"An Ivory Tale, Chapter Six: Kick Him While He´s Down" by Toni J Kaukinen

We sat at my lodge on the mountainside drinking spiked wine and watching the sun roll behind the horizon. I, Tikr and Nyanvara. Our wine was spiked and our mood was, to say the least, not at all very festive.
        "Damn," said Tikr for the fifteenth time or so.
        "It all to..." continued Nyanvara and gave me a look. When I did not continue the sequence, she let her shoulders sag and gave her wine a mellow look.
        "I suppose that's it, then," she said.
        "Oh, yes, verily," said Tikr and smiled.
        "It could have been worse," Nyanvara mused.
        "Yes, they refrained from wide-spread panic."
        The woman snorted. "Quite the opposite. How many took it seriously?"
        "I counted at least five, but I've no idea how Prince Solemn counted," Tikr pointed at me with a thumb, smirking.
        "Few," I said, uttering something for the first time in a while. The rawness of my voice startled me, both as a sound and a sensation. My throat ached; I had shouted too much.
        As Nyanvara had remarked with concern, drinking wine merely made matters worse for my throat, but as long as other circumstances were unlikely to worsen, I cared not. Looking down from my lodge's terrace would offer one a good look at Clearspring, the city built in the middle of nowhere in Shallwhild, near a major road that few merchants would take without the boon of the Order of the Road or several mercenaries. It was Shallwhild; the border between civilization and the Deepwild - it was bad enough.
        Furthermore, looking down from the terrace one could see the large semi-circle that acted as a gathering place for the most prominent figures amongst us in Clearspring's circle of influence. Our nobility; the greatest of warriors and forcetwisters, those with the blood of heroines and heroes in their veins... in varying levels, naturally. This half-moon shape, acoustically good for speeches, debates and the Grand Theatre's plays and music was usually used for the latter purpose. However, earlier that day it had been my stage.
        My age alone is a merit that grants me respect and the ear of a younger Caedaren, and that combined with my status, the 'stunts' (merely borrowing your words, dear Ottaviano) I have 'pulled' and the simple fact that I have allies in directions the average path-treading Caedaren knows nothing about all adds up to one thing. I am the Respected Voice of Experience, to put it ominously. When I desire a meeting with the Grand Council, it happens.
        Of course, being that I am the almost consummate prankster and fool, I receive the treating of an annoyance - which I only prefer. It makes for much more amusement when the lot sees that I am serious.
        However, the Council is not mine to order around. They vote.
        Silly, is it not? Voting. To vote over something such as the fate of a people is unethical, base, vile and utterly horrible. Even more so when the people in question are one's own. Politics are vile, yet amusing. I have told you as much. There is never a precedent that would always work for every future case in the right way, either.
        The Council had listened patiently to what we had to say, and were slightly troubled by the possibility of renegade beastkin commanding magick and being a part of some sort of plot between two sulking human nations (never mind the fact that the other was much larger and passively aggressive). But even though I, with the help of Contesq (now happily getting drunk - amongst other things - with Visiga and Lomerlein), had pointed out a few other disconcerting things, the decision was not satisfactory for us. Us, who had bled and seen with our very eyes that something was afoot. It was so damn unfair.
        "He's plotting again," Nyanvara slurred. I knew she was not that drunk, but I knew Tikr was. Unlike him, she had decided to drink slowly and little.
        "He is? Pfft! That's just... just like him, you know."
        Yes, just like me - and it was indeed what I was doing. Plotting.
        The young twits had once again failed to give me an order to leave the matter alone. They had, after hours of debate, decided to lessen the risks: the hides - outposts, if it still causes you trouble to understand what I am referring to - were to operate with skeleton crews and immediately 'bugger out' if trouble came their way. In addition to that, we were to watch. If there was a great force serving Father in any way (wittingly or unwittingly) working in the background or war threatened, we were to do something.
        To some of us that was a monstrous decision. The few that had voted against it were veterans of battles or people with real experience of either humans or the Father. The sad fact was that the majority of these people were barely out of their diapers or had never had to fight against something or someone. It was a hereditary position, nobility, and once long ago, when the tribe was a fraction of what it was now and more like the Fists and Souls of today, that might have been logical.
        Right now, I wanted to strangle some blue-blooded babies and have a coup.
        Luckily, our society is pragmatic. Yes. I had a plan. It was evil.
        Nyanvara liked it, so it had to be.
        "I know now to never give you a vague order," she said. "You might misunderstand it."
        "Sweetie," Tikr said, "he misunderstands anything if he wants to."
