"An Ivory Tale, Chapter One: Of Wine, Auspicious Oaths and Primroses" by Toni J Kaukinen

It is no secret that I occasionally find myself in close quarters with a young lady or sir of excellent standing, breeding and appearance, and thus I often hear snide comments of how 'the old man is having a blast again'. Yet, more often than not these ladies and sirs are not Caedaren, and as such not as attractive as some of our kind. These comments persist, regardless. I actually prefer them to the continuous mutterings of the younger Bleeding Hearts.

What they do not realise, however, is that much more often than not these meetings are strictly business, and as such they are no-nonsense... unless, of course, I choose to make them into nonsense, as I am fit do. The midnight children know what it is like to associate or do business with one of our kin, and quite frankly, I do not think I ought to give quarter to people who think it is their right to receive 'special treatment'. I have fought for many years, and I'll be damned if some fifty- season-old human, who thinks he is old, seasoned and life-battered, comes to me and says: "Respect me, for I am old."

Quite like a fly preaching to a mountain.

And then there are the younger ones, cocky and full of themselves. The older ones cause less trouble - this I will give them.

This time, too, it was the young ones who made this mess. I was happily passing time after an extensive, nauseating ordeal out at sea on a ship full of half-mad sailors. (I would advise anyone who reads this to under all circumstances avoid a certain sea captain Chambers, a man badly off the deep end. While he might seem the charming, irresistible scoundrel on the outside, he makes life at sea a living, frozen hell for passengers. Why, a man should always make sure that his guests are well entertained... and spared from a rough ride.)

Ah, already I digress. I warned the young Dondrean king that this might happen, but the lad did not heed my warnings or objections. So I might as well make the curves into straight roads and offer the dear reader an explanation as to what this old man is actually scrawling about. Young Ottaviano muttered something about making this a private piece he could pass on to his children, and I never can say if he is serious or not, so this will be written in a way I find appropriate. (If more than fair share harder than the average chronicle.)

After my mishaps at sea and beyond with Captain Chambers, his crew and a few companions, I decided to pay a visit to the royal family of Dondrea, which is after all a very special place to me - especially so since I have paid many visits to the place and have at a point in Dondrea's history been there to 'give a hand', as you humans call it.

Who am I? Oh, an old fool, jester, backstabber and warhorse, an old friend of the family. My name is Varus Sayluna, a name I shan't translate or explain further. I am not a human, as even the least insightful reader might have already observed, but rather, something you have very little knowledge about. Given that this paper pile, to be bound by leather, is only going to remain in the hands of the royal family of Dondrea, I am ready to explain further, however. (At least I hope it will remain a treasure of the royal family - you know I will be horribly displeased if the secret spreads outside the family, Ottaviano. Horribly.)

I am Caedaren - that is, the 'white menace of the night', 'pale fae', the folk some more ignorant of the gossip spreading at the hearths throughout the lands mistakenly believe to be some sort of devil children, dancing in the night and committing vile acts with various animals and innocent young virgins. The latter view on the Caedaren is actually hellishly amusing for us, considering we view you humans as midnight children, completely in the dark of everything, trying to rationalize everything in terms we as an elder race find lacking and childish.

We are the small white folk of the woods, the ones living in the shadows and deep forests, most of them 'haunted' by something disturbing or even scary. We would also be to blame for some of the shadow politics being played behind the scenes, the sudden disappearances of sir This-And-That and, oh, numerous other things, all of which would be very pointless to point out. (Yes, Ottaviano, this is to say I do not want you knowing everything we or I do. That would be too easy, dear boy. I might have to kill you.)

It is not widely known that we are indeed related in blood and spirit to the anardes, the others. Seadaren, Yiadaren and so forth, there are so many of them and I will not waste my time trying to give a detailed outlook on any of the tribes. For you 'they' would be the "light fae". And I would advise you not to ask either party - other anardes or Caedaren - what is their view on the other. Firstly, the anardes see us as no more than freaks and threats: have you ever seen a pale, white or fair-haired light fae of any kind? Certainly some high up north might sport a paler hue, but bear in mind also that the light fae are taller than we are - the Caedaren are rarely as tall as your run-of-the-mill human, after all.

I hope that satisfies your thirst for now, as now follows the part where I relate to you why King Ottaviano had me swear an oath to write this down. It was an embarrassing ordeal, and one young Ottaviano should be faintly ashamed of. But I have myself to blame for having to write this - Otto is to blame for choosing such an absent-minded, disorganized thinker to write this down. I would have gladly told the story there and be done with it, but alas, I must say that the young magicker possesses more rationality during the drunken state than old Varus does.

I wrote a bit earlier that I had come to visit the young King, whom I have known since he was a mere babe, and whom I have occasionally even rescued from a tight, tight situation. (It was, of course, strictly unofficial, you must understand.  It would do me no good to catalogue every noble I have threatened, some quite eloquently with a knife, I might add. ) As Ottaviano and I share similar passions - secrets, which are the best way to catch a Caedaren's attention, mysticism, politics, swordplay... oh, and wine of course.

The main reason I am writing this is wine, you see.

Ottaviano welcomed me with warmth, but remarked - with undue amusement - how I seemed so dreadfully green, not like the almost sickly pallid colour I usually was. I related to him my trip with Captain Chambers, and the young sod did not even have the decency to hide his smile. He provided me with a good bed, pleasant servants and a day to wash off the effects of the voyage, and promised we would have a private feast between us - the king, some old friends and myself.

I did not expect the wine to be so spirited. Neither did he, I suspect, but his Queen was mightily upset with him the next morning. Queen Amanda still has not said a word to him, and this little mess of ours happened a mere week ago.

"Varus, old bean," he said and refilled his cup. "Tell me again, why is it that your lovely companion, whassername, called you..." he spilled his drink at this point, I think, "...called you... what did she call you, remind me please?"

I am ashamed to admit it, but I was unable to stand up at the moment - at least on two legs, that is. "Goodness. I think 'twas something in the lines of 'the little snake who tried to swallow a bear' or whatever."

I heard muffled laughter from his general direction. It sounded insane.

"I think 'tis because I slapped the Daughter of the Shield once." I remember laughing. "The legendary Eliandra. Lady Primrose of the Shield, the One Who Broke Her Nail!"

"Lady Primrose?" He fell, degenerating into a laughing, writhing mass on the floor. I think he had the bottle with him. The rug had an appealing, soft feel to it, I admit. I was fast falling asleep.

"Oh yes. I called her that at the same time." It had seemed like a good idea at the time, I must admit, and in the daze of my drunken mind, it felt like a good idea once more.

"Good Lord, Varus, you're still alive and able to sire! She made eunuchs of people that even sneezed at her!"

"No, she just nagged at them like a little princess."

"She was a pretty little princess, wasn't she?"

"A Primrose! Did I mention she had a half-Caedaren bastard?"

His eyes went wide and he almost choked on the bottle - not the wine, mind you. "No!" he gasped.

I snickered boyishly, or that is Ottaviano's opinion on what it sounded like. "Yes. Pretty girl, too, only her father was not pleased at all." Then again, neither was her mother - or the child's uncle for that matter...

Ottaviano thought this over, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. "So why did you slap," he cackled, "Primrose?"

"It had something to do... to do with the war," I mumbled, on the brink of sleep. "Do you want to hear it?"

"Write it down!" came the auspicious exclamation. "My memory's a sieve, you know that."

"I shall do that, I swear," I said, condemning myself to writing this down. "'Tis a good laugh." And as far as I can tell, I fell asleep.

I could swear he was aiming for something like that with that strong wine. I could swear. But of all things, my word and honour will hold - even if my head cannot bear the strong spirits of the (probably somehow enhanced) wine. And thus, here I am, writing to you why I slapped a certain Eliandra. Or so I thought.

It was a day after the incident that Ottaviano and I had another talk, concerning this very situation. "I don't think it was a good idea, well, not any more," he said sheepishly. "Amanda sent me a dagger and told me she was going to visit her family. She told me she would be back and wouldn't talk to me before I had cut my hair and sent it to her."

I, in the process of draining my teacup, almost spat all the tea on him, then nearly choked on the hot liquid and finally, after swallowing, broke out laughing. He did not approve that, or my mercilessly amused smile. "I am sorry, boy, but such is life."

"Oh really." He gave me a look. Anyone who has met Ottaviano and has been stupid enough to annoy him somehow is sure to see that look. "Varus?" he asked me sweetly as he poured me some more tea.

"Yes?"

"Remember Primrose?" I did. "When will you write it down?"

Sullenly, I wrinkled my nose at him. "Oh, Hells, boy. 'Tis such a bother. A pointless topic - I would much rather write about something more meaningful than a mere slap. Now, the machinations of King Andre and the Thronegod that went on those days, oh, that is a topic."

