page read, but Grandmother had always said that one should use all the simple ways first. Layli simply opened the book to the first page it wanted to go to. There was a tiny piece of paper stuck in the binding on this page, marking it. After reading, she closed her eyes and schooled herself to calmness, rage and guilt warring against it.

Losing track of time, Layli didn't know how long she'd sat that way. She didn't even hear the door open. Only the slow awareness of another presence brought her to open her eyes. Looking up from her seat, she saw the form of Cathak Bertram, so like Nishal, save for the eyes. He gave her a thin-lipped smile, dark brown eyes flitting to the book still open in her lap. Slowly, she closed the book and put it back in the pile and rose, trying to give every impression that she had merely taken an idle look. “My condolences, honored one. If you'll excuse me, I would like to say my farewells to your son before you take him home.”

Bertram blinked a couple of times. “He's sleeping now, I think, but you'll have time. He wants to stay and take exams.” Layli could not hold back a smile that mirrored the unexpected touch of pride in Bertram's voice.

“Then I will let him sleep. Is there anything I might help…?”

“You saw it, didn't you?” Bertram cut in.

“I am uncertain of your meaning, honored one.”

“Bertram. And I mean what's in the book. It fell open when I picked it up. Does it mean what I think it means?” He scraped his hand through his hair and sighed when she didn't answer. “Please don't play ignorance, Layli.”

The sudden familiarity of tone took Layli aback for a moment before she nodded shortly once. “In the candy, I think. The dose was wrong.”

“She tried to kill…”

“I ate some of it too, but never noticed. I have precautions against such things.” Layli ran her tongue along her upper teeth. “She tried to kill him, yes, and did not succeed. But…I didn't know. I gave him something later. I think it might have pushed…”

Bertram waved a hand. “I don't think anyone blames you.” He put a special emphasis on the word 'anyone'. Layli knew he was speaking of the bird spirit. She bowed her head slightly and silence fell in the infirmary hallway. The utter quiet lasted long enough to start becoming uncomfortable.

“No one will hear from me.” Layli spoke at last.

Nodding, Bertram replied, eyes suddenly intent on her face, “I believe you, but why?”

Layli considered dodging for a moment, but said, smoothly, “Since the very first day of school, when I was an awkward and clumsy child, he has been my friend. Though he takes what I give him, he has never asked for anything beyond my simple presence, and given more in return. I could tell you stories, but I would rather not. Anyway, one cannot buy the kind of loyalty he has shown me in friendship, and I would be a fool to shove that away, even if I wanted to. I gladly give him my friendship in return.”

Leaning up against the wall, Bertram laid his arm across him with the stump of the other on top, the closest he could accomplish to crossing his arms. He looked off. “He will get old, Layli. You can't see it now, only the difference in power. You tell yourself it doesn't matter, that it will never matter. But your image doesn't change, not quickly, while his will grow older. Then there will be gray in his hair, wrinkles at the corners of his eyes.” The more he spoke, the more Layli became convinced Bertram was no longer really talking about her. “Every day you will be confronted with the fact that no one would ever accept this, and do you fight knowing he will be gone sooner than you'd like and you'll have to answer for it for the rest of your life?” Bertram paused for a moment, then turned his face to her. “This is all assuming your heart doesn't change as your lives take you different places. Either way, you will hurt him and he you. Do you understand?”

Layli let a bit of coolness enter her voice. “I think so, honored one.”

Bertram sighed. “Only a bit of advice, Lady Layli. Forgive my candor. I will have you know he will be well cared for.”

Shaking her own head, Layli relaxed her shoulders. It would not do to put off such a person. “I…thank you for being candid.” She plucked and straightened the sleeves of her dress, smoothed the skirts, buying herself a moment. “I owe you a bit in return. I dare say I may have painted an inaccurate picture of your son, Bertram. He really cares for little beyond himself.” Nishal's laughter at the death of his sister echoed in her memory. ” Me, perhaps. You say he will be well cared for, but I'll tell you he'll not be content with what he is given. He will reach as high as he can, and use who he will to get there and perhaps not see the consequences. We have a way of disregarding mortals until it is too late, and he will gladly be the spot of rot on an apple that grows if not watched.” She closed the space between herself and Bertram with two gliding steps. “You have given him no reason to hate you, but neither have you given him a reason to love you. I want you to see it for what it is, for I do not wish to see him abandoned and I do not wish to see him fall too hard for reaching for the stars. Do you understand?”