        She tried to bury her elbow in his gut, but he dodged and only heaved with silent laughter. "When are you going to talk to Taliat about this?"
        "Soon," I promised. I still felt uneasy with words. My raging at the Council had not made things better, in any case.
        "And Erkhan?"
        "When I get to it," I replied and got up, tossing my cup over my shoulder and over the railing of the terrace. That one could wait.

        I opened the curtains.
        "Contesq. You look horrible."
        And she did, the poor angel-faced youth. Sleepy, hung over and somehow deliriously happy despite being hung over. I suppose that is how people are when they wake up from the floor of my house on the morning, though. "Where are the slippers?"
        "Slippers?" she groaned and pulled her cloak over her head, smiling.
        "Mind not." Who was I to tell her about recent vulgar argot in Clearspring, anyway? "You seem jolly and grace this morning with a smile," I said, a clear hint in my tone as I squatted in front of her. She certainly made my mat prettier.
        "You sound awful," she said darkly and kicked at the door.
        "I would ask you how you found my house, but 'twould be stupid, now, would it not?" I asked, knowing very well that she, like me, was a Finder. I had said that much earlier, to Eliandra herself. We Find things - like Contesq had Found me.
        "M'yeah," she answered and was silent for a moment. "Got tea?"
        I smirked. "Certes. But be so kind as to get yourself off my mat. I have a bed for that."
        "Not sleepy," she protested. "But I won't say no if you offer to spike the tea with something nice?"
        Instead of my bed, she planted herself on my terrace. She moaned softly, which had me worrying over the state of the mountainside - and the terrace floor. Once the tea was ready, I planted myself next to her on a chair and watched her lie on the terrace with a gloved hand over her eyes.
        "Is it...?"
        "Yes, 'thas strong spirits in it. What have you been drinking?"
        She smiled crookedly, accepted the offered cup and squinted at me in pain. "Fermented cherry juice. Down in the dumps, la la la."
        And she took a sip.
        "What?" she asked, squinting at my staring persona. I had the cup in my left hand, waiting to be sipped from. But it was not moving yet. "Don't ask, my lord. I'm not going to answer."
        I snapped out of my trance-like confusion and took a sip. "Well, whatever you say. How do you like Clearspring?"
        She wrinkled her nose. "I rather like the view, but it's not real. Sure it's nice to sit on the railing of a bridge and drink and be merry, but hells, it's a depressing reminder of... well."
        "I know," I replied after another sip. "How soon do you think you can get rid of that ache of yours?"
        "You're not suggesting we have something to do, are you?"
        We looked at each other momentarily before I deigned to answer, carefully, "Yes, but thank you for pointing that out." I placed my cup on the railing and stood up. Yes, I suggested that we had something to do, but as it happened, there was no real reason for her to tag along anymore. Contesq had done what she had been ordered to - and more -, and thus it was merely a question of time until Ganawade wanted her back.
        She had this in mind as well. "I'm not on duty, you know."
        Well, that settled that. "Oh?"
        "Oh, bother. I'm already too deep in this. It's like the way you start to tell people something and then pause until they threaten to kick you if you don't spill the beans."
        I laughed, stopping the moment she winced in pain.
        It was at that moment that Tikr stepped into the terrace, only just pulling on his gray and green coat. Thankfully he was clothed otherwise - he had a knack for half-naked wandering, and being the shameless old goat he was, he was already giving Contesq a long, curious glance. To her credit, Contesq returned the stare without managing to look like a total sheep. They had seen each other earlier, but now, they had apparently decided, was the time for an official introduction.
        "Why hello. Would you happen to be this Contesq that Varus likes to rant about?"
        "Likes to rant about, hmm?" she asked, giving me a sharp look.
        I shrugged helplessly. Not quite official, then.
        "Well, are you?" Tikr asked again, leaning against the railing.
        "Yes, I would happen to be this Contesq that Varus likes to rant about. How juvenile are his stories?"
        Tikr, lips curling, blinked. "No more than mine, I assure you."
        "The Bleeder objects," I grunted and sipped my tea.
        "Of course you do," Tikr taunted. "Only, I hope you're not objecting with a dagger."
        "Dagger?" asked Contesq, looking from Tikr to me.
        "Believe you me, the temptation is there. Where have you been, Tikr, sinking your fingers into a situation you cannot draw your way out of?"
        Tikr was silent for a moment before replying. "The Finger objects."
        "Well, if he does, he had best not poke his finger in my nose - my dagger will feel the urge to find a similar location." I paused. "We must be getting old - she only makes faces at us."