You are familiar with the feeling you get when you realise you have said something that has only brought you closer to doom? I experienced it there, in the solar plexus of the Dondrean royal palace amid the large green plants and plentiful flowers, right in front of King Ottaviano the Magicker.

He pestered me about it for the remainder of the week, stopping me from writing down the brief version of why I slapped Daughtra. Then, last night, I realised that it would have happened in any case. This is certainly not the first time I am writing something for the young King - many of the historical titles in the royal library are my work, even though they seem to have been written by someone else than a certain "Varus Sayluna". Now, considering this, he would have stormed to me the moment he read the basic background of the entire slapping business.

Shortly put: Damn it all to the Hells, I was going to have to write it anyway.

So what began as a story of a certain dashing old war hero slapping a vague and idolized noblewoman of recent Teragonian history turned into yet another chronicle. I sincerely hope Ottaviano will not turn it into a Novice's Guide to How the Caedaren Are Incredibly Sneaky, Crafty And Other Shady Things or a book he can read aloud to his children.

(He has made snide remarks of how my style is cramped, tedious and good for curing insomnia. I try to ignore them.)

(All right, you young twit. You were begging for this, and get it you shall.)

It was a chilly summer night in Southern Teragon near the Reik River, and I was exhausted after ranging my way through the lush forests and the countryside. I had recently paid a visit to the trainees near what was then Ullrath, and was on my way back to the Clearspring den via the Teragonian hide. I had come that way on my way to Ullrath and promised to come back, as there was uncertain talk of the Throne wanting to discuss the possibility of Bleeders taking care of the bandit problem in the northern, storm-plagued part of the country. Nature seemed to be particularly wrathful in that part of the continent, with storm winds and columns of fast-moving air - great storms, as the humans call them - blowing and wheezing, destroying everything in their path.

The grove was silent, but guarded, I knew. There were at least two pairs of eyes on me at all times when I moved through the clearing in the forest, my head bare. For each pair there was also a weapon ready to act should I have chosen to display aggression or other disconcertingly hostile signs.

I was received at the mouth of the cave and let in to hear the news, then to be sent down the stairs. I have much distaste for these underground hides, but necessity is necessity, it appears. These areas were, however, largely uninhabited, but there was open speculation as to how long it would take the humans to clear away the forest until they would find that they were messing with something they were not ready to take on without magicks. I would have preferred to have the place elsewhere, but I was not ready to speak on the behalf of others - my sense of strategy and tactics, when compared to the others', is quite unorthodox, despite my high age.

Underground, the cavern shaped by the Fingers, those commanding the elements, and the understar contributed by the Hands, those commanding the world's fabric, was asleep. The understar would come alight when morning came, turning into a blazing sphere of light that would feed the trees and provide some solace to those accustomed to live stoically underground.

The idiots.

I navigated the forest underground and sat myself near the stream, also moulded by the Fingers. The other reason I simply do not prefer hides to dens is that they are rarely natural: in that aspect I admit to being conservative, even though the dens are quite often merely built inside walls of stone created by Fingers. Hypocrisy? Quite so, but once one reaches this stage of life, the answer "So what?" turns into "Quit yapping, child, or I shall have to brain you upside the head".

After a quick drink, I continued down the stone stairs, consisting of stone rather than actual moulded, orderly stairs. They were much more enjoyable to run up and down. I navigated the so-called streets of the hide, going past the melee hall, farther and farther until I found myself in the council building.

Contrary to what is said of politics, they can be hellishly entertaining, especially if it is a bunch of bitter Caedaren fighting over something. I myself always preferred to be the spectator, rather than the word brawler set on changing the world with mere words and no deeds - and getting his head cut off and promptly turned into an ashtray for suitable seasonal rituals. As always, it is fun as long as you are not on the receiving end.

One more reason to become a sharp shooting archer, don't you think? Oh, I digress.

At this hour the hall was mainly abandoned, not counting the guards posted there. However, the person I was looking for was a permanent resident of the council hall, which in itself was a rather small building despite the imposing, official name. As the caretaker of the building and an old friend, Tikr could provide me shelter for the night - one fitting for someone of my merit, skills, and - dare I say it - age.

He was still up, but not expecting someone knocking on his door. "I told you, it's in the waiting room!"

"Hospitality, good Tikr, have you forgotten?" I queried, my ear against the cold metal door.

It took only a moment for the door to open. The old Finger, retired from military service and now employed for altogether different tasks, had a liking for privacy and expected others to desire it as well. Doors were not quite so fashionable in places where we expected no guests to arrive; yet Tikr had taken a liking to not only doors, but also to human mysticism and sciences, something not always approved by the more fanatic youngsters.

Tikr was a slender, finely proportioned old devil... though not quite as old as I am. The signs of age had started appearing some hundred seasons ago on his face and body - his skin was becoming smoother and smoother, almost opaque, and his build was willowy. Not lithe, not slim, not slender, but willowy. Nothing was out of proportion, yet the muscles did not look quite as strong as they had looked all those seasons past. He had such a friendly face. Thinking about it these days makes my heart sting with grief. I loved him more than he ever knew, but words are useless unless you are ready to show it through your deeds.

He smiled his friendliest, warmest smile - the one he reserved to anyone but his enemies. "I suppose I ought to have anticipated you," Tikr said apologetically and ushered me in by tugging my sleeve. "You look tired," he observed after he had closed the door after us and regarded me.

Lacon, but he had a way of putting it. "'Twas a long walk."

"And you're even dourer when you're tired," he mumbled, moving toward his desk, finely crafted of willow reeds. I was not entirely sure if the willows were still alive, but it smelled lovely.

Tikr's room was spacious, but crowded all the same. It was not the fault of his bed, a simple mattress and a woollen blanket, as stoic as was the hide itself, but the plentiful books and contraptions, half of which I can say to have understood nothing. Tikr had a book for everything - in essence, he lived in a study, which was constantly warm and not moist at all. Finger runes were carved on the floor to maintain the temperature, humidity and other things, all of which were most likely very technical in nature. The elementalists were very orderly, which is something most Caedaren might consider a handicap because they cannot go to the same lengths of creating elaborate, improvised patterns. Tikr displayed his speciality with his grey and green robe: he was most at home with the element of earth, but he had displayed a capability for some serious fireworks years past.

"Dour?" I held back a chuckle. "Good Heavens, Tikr. Most of the time I am in much better humour than the young ones."

Tikr simply grinned and picked up a bottle from a metal container covered by ice. Cold human wine? Eccentric as always, Tikr. "You still get drunk more often than they do, yes?"

"Well, 'tis a nice way to end a day," I shrugged. "Is that watered down?" I asked, salivating and already knowing the answer. It was not Tikr's style in actuality to have watered down wine, the kind the youngsters newly initiated to the ways of alcohol preferred.

He frowned when he looked at me. "What kind of a mouse do you think I am?"

Typical of Tikr. "The roaring kind," I mumbled and accepted a goblet with a courteous nod. "Have you heard of them?"

"I have to admit that I haven't." Pop. "Indulge me?"

I looked at him, feeling definitely amused by the mental image I had just crafted. "Imagine a mouse that squeaks at the night like a great cat and storms through the undergrowth like a predator." At his chuckle I quirked an eyebrow. After he had poured me some wine, I continued. "Compared to a normal mouse, 'tis twice the size and with an appetite thrice the normal mouse's - so much indeed, that it preys on other mice."

He let out a short guffaw as he poured himself a drink. "Now, are you accusing me of something, my friend?"

"Only for having such sharp teeth, Tikr."

It was delightful to hear him laugh. It was rarely that I found someone of my own kind that was so friendly, open-minded and optimistic about the present and the future. I set upon my wine with no hurry and picked a book from one of the shelves. "Now, I am afraid that I must ask you to find me some sort of quarters to sleep," I said, after another sip. The wine was rather good, actually, maybe because of its coldness. "The guest rooms, are they still available?"

He blinked. "Quite, I had almost forgotten." Tikr continued after a considerable moment of silence from my part. I resumed quenching my thirst. "A few days ago we received a highly distinguished visitor."

Oh Hells, I thought, so much for a comfortable rest. "Well? Go on!"

Tikr leaned against the wall and smiled teasingly, knowing very well that I disliked it. "She has been fighting with the council for two days now, for Mother knows what reason. Such hush-hush they are about it," Tikr said, shaking his head. I could see the curiosity glowing in his eyes, but I have to say I was dying to know what it was about myself.

"Yes? Yes? Who is she?"

"Oh, calm down, Varus, I was getting to that!"

"You were not."

He laughed. "Right. She is from the Mountain of Metal itself."

"Teragon? Fascinating. Who is 'she'?"