“Perhaps I should give him a reason to love me.” Bertram stated.

“What you will.”

“Thank you.” His eyes never left hers as he moved his hand to take hers and raise it to brush it with his lips. A small corner of Layli's mind noted that in a far different world, she might have taken to this man. She shoved the thought away as irrelevant and silly.

“May we meet again under more pleasant circumstances, Bertram.” Stepping away, she bowed her head with a small measure of respect. It was certainly the oddest social encounter Layli could remember.

“I'd like that.” He sounded like he meant it.

In the Shadows of Dragons, Part 6: How Alliances are Forged

Paving stones long worn from travel gave way to hard packed dirt. A plain lacquered coach made the transition the best it could, it's driver well experienced, but wheels still met the occasional rock and the ground was not flat. Padded velvet cushions kept the sudden lurches and bumps bearable to the men who rode inside the coach where silence ruled.

The quiet suited Nishal. He expected no conversation from his father, and that was almost a relief compared to past trips. In other days, he would have to endure the long journey home with Tulia and Timri, and he wouldn't have been able to indulge himself in his dark and sad thoughts. Sitting with most of his weight on his right hip, Nishal laid his head against the frame of the coach's little window, staring out. His useless arm rested against him, hidden by the sky blue robe's sleeve, but the other played idly with the new necklace that hung from his neck. It was a chain of gold sporting a golden hand clutching a blue stone that turned white, or speckled like clouds, or gray as it was moved, a gift from Layli. Nishal swallowed a small pang. Though everything was said that could be said, it would probably be years before he saw her again, and who knew what would happen in the mean. And he had a place to find for himself. He tried to turn his thoughts to that.

Nishal was left in his silent reverie for a couple more miles before his father cleared his throat. The sound turned Nishal's head to the other man. Bertram lay a book to the side. The two looked at each other for a long moment. “So,” Bertram started, much like he was still searching for what to say, “you passed everything well.”

“Except weapons.” Nishal smirked at his father. “They couldn't find a way to pass me there.”

Bertram shrugged. “Still, well done.” He shifted a bit in his seat.

“Thank you.” Silence fell again. Nishal's eyes drifted back to watching the countryside roll by.

Bertram broke it again. “I sent word ahead to have new rooms set up for you in the south wing. I'm told you like them.”

Regarding his father with an arched brow, Nishal repressed another dry smirk. “The guest rooms catch good breezes in the Fire months.” He thought, perhaps, that Bertram wanted him away from the family, but Layli had said that Nishal might be able to put some trust in his father. His voice was flat with trying to keep suspicion and speculation from it.

“They also have attached rooms for personal servants. You should have a selection to choose from once we get home.” Bertram seemed to be a bit stiff. “I…could also write some letters, get you on where ever you want.”

“I'll think about it.” Nishal could not deny that his father seemed to be making a true effort. Cocking his head to one side, Nishal regarded Bertram with open speculation. The son had a card to play yet, and though he was holding it for now, it might be that he'd play it early if he could keep this up. “What will Tulia say?” He'd resolved never to call that woman 'mother' again unless in public.

Bertram scowled softly. “She won't say anything.”

“I doubt that, highly, despite my new…ally.” Nishal had not actually seen the spirit since it attacked Tulia, but there were times he swore he was being watched, even when he was alone. He had no illusions that the spirit was gone.

“She's with child again, Nishal. Tulia may play loose with herself, but it's desperately important to her and her family that she produce a Dragon Blooded child, and she won't risk that.” Bertram seemed to be studying Nishal right back.

Nishal snorted. “Splendid. The last one turned out so well.”

Bertram scraped his hand through his hair, sighing. “About that…”

“I have Timri to thank for my current state, I know. Layli told me, thinking I would eventually discover the truth.” Nishal paused briefly, enough to cleanse the bitterness from his voice. “I appreciate, though, that you too would tell me the truth.” Next move to Bertram.