        She, smirking at us from behind her cup, squinted. "You never told me you two were such little boys. But don't mind that. Hello, I am Contesq. You're Tikr This-or-That, roguish, dashing Finger and skirt-chaser."
        Tikr chuckled, but I did not give him the time to reply. It would have ended up in a much too long discussion over our flaws. "Quite right. Contesq, we should maybe get going - and please stop making sad faces at me, Tikr, you will have the chance for a verbal duel with the young Eye when we get back."
        "I'll mess up your garden if you don't," he said and headed off into the kitchen, mock-hurt. "I promise."
        Children. All of them.

        Contesq sniffed in a way that reminded me of a few beastmen, but she did so simply because she thought the dress Nyanvara had borrowed her was too feminine. She had told me this at least a dozen times after we had left my lodge. But then again, none of my clothes fit her. Come to think of it, it was exceedingly hard to find a Caedaren on whom my clothes did not sag. "Who is it we're going to meet, Carenda?"
        "Varus," I amended.
        "All right. Remind me, Varus? Or is that who we're going to meet? Who are you?"
        "Senility, is that what you insinuate?" I teased back with finality and surveyed the stone and wood buildings as we walked silently now. There was a great deal of art splattered on the outer walls, with flags hung from two poles in front of every shop and facility. But it was the smells that I remember - the latter sentence can only describe what is the common feature in almost every Caedaren hideout.
        No place, I have noticed, smells like Clearspring, that is built around an artificial lake; in springtime it smells of flowers and tea. Come summer and the smell of spices, apples and cherries takes over, only to give way to autumn's gentle scents of roast meat, wine and leaves. With winter come the smell of mint and anarde chocolate, mingling with hot wine. We are seasonal creatures, and we like our comforts - that is the logical explanation for this. Although all of those scents are there throughout the cycle of seasons (and, I would like to point out, this is thinking in human terms), but some are more prominent at certain times.
        Of course, these were the smells in my favourite council club. I rarely visited the temple, unless I had business there, and just as rarely I visited the operating bases of other factions. Even my own faction's!
        "Wow," Contesq said as we walked into the ground level of the Clearspring Council Club, where those "prominent, worthy and of noble spirit" I am forever vexed at meet. They, and all of the social butterflies that desire to rise in fame without having to grab the hilt and sweat for their fame. For that reason, it is a detestable place, but they also served dishes that makes me return time after time. I especially like their wine-and-honey, but the chocolate was enough to warrant a reaction not unlike a little rodent's: I hoarded it.
        "You fancy it, I see," I said conversationally.
        She made a face at me. "Fancy it? This really beats the hides's foodplaces. I'm guessing it's comparatively expensive as well, hmm?"
        "Oh yes," I smirked. "But no worries. 'Tis on me. Up the stairs, second floor."
        The ground level was noisy, and the first floor a quieter place for business meetings. The second floor, our destination, was where the discreet and truly important (I, for example) could meet and enjoy a quiet dinner, evening or midnight meal. The Council Club never opened: it never closed. The second floor was guarded by the Club's own staff, and sometimes I could see familiar faces there - faction members that had quit the service to get away from it or had been discharged, for their own good or for the good of others. I had even found a few recruits this way.
        The furniture was much more comfortable on the upper floors as well - padded chairs and mahogany tables, both of which must have cost a fortune to import through the agents that supplied the Nation items of human manufacture. I make a note of this because Contesq, though finding the table's carvings distasteful, refused to believe they were of human origin. And this was how much human culture affected our culture.
        One other thing she marveled at was the service in the Council Club - a pretty little employee came and took our orders, then walked off. To her, this was something outlandishly luxurious.
        "Next you're going to tell me there's a girls' bush just behind the corner," she mumbled and stared at the cloths hanging from the walls. "But you still haven't told me who we're going to meet."
        Tempted as I was to point out that yes, there was one "girls' bush" just down the stairs, I decided to let it pass. The whole public sewage system in Clearspring was something that sent unpleasant shivers up the spines of those unused to the practicality of young renewalist architects. Myself included.
        "Oh, my peer. Taliat, I am sure you have at least heard of her."
        Her expression confirmed my suspicion. She nodded. "The Northern Movement, right?"
        "Yes. Fascinating, in a twisted sort of manner, but it must be the fault of Erkhan and myself - so much co-operation with our old faction..." I smirked. "Well, no. Of course Taliat is the one to blame for this one."
        "So I heard." Contesq frowned. "I don't really understand, sometimes, how it is you three have your own troops and still manage to boss around each other's lackeys."
        "We like to be practical."