"Oh, nobody in particular." Tikr eyed his goblet, almost lazily. "Eliandra, the Daughter of the Shield."

"Daughtra?" I ogled and then smirked. "My. She is nobody in particular, yes indeed."

My sarcasm didn't go unnoticed. "Oh, so I might have undermined the truth a bit," he beamed. "But, old ram, what did you expect?"

"Misguiding information and dubious monikers."

"You do me injustice."

We were grinning like madmen. Maybe it was the wine, maybe the fact that we had so much distance between us so often, maybe both and more. "Would you mind if I camp outside her door - provided she has one?"

He shook his head and licked his lips clean of the wine. "The guards might disagree."

"Ah, but you forget that I outrank them."

"No I don't."

Odd. "Then what?"

Tikr had that dubiously amused look on his face, as if he almost wanted me to become annoyed with something. "She's been playing dice with them."

"How does this stop me?"

"Oh, in no way, I'm sure."

I emptied my goblet. "Sometimes, I could nearly bet my life that your ultimate goal is to annoy me until I am far beyond the borders of sanity."

"Well observed. More wine? Or will you go relieve the men from their posts?"

"I will. You will have breakfast waiting in the morning, yes?" I added the latter, merely to keep him courteous and hospitable. I was quite sure he enjoyed being the host who could tease others in a primitively annoying way. Tikr was constantly hinting he knew something, and then it turned out that he was indeed only trying to make fun of others' curiosity.

But he had a good heart despite that.

We said good night and he let me out. The wine in my abdomen tingled a bit and felt warm despite the fact that it had been cold when it went down my throat, while my head seemed light. So, with a warm stomach and a light head, I went off to exercise authority on a couple of hardened young Bleeders.

They were playing dice as Tikr had indicated. They were a young woman, with wavy hair and cerulean and amber eyes and the young man, he with curls and dark and olive eyes, both happily playing and apparently winning and losing quite evenly. The man regarded me unblinking and then touched his partner's hand to notify her that someone was there. She too looked, and soon they were standing with their purely ornamental staves in hand.

I smiled at their hesitating expressions. "I shall take it from here, if you do not mind."

They did not, it seemed. The two were gone without as much as a word said on their behalf, which was fine with me. They even took their leaves and the dice.

I settled down and closed my eyes. I thought about playing dice with Daughtra.

It was early morning - that is, not many hours after I had closed my window on the world - when the door opened.

"Where are Halian and Seynelle?" asked a soft voice in Ternian, with a certain sort of demanding tone to it.

"Asleep, I hope, and not playing sanvall with leaves. Alas, I do think they are still at it somewhere," I replied in the same language before stretching a bit and standing up. When I turned to look at her I found an appealingly sweet-looking woman roughly the size of Tikr staring up at me with some inquisitiveness. Yes. This was Eliandra, Daughter of the Shield of Teragon, one of the three Daughters and the only one of them that was of royal blood. Her reputation these days is something of a legend - she is known to be skittish, haughty, charming, beautiful, infuriating, self-centred, all that and more.

I merely found her amusing, naturally. Anything else would have contradicted with my view on the world.

"M'lady Daughtra?"

She flinched, much to my satisfaction. "Pardon. I have not had the pleasure of meeting someone as tall as you among your kind, good sir...?"

"Carenda Varus Sayluna," I replied, ignoring her frustration. She seemed to have wanted me to introduce myself in her own language. I indulged her. "In essence, I am one of the three high commanders of the Bleeding Hearts, m'lady Daughtra. I am curious as to what your reason for being here is?" It was blunt and straight to the point, and quite unfortunately, she did not seem to like it. But she should have known better than to get upset at a Caedaren for being Caedaren.

"I shall not discuss my exact mission just now," she said patiently, yet sounding faintly offended as she added: "good sir."

Remember. When women pull that trick from their sleeve, be quick to change the subject so you can torment them with the original subject later on.

"Would breakfast help?"

Tikr had been kind enough to arrange for breakfast in a private room near the dining hall, and I had no doubt he had arranged it more because of me than the Daughtra. Naturally, I had no idea whatsoever if she had broken fast, dined or had supper in this very room or with the council or whatever. I certainly was not about to ask, as this most peculiar woman seemed reluctant to talk to me, not knowing my reputation, full standing in the Caedaren hierarchy or why I had such curiosity toward her task.

She was indeed short for a human, but built like one. She was rounder than our women, and naturally wasn't as pale as we were. Her eyes were only one colour, but they were not the least bit uninteresting - I found her sapphire eyes striking to some extent. But it was her dark hair that set her apart from my almost albino brethren. I myself belong to an older generation of Caedaren: during those times it was still frequent to see hair of honey blonde or golden straw. I myself sport the former, and am quite proud of my locks.

Like some Caedaren, yours truly included, and almost all humans, she wore human clothes, although hers were the noble's garb meant solely for making the wearer seem more beautiful. It was fitting for her, obviously, as she was a human. Unlike us, who preferred clothing that reflected the season, she wore crimson and yellow. A poor choice for her eyes, I think. She should have worn blue. And unlike what was the present fashion in Caedaren clothes, she did not have her neck covered by a tall collar or scarf. It would have been a pity should she have done so - such a long, swanlike neck should not have been hidden under a layer of fabric.

While I did not voice my opinions, it was a miracle if she was not aware I was ogling her like an owl trying to decide which of the hundreds of mice in front of her she was going to catch and eat. Regardless of what she thought of this, she ate somewhat sullenly, as if I was some kind of burden she must carry.

She was enjoying her food, nonetheless, which was more to a human's tastes than a Caedaren's. If we Caedaren are proud of something, it is our hospitality and special care toward distinguished and welcome guests.

Of course, our hospitality toward unwanted guests was quite legendary as well - I recall one night spent getting drunk and discussing our 'hospitality' with a certain Dondrean war chief some hundred seasons ago. The man had been a pearl among his kind despite that he was a bit too brave for his own good. A little cousin of a friend's friend's brother's friend and his friends had apparently stumbled upon a grotto in which a few Souls were performing initiation rites, and... oh, suffice to say they had the damnedest time getting out of there without having their teeth, nails, eyebrows and other assorted hair plucked out one at a time by spirits. He asked me if this was probable, and well, who am I to tell lies to an extremely brave, glorious war chief whose deeds would 'be recorded on the Dondrean religious chronicles?'

Sometimes it can be rewarding to be considered a savage, you comprehend. But I ramble!

After I had finished my own breakfast I took a corked pitcher and two clay mugs and poured myself and her more red cherry tea - the kind humans often and mistakenly called it hot cherry juice, most probably for the reason that it is, in reality, a mixture of cherry juice, water and honey. They do not apparently think that it is possible to have cherries during midwinter. "I apologize," I began conciliating, handing her the mug as she finished her bread, "I was intrusive."

She accepted the mug and gave me a long, victorious look. "You were indeed, sir."

I waited. She said nothing more, simply eyed me gallingly. The ball was mine: "This is to say I am to provide you with a more fashionable, theatrical apology?"

The woman rewarded me with a sour face, and I had to admit to myself I was treading on a trapped establishment. Women - and men - like this were merely annoying, and it became troublesome when they were this stubborn and vain. Yet, I could not shake the feeling that she was playing elaborate games with me and that I deserved it. Such was the magnetic personality of the then-Daughtra.

"You should maybe be a little more forth-coming yourself," she soon said and sipped her tea gingerly. "Is the council ready to listen to me again anytime soon, do you know?"

"I have to say I do not, as I very much too the liberty of stealing yourself for my own amusement," I replied. At her startled look, I chuckled. "No need to be alarmed, I am simply someone not part of the hiding council, though I have a great deal of authority. They will not, of course, be happy with this little feat. And now that we are on the topic, I doubt they have been happy with anything you have been trying to propose them?"

She looked perplexed at first. Then, she laughed. "You have the right of it, sir Varus." Daughtra eyed me for a moment, and I seized the chance to relax. I had broken the ice and it was no small task, you realise. "What can you do for me that the council can't?"

Bells. The warning kind. "You truly want to enrol the Bleeding Hearts to take care of the bandits." She tilted her head, but said nothing. I cleared my throat. "To answer your question, I would be the highest authority."

"You knew?"

"I knew the rumours, nothing more," I replied with unease, trying to cover it by sipping my tea. "In reality I thought you might be here to discuss something blatantly inappropriate with the council. Say, something in the lines of gifting you with a hide, completely furnished, self-sufficient and such."

She thought about it for a moment, while I became more and more nervous. She had been staring at me non-stop. "Not a bad thought, but no, the rumours are true. We wish to rid of the bandits, but..."