“I've decided that my wife needs more work to do, enough that she has no time to raise the child herself.” One corner of Bertram's mouth curled up ruefully. “I learn from my mistakes.”

“Careful, Father. That sounded dangerously close to an apology.” Nishal couldn't resist a bit of needling.

“Take it how you want. I don't see any monks around to lecture.” Before Nishal could press the advantage, Bertram continued. “How would you like to be the main tutor? Would that suit you?”

Both of Nishal's eyebrows shot up in real surprise. “Me? Oh, I doubt Tulia would allow you to go that far. Besides the fact that I just left school, she hates me.”

Shrugging, Bertram replied, “Perhaps, perhaps not. But I'll put it out there, and if she refuses, she'll be more amenable to future tutors I might select. It's really too bad that Helidah died. Timri might have been better.” Nishal heard an implication that caused him to physically start. Helidah had been his own tutor. Forcing himself to settle back, he let it pass without comment, in case he read too much. What game was his father playing?

Nishal searched for his own next move, deciding it was not yet time to show all of his cards. Instead, he found himself smirking at the odd question that came to mind. “I wonder…how is it that you can possibly stand to bed that woman?”

“A soldier does what he has to in the name of duty to the Empire.” The tone of Bertram's voice made Nishal start laughing, and it wasn't long before his father joined him.

As the laughing softened to a chuckle, Nishal made his decision. No, he wouldn't wait until later. He had to play it now. Killing the last of his humor, Nishal dropped his voice, not having to feign hesitancy. “Father, I have something to tell you. I have a very good memory for just about everything, and I was there the day Lada gave birth to her child. I may have been very young, but there is no doubt that I saw her and the child both very much alive, and have my suspicions one or both might still be. Tulia and Helidah lied to you.”

For the first time in Nishal's life, he suddenly had the full and completely undivided attention of his father.

In the Shadows of Dragons, Part 7: To Put Away Childish Things

Most of Layli's things were already in trunks, the school's servants making quick work of it all once the word was given. One girl attended the budding sorcerer herself, carefully pulling Layli's long, straight, blue-white hair into an intricate plait that would hang down her back to the waist. It was more than Layli had asked for, but the servants seemed to think that she needed to be sent off in grand style. So she was in a traveling coat of the softest lambskin dyed midnight, wide legged pants of gray silk, and wholly impractical midnight suede boots and a hairstyle fit for a minor gathering. Layli resolved to change the shoes at the very least as soon as the over enthusiastic servants were gone.

While the servant was hard at her work, Layli let her mind and eyes drift. Turning her head slightly, she caught the sight of Nishal being helped into a carriage, a fleeting moment. Layli's hand strayed to the bracelet he'd given her. The poor servant nearly had an apoplexy when Layli had insisted on wearing the piece ornamented with red jade and rubies with her traveling clothes, but on that point, she had taken no argument or compromise. The rational side of her brain noted Nishal's chosen colors were Cathak, not Tepet. Things had certainly changed in the last weeks. She hoped he would heed her advice. She was beginning to realize exactly how saddened she'd be if anything happened to him.

Layli pulled her eyes away from the window with some effort as the servant finished the braid with a bit of leather and blue beads. Turning to rise from her chair, Layli found a man standing at the foot of a bed two down from hers and staring straight at her from hooded eyes. Before she could stop herself, Layli flinched with a hard startle. She reprimanded herself and looked at him again.

The man only raised one brow. Otherwise, he didn't move at all. The flickering light in the room reflected off his bald head, but his plain charcoal buff coat and pants seemed to suck it all in. Layli knew him, suddenly remembered all the years of her childhood being annoyed with him. She found it a bit curious that Nuwar Piodyan seemed to slip from her mind once she had been away from him. Perhaps it was an indication of how little she regarded him. “What are you doing here?” she asked, a bit more sharply than she wanted.