        Almost at the same time as our food, Taliat appeared carrying a bottle of wine. Contesq groaned at the sight of it, but managed to smile and stand up courteously.
        Taliat, the Carenda of the Mivet is one of the tall specimens of Caedaren society, and relatively young. With her, the title she inherited from her father has not been wasted as is the case with many of the disappointments of yesterday. She could be described with the term Ottaviano affectionately uses of you, Amanda: tough as nails. Partially this is because her father raked her over the coals (with a genuine rake just to be true to the proverb), thus making her work like a slave for the title of Carenda. As cruel as it had seemed to me and as little as I had liked Gavvat Talianne, I have to admit that Taliat Talianne was worth the title down to her bones.
        I was - and am - thankful she did not turn out like her father had: Gavvat, originally a sternly conservative freewarrior (that is, factionless), was blunt to the point of insulting to the day he died. Taliat, raised within the Bleeders, is morbid and mirthless, but can at times be just as amusing as I am. I like to think it is because of how Erkhan and I can be. Offbeat.
        "Good day," she said and graced both of us with two nods, one for each, "I see you have your food already."
        "Yes we do. Sit down and order - as I said to the hatchling, 'tis on me."
        Taliat laid down a few scrolls and had a seat, smiling very faintly. Her eyes locked with Contesq's, and I was quite certain they found something intriguing in the situation. "How nice of you. Hatchling?"
        "The hatchling objects, Carendas," Contesq said with such a straight face, I almost choked on a bit of cauliflower.
        Taliat, greatly amused, gave me a look. "Varus?"
        I chuckled and wiped the corner of my mouth with my napkin. "Beg your pardon. Contesq, this is Carenda Taliat Talianne, although I'd say she pretends to be off-duty at the moment. Taliat, this little dear here is Contesq Lumbiawe, Ghost Eye bloomer - believe it or not. She, unlike you, is off-duty."
        "A pleasure, then," Taliat replied. "Bloomer?"
        "I'm new to the business, lady Talianne," the objecting hatchling explained glibly. She was turning out as a charmer, which worried me to some extent. I was almost afraid to ask if Hearts duelled for the right to court her.
        "New, yet I would not hesitate should you offer your services to me," I noted with a graceful smile. The mood was relaxed, and that I liked. Taliat took the chance to motion to the servant and order as Contesq and I continued to converse.
        "I might think about it," she said, clearly with a teasing undertone. "Would you instantly promote me to a suitable rank?"
        "Would Ganawade do such a thing?" I retorted, glancing at Taliat with suspicion. "No, but methinks I could. Before either one of my colleagues sees the promise in you."
        "I swear, Varus. You're pulling my leg, you must be. Can you afford such a promise?"
        "Afford? I happen to be the richest old coot to have graced the realm when..."
        "...it comes to vegetables and fruits," Taliat noted, still with a serious look on her face. "How is your garden?"
        She had me quiet for a moment, during which Contesq had the time to giggle and taste her severely watered down wine.
        "Quite fine. I have nothing negative to say of my treetender. Why?"
        "I take it you gave him the permission to brew cherry, apple and other fruit wines?"
        "Of course I did. You are quite aware that I am too busy to do it myself."
        "Yes, you are." Taliat smirked so very faintly and looked at Contesq. "Have you seen his 'garden'?"
        Contesq sniffed. "I happened to wander through it. You could get lost in it."
        Taliat said it before I could. "He says it's intentional, and as far as I can tell, it's true."
        "Well," I said in a manner that suggested I was insulted, "'twas rather the point. Which brings to mind something I have been wondering about - have you heard of Sheiko?"
        My question induced a silence that lasted for a while. Contesq ate quietly, gaze fixed on me and Taliat, and Taliat stared at me in a way I could not decipher. But she was one of the few people I found hard to read.
        Finally she said, "He's been gone for almost six moons now."
        "Not unlike her."
        "Well, nothing is unlike him," Taliat said and tried to once again amend my view of Sheiko Nightwrought's gender. I tell you -  with her exaggaratedly dramatic sense of style and the love of confusing everyone like any good Seer would, Sheiko Nightwrought's gender as a topic has actually started fights. Nothing unusual per se, considering how curious we Caedaren are and how adamantly we sometimes believe in what we perceive as truth. Taliat and I had long ago decided to just designate the personage's gender as what we saw fit.
        "No, nothing is. But she usually makes an appearance when one summons her. Especially when 'tis someone she knows and, Mother knows, perchance even cares for."
        "Oh. That is strange," Taliat replied. "Could he be tied up?"