I sighed and cut in. "Could we discuss this elsewhere, at another time? I must think." And, at the same time, interrogate a few council members and see if somebody local knew more of this bandit situation. I am ashamed to admit it, but I travel too far and too often. It leaves one confused when suddenly one is not at all sure of what to do.

She frowned, but soon enough gave a nod. "Fine. When and where would this be? And what shall I say to the council?"

"Midday, at the entrance above ground." I emptied my mug. "Tell them you have another appointment," I smiled, quite broadly, "and be sure to tell them 'twas me and that I am awfully sorry..." that I had just denied them the chance to bicker and sulk about it.

Thankfully, Daughtra seemed amused and in good humour after that. "I shall," she said and stood up and curtsied. After a bow I moved to open the door for her.

After she had gone, I poured more tea for myself and lifted my legs on the table. A headache was stirring and lifting its ugly head and backside inside my head. What the devil did one of the three Ladies of Teragon want with Bleeding Hearts? I was not under any circumstances going to ask her why she wanted others to do the job of the Teragonian legions or woodland rangers.

The Bleeding Hearts are something of a contradiction to the Caedaren stereotype. Whereas most of the commoners and nobles are somewhat foolish and a bit too trusting of everyone, mostly because they have no idea what the world outside dens - our forest cities - and such is, the Bleeding Hearts are what was once called the Moon Guard, and we are very aware and antagonistic toward dangers from the outside. Frankly, that is what they still are, only the change in name is not cosmetic and there is also a good reason for these drastic changes. It was quite a long time ago when the other anardes decided that this population of heretical, deformed cousins was a blemish on their reputation or something equally silly. The whole point is that whatever instigated their aggression meant we had to say 'fare thee well' to a peaceful lifestyle.

While the Sun Guard, always alert during the day, and its hierarchy remained largely unchanged by the sudden attacks, the Moon Guard soon became the place for those fuelled by their bitterness toward outsiders bringing disharmony. So much so, in fact, that its entire hierarchy changed into a faction of monolithic proportions. Besides that the Bleeding Heart are not just a new splinter 'faction' of Hearts - I would dare to venture they are more of lifestyle, full of embittered Bleeders that were once a part of another faction altogether. In a nutshell, the Sun Guard, mainly composed of Hearts and Eyes, is still traditional and holds many of the factions, while the Bleeding Hearts are for the embittered of any faction. (Though, in the beginning, most were Hearts, as you might imagine.) It is a complicated thing to be a Bleeder, and I would rather not explain the entire story of traditions, factions and such, and thus ruin the story. Suffice to say, no matter what the previous background of the Bleeder is, she may join - most of those who lost their families during the anardes' raids join up, but almost as great is the lot who lost their families to the other beast folk of the wilds. We are the ones who often take revenge to the culprit's front porch.

Oh, and most of the youngsters are a suicidal, fanatical lot with little sense of humour, little love for chitchat and little love for making better use of their lives. Adorable, are they not?

Sarcasm aside: As for Teragon, it is a huge kingdom anyone with half a mind knows, although the term "kingdom" is a very bad definition for the nation. Humans, some anardes and more of the assorted small folk... it is a hotchpotch of many races, with the humans sitting on the throne. Bearing this in mind, it was only logical that they have a large army to back up their ultimatums and borders. Thankfully for the world, Teragon has had no reason to advance its borders for quite a long while - and if I say "quite a long while", you should readily accept that it is a long time.

At that time, however, it felt a bit unsteady, the peace, though I could not put my finger on the source of the feeling.

Those few moments afloat in annoyed, sullen silence were made short by the appearance of a faintly shamefaced Tikr and an enraged Nyanvara Salkesh. It became a noisy annoyed, sullen silence without warning. "Hello, Nyanvara. Care for some tea?" I smiled, lifting my mug a bit.

Nyanvara was by Caedaren standards a small woman well past her truebirthday which most of us go through at the age of two hundred seasons, although some renewalists might disagree on the usefulness of the truebirthday. Nyanvara came from a family of Hearts, but had never become one of the Caedaren knights, the complete opposites of Bleeders. It was widely speculated that her temper might have had something to do with it, knowing how calm and composed the Hearts are. She was a good woman, but I found her mostly frightening.

"Tell me you didn't say yes," she said, grabbing my collar. Really, there was no reason to be so personal!

"I did not say yes. No, put your hand down! I truly did not!"

She let go, but glared at me in that petrifying manner that made her one of the most prominent council members. "That's good. That's very good, Varus. Now tell me you're not going to consider it." I hesitated. A second too long, apparently, as she nearly throttled me. "You rootless tramp! Don't you dare give into her demands, or I'll have your head cooked, your skull made into an ashtray and used in..." I stopped listening, but remarked that I was not the only one using that expression.

"Truce!" I finally thundered, standing up and grabbing her by the shoulders. "What in the Hells are you muttering about?"

Tikr cleared his throat. "Excuse me..."

The two magic words said with that inescapably polite tone Tikr so often used worked perfectly. She ceased her raving and stared at me, while I stared at Tikr.

Tikr had the faintest of smiles on his face, and though he tried not to look it, he was a bit amused. "I'm sorry. Now. What she's trying to tell you, Varus, is that it's against the Chumsare to do so. It's politics - human politics."

"Not if this threat of theirs poses a threat to our kind also," I reminded him, "or is a potential way to protect ourselves."

"Oh, but the bandit business is not the rain cloud of it," Nyanvara mumbled and sat down on the chair Daughtra had sat on. "We've been in contact with the hide near Raddenshaw Bay. The Eyes there have been watching the bandits before Thronegod's lot had any idea of them being in their territory. They're not really bandits either, even if they are a threat to us as well."

I sat down and felt my stomach tighten. "Machinations?"

"Oh, yes indeed, very much so, indubitably!"

"You may stop being sarcastic, Nyanvara. It would help."

"That would be making it too easy for your disused head," she retorted and glared at Tikr, who simply raised his hands to show her he wasn't about to intervene. "Now, I'm going to assume that you asked the human why they don't take care of it themselves and move on to why it's a awful, idiotic stupid..." There was silence. "You didn't ask, did you."

I had not realised she read me that well, but I nodded nonetheless, to further her aggravation and the secret pleasure I received from this torment of hers.

"...sometimes I honest to Mother believe you are nothing more than an old fool with less than half a brain, Varus," commented Tikr. Nyanvara looked daggers at him and his jovial tone. He saw it wise to shut his mouth with some cherry tea. I glowered.

"Before I was so rudely interrupted," she continued, "I was... oh yes. Bah! Might as well tell you why the cowards aren't going to deal with it themselves. Tikr, be a dear for a change and pour Roothead and me some of that, will you? Thank you kindly." He eyed me quietly, looking for something she didn't find. "Do you believe in haunted forests, Varus?"

"I have been known to frequent some."

"Not our kind. The ones really haunted by something other than you and your Bleeders. No Bleeding Hearts, no Ghost Eyes, heavens, not even Souls."

"Yes." The memory was not a particularly clear one, but then it had been some seasons ago with a few individuals I could hardly categorize as sane company. "Maybe."

"The Ghost Eyes there said even the local woodlanders avoid the place." She snorted. "And the bandits don't even seem to care. So either the rangers are cowards or sensible, or the bandits are brave... or plain stupid or desperate. Regardless..."

"No bandits?"

"No bandits. One of the Eyes supposedly followed a group of bandits after they had trashed a merchant. She thought it best to see if she could kill a few on the way."

"Brave girl."

"A klutz as well, but it will do to say that she found their conversations very interesting." Oh, Mother, but they still do this to me: whenever something important arises, everyone tempts everyone with knowledge until they are completely sure the listener is engrossed. My quirked eyebrows persuaded her to continue that time. "The so-called bandits are in reality at least mercenaries hired by King Andre the Fifth, the more or less legitimate ruler of..."

"Turneau," I assisted.

"...Turneau. The girl followed them all the way to camp, and hopes she hadn't done so. Some of the things there were 'disconcerting' to say the least."

"I truly don't want to know," said Tikr, still sitting there - with his legs on the table, naturally. "I'm, in spite of everything, an elderly man."

"Considering how often you still run after the women, I find that statement rather paradoxical," I retorted and brushed him aside with that. "Pray tell, was it as 'tis in the outskirts of Arrenshaw?" Arrenshaw, for those of you don't know, is a place any sane person avoids, situated in the western coast of the Hundred Kingdoms. It was a kingdom - suffice to say, it no longer is. For the living.

Nyanvara, nibbling on a roll Daughtra had overlooked, shuddered and swallowed a mouthful. "No. Nothing like it. In fact, the place reminded her more of how things are in some of the pseudo-haunted places your people come up with."

"'Twas a ruse? Inconceivable, if these bandits came there only some moons ago."