Piodyan raised both brows, revealing his intense green eyes. “My greetings to you as well, my lady Layli.” He gave her a bow that was just shy of being mocking. “I thought I was standing here politely silent and unseen until you finished your ablutions. Is that not acceptable?” His voice was both dancing and crisp at the same time.

Layli answered him with a faint scowl. “My greetings, Master Nuwar.” She intentionally put a bit of chill in her voice and turned away from him to look back out the window, trying to dismiss his presence for a moment.

“The coach is gone, by the way. Someone important to you, perhaps? I've heard some remarkable things since arriving.” The voice was closer to her than before. Layli turned her head and found herself face to face with Piodyan.

“I suppose you disapprove.” Layli grimaced inwardly at herself.

Shrugging widely, Piodyan gave her one of his little bows again. “I neither approve nor disapprove, merely see and search.”

“Talking in circles and riddles doesn't make you a wise man, Master Nuwar.”

He gave her a very slight smile. “I certainly have Ledaal Seshel fooled then.” It was something that Layli had pondered on once. Yes, she remembered doing so, wondering who this man was. Grandmother valued his counsel to the point he had a permanent place in the household, but she was never very forthcoming about where he'd come from. As far as Layli could figure, he was some sort of Outcaste laying low.

“Speaking of Grandmother, you haven't answered my first question.” She slipped away from him and busied herself with checking her trunks.

“I answered your question truthfully. It simply wasn't the answer you wished. Perhaps it was the question itself that was wanting.” She heard him sigh. “Another way to answer would be to say that I am charged with bringing your lovely person whole and unharmed back to the home of your grandparents.”

“And where are they?” Layli straightened and turned to him again, crossing her arms.

“Cynis Adel has thrown himself with great glee into planning a party to both celebrate your welcome home and your acceptance into the Heptagram. The word came shortly before I left.” He cocked his head and blinked at her, seemingly waiting for something. She blinked right back at him. “What, no response?”

She shrugged. “I had always thought to go there. I'm already a sorcerer.”

Piodyan surprised her with a very deep frown. “It was never a given. A handful of tricks does not make you a sorcerer. I think you will find yourself disabused of a great many things in the next few years.”

“What would you know of it?”

Giving her an enigmatic little smile again, Piodyan replied, “More than is wise, and less than I should, I think.”

Rolling her eyes, Layli let out a huff. “And what does that mean?”

“Questions, questions. Dear girl, you throw them around like grass, never thinking how each answer leads to a dozen more questions, on into the infinite.” He took a few steps and leaned toward her, uncomfortably close. “Knowledge is a burden, and your slim young shoulders still stand straight, not stooped for the carrying of it. Enjoy it while you can.”

Swallowing softly, Layli broke away from the odd little man, opening her trunk to find some better shoes. She wasn't sure why Piodyan suddenly made her so uncomfortable or why she let him bother her so. She let what he had said slide by and used the time it took to change her shoes to find her voice again. “You never said anything about Grandmother.”

“Oh, well, if Lord Adel is planning a party, then Lady Seshel is busy trying to keep him from excess.”

Layli thought about that for a moment. “I suppose that would take a great deal of her time.”

“Quite.” Layli found herself actually sharing a smile with Piodyan, and quickly erased it from her face.

Layli was content to let all conversation drop after that. She opened and closed her trunks several times, looked over the bed and dresser that had been hers to make sure nothing was missing. Finally she stood straight and ran her eyes over the dormitory. Without the students, it seemed empty and austere, as if it had already forgotten all their presences.

“Come then,” Layli heard from right behind her left shoulder. “It's time to put away childish things and find your place in the world.” Though she had never thought herself given to fancy, she shuddered at the tone of his voice and despite the smile Piodyan wore when she faced him. “Starting with your grandmother's house.” She swore she could see stars in his eyes.

In the Shadows of Dragons, Part 8:

What a Child Understands

Pale morning light seeped its way through the side of the tent, dancing across Kotari’s face. His eyes fluttered open against it, then flew open in shock. Scrambling quickly, little Kotari threw his rough tunic on and stuffed himself into his pants twice, the first time wrong side out. No time to find a comb, he dragged his fingers through his hair in hopes of making it lie straight. He dove out of his little side tent and into the main one, looking around frantically, seeing no one. Only the scantest bit of furniture had been set up, the camp table and chairs, since they were on the move, heading back to the coast and home. The empty tent gave the child no relief, though. Surely his absence at breakfast had been noted.