Nyanvara gave me a long, long look. "Oh," was all I managed.

"It was more like out of some fairytale or human folk legend than out of those nightmares from where your people draw inspiration for those upsettingly barbaric plays. There was no mist going about, no nothing, but she said she could sense and see something moving there."

"Nothing dead and moving I hope."

"Nothing with a dead body at least," she chuckled joylessly. "But she was more worried when she realised the bandits were actually aware of where they were camping and that they apparently were even desecrating graves."

Tikr stirred. "Graves? What do you mean?"

"What Tikr said, lass, only with more inquisitiveness," I echoed in a way.

The woman beamed in a pleased manner and sipped some of the tea Tikr had poured her. "It's a very ancient burial ground, we deducted from local legends. I don't know if you two are ancient enough to remember," she said, eyeing both of Tikr and me with a sting in her voice, "but there was a time when humans were not quite as numerous as they are now."

I paused and remembered. It was true that humans bred like rabbits - no offence meant, hares -, but it did take them quite a while to fill a village after the original population had been decimated by some unfortunate accident. Or other natural causes, such as swords, axes, clubs, daggers, arrows and scythes. "How old?"

"Who knows?" she replied and drank the rest of her now shale tea. "Very old, maybe. The ruins she told us of are the kind seen some thousand seasons after the Time of Differing Roads, if the anardes' books are to be believed. The cousins rarely have a reason to lie in their scriptures."

"That old?" I said out loud, pondering. I began to speculate whether or not the graves were human at all. A thousand seasons after the Roads? I wanted to have a look at these books.

"I'm sure you were a toddler then, Varus. That might be why you don't remember."

I sighed. Tikr was apparently getting excited. So I cleared my throat and pinched him with words. "Enough with the nonsense. Why are the bandits there? Surely King Andre knows his little garden cannot realistically stand a chance in defeating the Mountain of Metal, so does not the prospect of an attack seem quite improbable?"

"Considering there are three more kingdoms and several disputed fiefdoms between his lot and the Thronegod's, oh yes. Oh, I'd almost think they want something from there - or else where. The Thronegod has, according to princess Primrose of the Shield there, ordered a notable force to move toward the border." Tikr frowned, his hands joined together from the fingers. "It really doesn't make much sense. Humans rarely do, of course."

"Eh," I said, "what? A notable force? What do they need our kin for if they have their own force moving in?"

"Well," said Nyanvara and stole a glance at Tikr, who was making a great deal more sense than usually, "apparently they are shy about having such a show of brute force near the border."

It made sense suddenly, a bit at least. "Old Andre must want the buffer kingdoms to trust him more." I felt angry the next moment. "Nyanvara, suppose m'lady Primrose - thank you for the smashingly appropriate moniker, Tikr - and her brother were aware of the bandits' true origin. What would you say?"

She smiled sweetly and shrugged. "I'd say they're rat bastards to actually try to manoeuvre us into this. You see? This is why the council has merely been delaying their decision over possible help. If the humans' get their forces there before we make a decision..."

"We have no need to do a thing." I paused. "For once I must say I am impressed by your thoroughness."

Tikr let out a short laugh again. "It was luck, mostly."

Luck or not, I was still puzzled. It all seemed so improbable. Perhaps it was merely the fact that I had a hard time accepting Nyanvara's happiness. She was a sour lemon if I ever saw one. But they do say lemon tastes best with plenty of sugar on top of it, and my submission seemed to have become the sugar coating her usually bitter mood. She seemed so sure of what was to come. Seeing there was nothing more for me, I grabbed Tikr along and headed off.

And that is where the name 'Primrose' emerged to haunt Eliandra.

Tikr's name should go down in history.

Before midday I seized the opportunity to bathe in the stream and get my clothes cleaned while I was at it. Tikr was such a treasure at times, as I have repeatedly said to many people when Tikr himself was nowhere to be seen. Tikr never asked why it was that I was so fond of his company - he knew it was his good-natured humour more than anything.

I spent quite an amount of time with my braids. My wavy hair is, as I have indicated earlier, honey blonde and is along with my eyes and build my pride. I am indeed quite tall for a Caedaren, about as tall as the average human - and almost built like one. Unlike Tikr, I am constantly on the move and as such my build has never turned willowy. I am strong, and although my skin is almost unnaturally smooth, I usually pass for a remarkably young Caedaren among humans. Why, were it not for my Caedaren's eyes, often seen as extraordinarily large and oddly coloured, I might pass for a human!

My eyes? Out of my three prides, definitely the aspect of me I am most proud of. Crimson, with some grey. Above my left eye is a mark I had done in my reckless youth - a tattoo, three claws that begin from my eyebrow and reach for my hairline. Unlike humans usually think, it has no intrinsic value apart from being a constant reminder of how stupid I was as a mere kit.

To spare you from further mental images of myself, I shall move on to different mental images. You need not know where exactly each hair of my body is located.

It was still some time before my meeting with Daughtra when I entered the hall of tradition out of impulse. The basic meaning of the building was quite simple - it told the story of how we came to be in frescos. There we gather to hold a ceremony of music, dance and frolicking. The older you are, the more raucous you can expect it to get. Right now the main hall was almost empty, apart from the students that followed in the wake of their teachers. Everyone else was at work - the tree tenders tending to their trees, what else, the bakers and the hunters at their own posts. That left the young insomniacs either sleeping or waiting for the next night to bring something they could off. Sometimes I think there's too much of Father in the young ones.

The hall of tradition in the primary Teragonian hide was there because of the lack of willingness among the Hands to raise up a temple in such a place - as I recall, the words "travesty" and "heretics" were used in liberal amounts when the council had most courteously inquired 'whether or not it would please them to be of any assistance to set up the first temple ever in a hide, as they are places that sorely need spiritual guidance'. The paintings on the walls were rough interpretations of oral traditions, which themselves varied heavily based on what lineage the tellers were, how loyal the teller was to the previous teller's tales and how loyal that teller's mentor and her mentor's mentor's mentor had been. I am certain you understand what I am babbling about and what my points are. While the paintings were not painted with the smoothest of lines or carved with the finest of chisels and the steadiest of hands, they were easy to understand - which is not often the case with som e of the more sophisticated pieces of art. The symbolism ordinarily hidden from the peasants and rabble was here, as with all religious text and art, underlined with strong strokes.

We hold that we descend from where all the other anardes trace their lineage, although they may well say that is not the case. I will not go into the details, as you need not know the particulars, but put short, I would relate it like this: Our ancestors separated themselves from the other tribes after heeding the call of what/who we call Mother. They went the way she indicated, played the game by her rules, and now here we are, what we are now. Sound vague, Ottaviano? Oh, but it is. I will not toss you freebies, merely because you are too lazy to get a hold of Lamlaei the Emissary and reckon that I, being so close to you and being such a lovely, self-sacrificing friend, would tell without hesitation to you all she would tell you with much happiness.

There was no particular reason I was interested in the stories of our origins, or of the legendary heroes that fought beast races - why, I would not have been interested if there would have been a painting depicting my own battles with a wide variety of some querulous individuals and creatures of this or that race. For me, it was a useless reminder - I would not be alive this day if I had not a speck of belief in Lacon (that is, Mother), and quite contrary to what most young ones believe, I am religious. Why, unlike me they seem to not remember that what happens, happens for a reason and that everyone, everything, has a role in this play that is Mother. Father? Well. Father is Father.

Father is quite a bitch, as a certain Fist once put it. Father is what humans derisively call Chaos, where as Mother would be... oh, I do not know, in reality. They have no equivalent for Mother, a metaphysical entity whose teat we all suckle from our first breath to the last. Father and Mother have always been, but we have not. Father contributed something to Mother, and Mother bore everything. In the briefest explanation, that is the cornerstone of Caedaren religion. Everything is, everything is predestined, everything happens.

The most controversial debate, however, is this - if Mother is all, then is it not so that Father is also part of Mother? In my wholly honest opinion, the Hands of today teach everything with so black and white terms that it makes an old man like me turn ivory and almost boot their sorry behinds out of their temples. Nothing is black and white. Nothing. These days the Hands preach a message that says, in more or less, that Father is unholy.

Now, forgive me if I seem a tad bit annoyed. Father equals Chaos. Mother equals - theoretically - everything else. Yet, part of Mother equals Father equals Chaos. Thus, the Mother before equals the present Mother subtracted by Father.

It does not say much, yes, I know, but if Father is unholy, is not everything, that is, Mother, unholy as well? The Hands say this is not the case, because Mother represents purity that cannot be tainted by Father. We are creatures of balance and as such the temptations we resist, the unnatural urges to kill, maim, hurt, rape and such, are merely obstacles we must pass with undying faith toward Mother. And thus, because my lads are a tad bit too violent for the Hands' taste, they have little love for our travesties (artificially crafted hides I myself detest) and us, regardless of the fact that we do what we do for the common good... although I must say that the young ones are sometimes almost impossible to hold back. Good bloodhounds are that way need I remind you?

This is all rubbish, from start to finish. The Hands themselves fight about these theories, but unfortunately on this part of the continent his view is the predominant one. As such, the more liberal (or rather, traditional) ones have been afraid to take up offers from hides and Bleeders or those who are known to have Bleeder-relations. Why, one could say there is bad blood between the Bleeding Hearts and the Hands here. It certainly would not be far from the truth.

What did the old ones say, before the anardes became aware of the 'pale ghost beast race' and started persecutions, I hear you ask?

That in everything there was Chaos and Mother. Creativity sprang from Father and Mother both - it was a combination of much Mother and some Father that was good. The counter-force for Chaos in itself does not to this day exist in Caedaren philosophy or religion. Rather, it is a matter of control. Yes, it translates roughly to keeping those urges in check, but it certain is not as hard as the new generation of irked Hands make it sound. For without Father, Mother becomes useless, and the individual is nothing more than a rather static piece of life that is only going to end without accomplishing anything. Certainly, have all the fun you want, but be advised that there are responsibilities. However, as long as you take care of those responsibilities and do not involve yourself in something stupid, life is good.

It sounds simple, and for me it is. I cannot say if it is for anyone else. If I were to put it in different way, you might understand better, though: Both are holy, but Father is not a family man, like some animals. One must suck part of his being into oneself, but keep close to Mother.

I stopped hastily. The Time of Differing Roads, there, in front of my being, as a painting. I ogled for a moment and thought about graves, mere stone piles, coffins. Coffins, yes, coffins. I had remarked that it was particularly curious that there would be human graves in Teragon, especially of that age. Why, for all I knew, the Thronegod might have seized the chance to claim his kingdom the oldest human civilization in existence if he would have known about the graves! Such political scoundrels, these human critters - if anything was older than a mere hundred seasons, humans insisted they were ancient. They traced lineages to 'ancient heroes' and 'ancient magickers' and Mother knows where.

I came to a halt.

If the graves truly were human and King Andre was aware of them, and the Thronegod was not and the mercenaries were there to desecrate the graves, or maybe digging them up to...

No, that would have been too clever. Or would it?

If genius itself is nothing more than being sarcastic about everything and suddenly realising that sarcasm hit the mark, I admit to being a mastermind.

Of course, it might have been spiritual guidance for all I knew. I eyed the piece of art quietly, revering its simple symbolism. To the left, there were gates, from behind which the sun shone beckoningly, in the middle two individuals made their way toward those gates. In the right, others said farewells. Children, men, women. Yet, in the far right, others were making preparations to leave. It was winter.

The details did not help at all. I could not escape the feeling this little mess was going to turn out much bloodier than it seemed. If, and this was a great 'if', the Caedaren became too involved with this, it might prove to be the birth of another age of harassment, only now with the anardes and the humans working together. No matter which human side we would ally with, I was pessimistic enough to anticipate that other humans would push them into betraying our trust.

And yet, it was just as likely that the mercenaries, bandits - whichever - were there only to irritate the Thronegod. Also, Nyanvara had hinted that the girl had seen something she hoped she had not laid her eyes upon, ever, and that it had been disconcerting in its likeness to what my lads used to scare off any humans. If they truly were not human graves, unlike Nyanvara seemed to think with such conviction, what were they? If they were the graves of our cousins, it would be exciting, disturbing and could signify either good or ill. If they were the graves of something else... oh, as if I had some enlightenment to say what would happen and what would not! No matter what the case was and what these mercenaries were doing, I could be certain of one thing: that it was a dire circumstance that might either explode and burn up like a pine tree or stagnate.

I pondered this as I left the hall, passing by the students that were undoubtedly questioning their teacher as to whether or not I was part of the halls relics or not. Yes, it was indeed such a gloomy moment for me. My exhilaration passed quicker than I had anticipated and it suddenly seemed as if it would be best to simply turn my back on the entire affair and let the humans fight their wars until Mother would become upset and give Father too much power.

I headed up the stones that made the stairs, passing by a few of the enlisted soldiers that would guard the entrance. I will not tell you more about how we guard our hides than that they are guarded by illusionary magicks. By day, all visitors would be blindfolded before they would be led into the right place - it was made sure that these visitors would walk blindfolded for a long time in circles before this. Also, they would be led out in the same fashion.

Others, like Daughtra, were luckier. The Throne knew where the hidden outpost was, but their troops were not permitted near it. Visitors like Daughtra, however, had the right to prance about anywhere they damn well liked. (And undoubtedly nobody in his or her right minds would have denied this from Lady Primrose, as she was quite a stubborn woman.)

She had changed clothes, much to my pleasure. She wore trousers, a tunic, flexible boots and, much to my amusement and surprise, a scarf. We Caedaren make little difference between men's and women's clothes, but rumour had it she dressed anyway she liked even at home. Of course the Iron Kingdom's dress code was just as liberal, the nation being such a multi-coloured jumble of peoples, but she was, after all, part of the time-honoured aristocracy. I felt it better not to ask if this was an act out of impulse or rebellion, though I would have gladly welcomed her anger, so amusing to me.

"The scarf does you no justice," I informed her.

Daughtra smiled distractedly and rose to her full height with a mouse on her hand. It will do to say I found her behaviour most interesting. Imagine a lady of high standing that has never left the confines of her castle or city all alone in a forest, so alive with music strange to her. Would she not be afraid? Daughtra was a strange, strange bird among us common crows, but we were not territorial wingeses when it comes to pretty little birds such as she. Why, one could say we simply adore having such pretty, colourful, lively, flirting little robins around.

"I was led to believe this was current fashion hereabouts," she defended herself with a faint smile.

"'Tis, but 'tis a dreary fashion. This place is always late when it comes to fashion," I told her and began to walk. "And quite honestly, 'tis a shame you hide your neck."

She played coy for me, flashing that timid smile and gazing hesitantly around her as she walked beside me. When she said nothing, I shook my head.

"Where have you learned to regard the world like this?" I asked her after a while, out of curiosity, what else? "I have seen a grown man of the nobility imitate a deer caught between a cliff and a pack of hunters, yet you, a woman of nobility, seem to assail the experience with gusto."

"You mean a human noble," she said, pleased. She was not all that infuriating when she was full of nonsense. It was the official Eliandra that I could not help but tickle with sharp words, you perceive. It was a confusing ordeal: On one hand, I felt the urge to regard her as more than simply the Daughter of the Shield, while on the other I could not help but treat her like I treated any authority figure.

"Yes," I said. "'Tis a secret?" I pried.

She merely smiled. "A well-guarded one," she said, knowing I would be doomed to itch about this secret until I forgot about it.

"You are cruel," I let her know, with a helpless blink. "Though no more than good lady Nyanvara."

Daughtra laughed but did not expose her opinions. I began to find this not only frustrating... but also, very interesting.

"Come," I said, nodding forward toward one of the majestic old trees. "We will talk where we can see."

Finally, she reacted with more than a gentle remark. "Is it a tradition, sir Varus?"

"The title 'Carenda' will do if you must be official," I told her, "and yes, it is a tradition, one that the young ones use only among themselves. Consider this an honour." I grinned. "Surely you are not frightened of a mere tree?"

She snorted and proved that she didn't. The branches were low, and she proved to be a more adept climber than one might have guessed. The way she looked down toward the ground halfway up the tree made me ponder, however. It was entirely possible the royal garden, known for its diversity in plants, had once been her playground. Once we were on a suitably high and strong branch, I had another look at her. I was and am not a diviner, but there are telltale marks on everyone that give away something about him or her. Daughtra, it seemed, had calloused hands. I wondered silently.

The woman looked young, but it was widely known that the royal family was something of an enigma to elder races and humans alike. They were not half-breeds, which as exceedingly rare, and yet they were rumoured to have the lifespan of at least three humans. Earnestly, I could say that Daughtra had not changed for twenty seasons, and looked that gentle age of twenty seasons still. Magick was a clear suspect, but the family did not say. Whatever the case, a sensitive old rogue such as yours truly could tell by sitting there on the branch that the tree felt uneasy to seat her. Anyone of the anardes - yes, Caedaren included - could have told you this. A tricky concept to explain, and one I shall not discuss. Why, what good is a surprise when one is not allowed to keep secrets?