Numbly, he went for the darning basket. Stockings and under tunics always needed mended, and he might as well be doing something before trouble came. He threaded a needle with shaking hands. The last thing he wanted before the lonely stretch of the great house was to be in disfavor. Kotari barely remembered being in the house, and he couldn’t imagine it without his mother. The child pushed the thoughts out of his mind and set to work.

Kotari was so involved with the needle that he didn’t hear the flaps open, so unaware that he knew nothing until he heard his name called softly. “Kotari, put down the sewing.”

Swallowing, Kotari jumped up and started rambling out, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry! I didn’t wake and no one came and…” He stared at General Daymar’s feet, hoping the apology would be enough.

“They were instructed not to wake you until I sent for you.” Kotari looked up in surprise as Daymar crossed the space to a camp chair. The General’s tone was troubled, and his face dark.

“Did…did I do something wrong?” The child asked meekly. Daymar shook his head and held out his hand to the chair. Kotari stood there in confusion.

“You did nothing wrong. Have a seat.” Kotari dutifully stepped forward and sat, though he never expected to ever sit at the same table as his master, especially when he should be in trouble. But Daymar now wore a sad smile, looking very far from stern and angry. “Do you like oranges?” Daymar indicated the bowl in the middle of the folding table with sliced fruit left from his breakfast. “Have one, if you want.” Kotari took a slice tentatively and sucked on it absently as he stared wide eyed at the general.

Daymar slowly sat himself in the chair across from Kotari, looking all the world like he was gathering himself for a day of battle, wearing his thoughtful look now. “Minus the formalities, Kotari, you are no longer my slave, and you must no longer behave as if you were.”

Kotari pulled the remaining half of his orange slice away from his lips. He didn’t think his stomach would take any food right at that moment, anyway. “Why? What did I do? I’m proud and honored to serve you, lord general. I..I don’t want to serve anyone else!”

Daymar blinked. “No…no, I mean, you’re not anyone’s slave. You’re free.” He put a palm to his brow, shaking his head. “I’m not doing this well…” Daymar stood again and paced for a few moments. Kotari turned the word ‘free’ over and over in his nine year old mind, and it scared him more than the thought of being sold. Suddenly, the general stopped. “You recall the message you ran to me last night?”

Kotari nodded. “From the sorcerers, yes?”

“Yes. It was from the Isle, a request to bring you home. From your father.” Nothing General Daymar could have said or done would have slapped Kotari harder than that phrase. He sat very still, the piece of orange dripping its juice unheeded in a sticky hand.

“My…father?” Not General Daymar, not a man in the camp, but a stranger on the Isle, a stranger that suddenly wanted Kotari.

“Did Lada ever tell you of your father?” Daymar sat again, the creak of the chair audible in the silence that followed.

Finally, Kotari shook his head. “She only said he was a great warrior.”

Daymar chuckled softly. “That’s true enough.” He fell serious again. “Don’t be angry with your mother. Her silence was to protect him and you.” Kotari started to ask the obvious question, but Daymar continued, face falling to a soft scowl. “I’ll let your father explain that, if he will. It’s not my place. But the important thing for now is your position has changed dramatically overnight. Your father is a chosen of the Dragon of Wood, my cousin Bertram, and from now on, you will be treated as a son of the Dynasty. Aradi has been working since first light to make you some more appropriate clothing. She is the only one that knows. I wanted it done before the camp knew…and wanted you to be told.”

Kotari bit his lip, letting everything swirl in his head. He couldn’t grasp much of anything, thoughts of position and fathers sliding past less than understood. But he did find something, and spoke it shyly. “That means we’re cousins? I might like being your cousin better than being your slave.”

Daymar came over and ruffled Kotari’s messy hair. “I hope so. I really do.” Only in the days ahead, when his old friends started bowing to him and the officers started playing with him, did Kotari begin to understand what it all really meant. And he was lonely.