Deduct, then, how she felt. She had a look of concern, and it was not because of my eyes or my teeth - I had taken the liberty of having them evened seasons earlier -, but rather plaintively saying, neither woman nor tree liked each other. A normal tree would not have let her know, and quite often the Pact Tree decided to stay quiet. It spoke volumes that it decided to let me know what it thought of this strange monkey, dressed like a Caedaren. It knew my amusement, my silent disagreement and agreement all the same. Nothing escaped the tree, a neutral party in anything. The anardes used them as well, though their name for it, Qassimmea, defined the tree as the Tree of Judgment. Regardless to say, we felt it was unnecessarily pompous and unfitting. We used it for pacts, vows... and, oh, business discussions.

I think she knew the tree knew, and that I knew that the tree knew - and that we had been going this way all the time. She said not one lie, from start to finish, as neither did I. This did not, of course, stop either of us from saying something we did not want to relate, but it was an effective means of gaining truth. Though the tree knew what we had in mind, it could not express in any way what it was... well. To anyone but the Souls, but they, like the other fringe factions, have refused from doing so. Primitive honour and all that.

"Well," I started, deciding to have the first word, "the view is not quite as bad as it is in the city."

"No," she agreed, further confirming her image of an unlikely royal. "I rather like these heights."

"Why?"

To my surprise, she was not offended this time. She smiled, wearing that not-quite-there look on her face, eyes dreaming, and said: "When I was a child, Carenda Varus, I used to spend my time outside the city, with my Uncle on his lands. Have you heard of him? The late Prince Helver?"

"Alas, I cannot say I have had the pleasure, but I can say I know him by his reputation. He certainly was not the kind to long after the Throne, poor man."

She laughed and fell sad at the same moment, staring at me now. "No, Uncle Helver was nothing like the Pikeman. And I daresay you have first-hand experience of the Pikeman," she smiled, "I heard from good Tikr that you were a shard of glass buried deep in his foot when the man was young. How well do you remember him?"

The image of a stout, handsome young man entered my mind. Dark hair, the kind everyone in the royal family had, strong green eyes and an angular jaw. He seemed to always have stubble on his chin, I remember. He always wore a tabard or a tunic with his crest on it, proudly... perhaps a bit arrogantly. He had made the mistake of hunting too much near the border, and at the time I thought it was only fair that I kill off a few of his hounds instead. Some of the dogs were so crookedly brought up I felt sick. It was gratifying to see him angry, I agree.

The Pikeman was not a bad man, but obsessed with the Throne. The current Thronegod was a weakling, unlike his son, in both body and mind, but then one must remember that he was an old man, tired of nobody being content with anything. When war threatened, he was not able to give orders and could not even be persuaded by his advisors into making decisions. "All is in vain," he said, "so why bother. Everything comes to an end, sooner or later. I have worked, and all for naught!"

Those were dark days indeed. The threat of war and a lax king instigated rebellion everywhere, and few of the royal family and nobility lived to see the next month once the rebellion. The Pikeman was something of a hero, but yet also... something of a villain.

When the Thronegod died, and Prince Helver was to reign as the Regent, for the children were still too young, the Pikeman decided that Helver was a risk. He remained loyal, but detested Helver's much too soft-hearted grasp on the land - how could he not? Helver made no examples of the rebels by deciding that there would be no hangings. "Too grim, too vindictive," he would say.

Even I know better than this. Young idealists will never be able to show their compassions, as duty is much stronger than the whim of the heart. It will merely be their doom, and in this case I am not certain if the Pikeman was much in the wrong when he finally had enough, rode to the palace, began a royal rebellion and impaled the young Thronegod, then put him out on display for all the people to see.

He was no more lenient on the rebels. Soon, the rebellion was over, but the war had not waited. It was upon them.

The children, Princess Eliandra and her younger brother, the present Thronegod, had been thrown into a private dungeon of sorts: locked inside their royal apartments. For all his faults, the Pikeman was not entirely wicked.

As soon the war was won, the next problem struck. The Pikeman, a debatable figure, had saved Teragon with swift strikes - and was stone cold dead. With nothing to stop the more conventional royal family from taking over, the children arose from their prison, and a new Regent - their cousin, I think - was now in charge. More sympathetic winds found the Iron City.

"Yes," I finally said. "He gave chase once. Persistent young man, he was."

Daughtra leaned back against the other branch just behind her back. "He was a mad, frightening man. I had hoped you would have been able to tell me something more... derogative."

I laughed at this, only this time, merrily. "Your Highness, I could tell you so many things you would think I have all of eternity inside my skull. The Pikeman was an ill-tempered fool, but a dutiful one. Why, I would have commended him would he and his trackers have caught me, but as you can see, they did not."

She looked contemplative and simply nodded. "This profession of yours, it seems very... intriguing. What exactly do you and your Bleeding Hearts do, Carenda Varus?"

The conversation we had in Ternian began to take odd turns at that stage. I saw honest curiosity in her eyes, and wondered idly. "Assassinations, manhunts, anardehunts, beastmanhunts, scouting. The odd jobs. Keeping guard at night and looking for lost ones. And now if you will satisfy my curiosity, I will be forever in debt - how aware are you of us Caedaren and our ways? You seem not the least startled by the most gruesome of our talk, you play dice with my men, and if Tikr is to be believed, he sometimes is not, you seem to enjoy our food."

And now she laughed. "I once met one of your kind as a child, during my stays on my Uncle's lands. I don't suppose you know him... or her, I never was quite sure, although he insisted he was "he and she in soul, he in body". He was a filthy, starved creature in oversized clothes, and quite bitter. He had crude manners and spoke Ternian in an accent I don't think fits an anarde at all." She smirked. "He was a blast, only... a bit too violent, perhaps a bit insane as well. He brained Uncle Helver's stable boy when the poor youngster threatened him with a pitchfork. I must admit, he knew how to use a bale his own size."

I remember ogling at her, unable to speak for a moment. The description fit a certain individual, one of those who preferred to alienate themselves from Caedaren society and deny themselves what he was. With him, though, I could well understand it - even the presence of another Caedaren seemed to push him over the edge, and I silently wondered why he had never turned into a mad Whisper in a later stage of his life. Sheiko Nightwrought had speculated the ancestor in him - an unheard of state, as only women were supposed to carry ancestors within themselves - had prevented this. He only allowed himself to be called Sevroa, a translation of a derisive term for a Caedaren, and had since descended way too far into the darkness of bitterness.

She must have seen my expression, for she tilted her head. Forcing a sheepish smile on my face, I asked her to continue. I flinched when she began her next sentence by using his real name, and again she stopped. "Carenda Varus?"

"Oh, go on. But please, do not utter that name. Its owner does not want to be called that, and we honour that decision... if with ground teeth."

"Oh," she said and fell to a brief silence. "So he is alive?" she asked next.

"That is of no relevance, to the man... boy himself, at least. He wishes to have nothing to do with us, although he still has to." I grinned, maybe a bit maliciously. "He has caused quite an... outburst a few times, with some strange cult."

But the strangeness in her eyes did not fade, not even when she shook her head with a smile. "It does sound like him. Would you take him my sombre 'thank you' one day?"

"I have no knowledge of his whereabouts at the moment," I shrugged. "I cannot promise, but I shall try."

"Naturally."

And there was a short silence.

"Isn't it dangerous?" she asked me without glancing down at the ground, waving her little legs above the emptiness. "To... 'teach midnight children how to revere this or that', as Tikr put it. Or to find those lost artefacts of long gone races?"

"'Tis a living," I replied, staring at the ground so far, far down. I pondered whether or not she was aware of how much the trees disliked her. "Now, what has convinced you that we hunt artefacts? No, we Find things that we can use from... the oddest places. Whatever one needs, chances are one can Find it somehow."

She regarded me with a contemplative sidelong gaze and then smirked. "Is it dangerous?"

"The width of a hair away from death at times. That is how close it often comes." I smirked back in spite of myself and returned the sidelong look and smirk. "And if we have now gabbed enough, what exactly does the Thronegod want with us?"

The Daughter of the Shield flinched at first, then leaned back against the branch with a serious look on her face. "He wants your people to take care of the problem for us. As usual, we would pay well, in lands and vows that will stick." She patted the branch. "Ones made here."

I chuckled. "True. But still, I shall have to decline the offer."

"What? Can you say this, without-"

"Without consultation. It has... already been decided, unfortunately. But if you would..." I muted. I rarely find a beautiful woman of different race unattractive, even when she has ugly thoughts. And, judging by her look and twitching cheek, I gathered she had some plans that connected both bat dung and my rolling head. I was tempted to ask.

"You do not understand."

"Then make me," I mumbled. "It cannot be easier."

She looked miffed, mightily so. "I am trying to, good sir Varus," she snapped harshly. "If you would just give me a moment..."

I sighed, feeling the irritation grow within myself, too. "I rephrase: Speak thy mind, O Daughtra, for time is precious and you are not getting any younger."

The bit of sarcasm didn't apparently escape her, but the brave lass put on a show of fake stoicism I found reasonably amusing. Anyway I found more worrying than consoling the fact that she would eventually slap me. I had no intentions of making love to the Sacred Mother just yet, that is to say, I was not ready to fall off the branch and experience an early funeral.

"We simply wish to rid of ambushes in the forest and the roads, sir Varus, exactly where the valley ends. Dear sir," she then said, turned to face me on the branch and gave me a pleading look.

It was something to dwell on. She had it right, on the other hand - the brigands might pose serious trouble. The council of the hide had their view on it, and I knew that if the Common Law would be seen in the same light in dens and hides elsewhere, no matter which of them she turned to, they would all say no. Even Erkhan and Taliat, my equals, would say no, though Taliat might well think the opposite of what she says. I had thought about talking to the other Carendas for a while now, but couldn't quite make up my mind about it. "The Chumsare, the Common Law or Common Path, is never-ending. You must understand, m'lady, that 'tis none of our right to meddle with your own qualms."

"Qualms!" she snorted. "Really, dear sir. They are bandits, vagabonds and rovers! They could threaten your kind as well."

It is hard and irritating to explain the ethics, moral codes and ideals of the Caedaren to midnight kids. They measure things differently, of course, but they give no quarter about it. And they always point out the obvious, just to make you believe problems a mountain's size greater than they really are.

Politicians.

"I will say, that this is a fight between two strong hands. We would otherwise have a go with these bandits, but... we have a bad reputation as 'tis."

"I beg your pardon?" she growled. "You are on our soil because we chose to let you, out of thankfulness. Don't make me reconsider what I tell to my Throne."

I could but twitch. "Can you understand, m'lady, that we have a near-religious taboo holding us back?" (I did not tell her, though, that 'near-religious' translated as 'something one must know how to get around' for most of us.) "I cannot speak on the behalf of others, but I would gladly have a look at this myself. A look, a peek - my daggers I would not unsheathe for the cause of others."

She had been meaning to ask about that taboo, but instead grappled my promise. Of course, it had not been a promise, but she quickly transformed it into one nonetheless. "You would, sir Varus?"

"Certainly. I am curious as to what these peculiar happenings are about." I did not intend to tell her anything at all - the Throne thought there was only one hide in all of Teragon, or that was what we thought they knew, at least. I did not think she would tell me if they knew, and I was not going to speak about it, for reasons you might understand. Besides, I did want her - or the council - to know of my suspicions. I did, however, intend to interrogate the Ghost Eye that had danced as a shadow in the bandits' wake - I also planned to have a look at the place for myself.

She clearly seemed at unease as she pondered my suggestion. Her agitation passed, Daughtra now gave a sigh and a frustrated look. "Well, the least you can do is point the way for our troops."

I could get around the Chumsare with that. It would only be a question of time when the troops would find the bandits, in any case... and there was something else to it. I would be near the front seats of the theatre when the play started, able to hear every whisper, see every hidden meaning in a gesture - in essence; this way I would know what exactly these mercenaries were up to.

The best part about it was that I thought I could persuade Nyanvara and the councils of these two hides into this with relative ease. If we knew exactly what was going on, we could tip our contacts as to what was going on and possibly avert the whole situation from disrupting into an uncontrolled, chaotic sea of violence that could open the gates for creatures few wanted to fight. Or rather, the ones we'd have to fight with the anardes whilst fighting each other.

I do so hate my work sometimes.

I smiled. "I shall take this to the council, then. If you would remain here until we reach an agreement..."

"Right here?" she asked, looking downward.

It tickled. "You jest."

I ought to have known it was a partial death sentence for myself. Nyanvara fumed when I told her what we had agreed upon with Eliandra, but after thinking about it seriously a few minutes, nodded. Dayamo Velanwia, Coerai Siemmeley, the other two council members were more lenient, thankfully, but as always their word carried little against Nyanvara's ever volatile temper. (I never did ask Coerai how it was possible for Nyanvara and Eliandra to cooperate at any level, though I should have, definitely.)

We were outside, or inside, the hide, sipping cherry tea on the stone half-circle that the council used for their meetings. I sat on the grass myself, with Tikr standing in the background against a tree. I was dressed in my greens and browns, while Nyanvara wore her high-collared red and green robe. It suited her curls and cobalt and copper eyes well. She sat on the centremost of the five stones with Coerai and Dayamo next to her.

Coerai, dressed in plentiful orange, white-patterned robes, was a young Voice - the closest we Caedaren have to 'true magickers' like Ottaviano are the Voices, who are a very recent addition to the faction hierarchy. Unfortunately they are not trusted like other factions are, and there has been some aggression between them and some others - particularly the Fists. The others will not admit it, but the only reason for their distrust is the Voices' secrecy: They simply refuse to discuss their rituals and methods with non-Voices. I can understand that, to a point. With Coerai, I could understand it even better - she was a shy young woman, and even shier because of the looks she received wherever she went.

Dayamo was different altogether. He had served for many years in the Sun Guard's common army and then in the Hearts (to wit, the elites, and a faction to boot), but had been forced to quit after losing almost every finger on his right hand in a clash against deep woodland creatures. Humans, anardes and the small folk are not the only intelligent creatures to walk on two feet... and not all intelligent creatures walk on four feet, or walk at all! Dayamo was an impressive sight nonetheless, even for someone as yours truly. While not as tall as I was or as well built, he moved with the same grace many Bleeders and Eyes move with. It wasn't only that, but he had a certain presence. He made a good leader in the Guard, but as that was it was now nigh impossible for him to train with his troops, he used his force of presence mostly in the ranks of the council. He had been, for a long time, looking for someone to help him. The russet-eyed man was a silent one, however.

"Well," Nyanvara said finally, "what do you think?"

Coerai lifted her head a bit, nursing her tea with an intent look on her face. "What Carenda Varus suggests is far from outrageous, I think... but it is my opinion that we should ask Clearspring."

"I don't," said Dayamo, whose straight-forwardness I always blamed on his military career, "think so. We have been annoying lady Primrose for quite a while."

I stared at him incredulously before letting my gaze fall upon Nyanvara and next Tikr. Nyanvara pretended she had not heard him, whereas Tikr pretended he was doing everything but smirking. "For what 'tis worth," I began, "I represent the Bleeders, and though the Common Law dictates the nearest den is in charge of the hide, it also holds that we have a right to act. Thus now that we can be sure we can possibly avert a possible disaster, we should act."

"Liberal pagan," Tikr commented, to which Coerai quickly responded: "And in the right!"

"He has the right of it," Dayamo grunted his agreement, eyeing Nyanvara stiffly. "It's highly unconventional, but rightfully so, considering the situation."

I felt a tickle. "There is more to the matter than what seems, I believe. For this reason, I desire to see what there is to see with mine own eyes, and this is, indubitably, my right."

Coerai lifted her head. The one aspect about Voices that always spooks others is that some of them are clairvoyants and seers - I was aware of their different schools, of course, but most learned something outside their own schools. Before I managed to sputter all my suspicions out loud, she spoke: "I certainly don't see why you shouldn't go."

Dayamo gazed at us both, nibbling on his herb pie. He said not a word, until I turned to look at him expectantly. "Your Word, Lord Dayamo?"

"My Word," he began, "depends on how much you are going to tell to others about this." He sipped some tea, holding the painted clay cup with his right two-fingered hand. "You and your semi-active flock of friends have a great reputation in Clearspring and still much of what you find on your journeys remains... out of reach for some of us who should know more than the simple warnings you issue."

"Flocks, herds, packs and such work in such a fashion," I reminded him. Nyanvara's silence was wearing on my nerves, and I suspected she was for the most part only doing this to show me she did not have to help someone who drove her up the walls of her own throne room. "What do you suggest, Lord Dayamo?"

He smiled, and the glint in his eyes could not be mistaken. He was Curious, with a capital letter. "Vow that you shall come back to supply us with a full report."

And now Nyanvara let out a delighted laugh. "My, this seems fair to me, Carenda Varus. Don't you think so, Lady Coerai?"

She said nothing.

I examined both Dayamo and Nyanvara, not betraying my annoyance with the matter. I could be nasty if they could, they should have at least suspected that. "Then 'tis my solemn vow that you shall hear: I will have you a report in full detail, from start to finish, what has occurred, what might have occurred had we not taken steps to stop human tomfoolery. You shall hear all of this and more after I am done with it." This meant, however, that it did not have to me producing the report. I am sure at least Dayamo, Tikr and Coerai understood this. The man nodded his approval, smirking one-sidedly.

Nyanvara looked unimpressed by the whole matter, but there was no question of her consent.