        I began to answer, but instead left my mouth open and stared at her incredulously. "Ha ha ha?"
        She just smiled. "Seriously, then. It's also like him to get into trouble."
        "Him. Her," said Contesq amusedly. "Which one is... she or he?"
        "If you find out, tell us," Taliat said. "To be sure, we have no idea."
        "Educated guesses, Taliat," I replied and looked at the scrolls. "How is the Arenda I sent to you, now that I remember?"
        The woman graced me with a sharp grin that told me she had done something positively fitting to him. "Up north. You were right about him. Dedicated, but painfully arrogant."
        Contesq stirred. "Ybarian?"
        "Yes. Him. Poor man. I hear he has vowed to become a great Arenda-Nar one day and challenge for your leadership."
        "Best of luck to him," I said and raised my glass, winking to Contesq and her grin.
        Taliat smirked and opened one of the scrolls. "I'm sure you'd rather talk about this after we've all eaten, but I'm getting bored."
        "You dislike our banter?" I teased, backed up by the Eye's barely hidden smirk.
        "No," she replied and looked at Contesq. "I just want to eat so that I can get straight back work."
        Contesq chuckled. As I later told her, this is typical behaviour from Taliat.
        "So," the other Carenda said as she opened a map scroll and another in which she had apparently made notes. "The hides along the way report that it's sitting in Turneau, right outside Old Andre's - stop sniffing, Varus - Old Andre's window."
        "Within the city or outside it?"
        "Outside. They have built a palisade around it, and are guarding it like it was Andre's favoured woman." And, for all I knew, that might have been how he saw it.
        King Andre, if you remember, was something of a scoundrel who had started off as the ruler of the Duchy of Turneau, which itself had a history of 'holier than thou' dukes. Andre, while not an exception to the rule, had charisma and was one of the sharpest swords in the rack. He also had a healthy dose of paranoia when it came to the intactness of his skin along with his other merits, which had kept him alive for longer than the previous dukes.
        It was enough to start decades and decades of wars and expansion, in which we initially had some part: it soon came apparent that Andre was not a man of his word, and after our primary hide in young Turneau had been invaded and its secrets used to further the upstart king's plans, we saw it fitting to let him taste his own medicine.
        We did not go around providing our weapons and magicks to surrounding kingdoms and such, however. That would have been stupid. Instead, we gave them information and made sure they paid for it, too, and whenever we set up a new hide, we would give our warriors permission to harry Andre's soldiers. Yes, it was a political slap in the face with a steel gauntlet. We do not like you; therefore we may just kill you. Then we can be friends again.
        Sometimes, just sometimes, we aided the soldiers of the other kingdoms, and recruited some particular ones in ways I will not explain completely... oh, yes, I know. 'Then why, Varus, did you do this?' This is what you will ask me.
        I shall tell you the ulterior motive, but not the ways. We hinted to the kings and nobles that we favoured these fellows. If they were to advance in ranks or be given 'mercenary' units to command, we would just maybe co-operate with these fellows's bunches. The logic? We were allowed their assistance and we could attain supplies through them. Some of them we genuinely grew fond of, and rewarded as was proper.
        The point remains the following: the Caedaren had little love for King Andre, but several attempts at assassinating the man had failed. And after thinking about the matter as an entirety, what would we gain if he were to disappear into the layer of the spirits? Not much. But if the wars kept on going, horrible things could cross the boundaries between the layers - peace was the only option.
        Luckily, we did not have to do anything. The humans, fed up with fighting and low on fodder, decided to 'call it quits' (as you would say) and sign a treaty or a hundred. Yes, it meant that the 'mercenaries' had to move elsewhere or disband, but it was a small price to pay for the general security of everyone.
        After a decade or so of peace, it was starting to seem as if Andre was about to get moving again. A flying start at that, I might add.
        Taliat received her food while we went over the news she had. There were trivial details such as what the Voices and Hands with the help of some scholars had found out from the bits and pieces that had fallen off the flying city, but it was the news from the ruins in Teragon that made Contesq and I chuckle nervously. Taliat saved that for the last.
        "Lord Aennen _blew up_ the remaining pieces?" Contesq asked incredulously.
        Taliat noticed my twitching eyebrow and nodded. "So they inform me. They even cheered as it exploded."
        I contemplated this and groaned. Somebody had to talk to the Daughtra about this, and I knew it was me. Worse, everyone automatically assumed it was me.
        Damn the Fists, anyway. Stubborn fools from grassroot to treetop.
        "Well then," I said, "that eliminates all hope of studying the ruins first-hand."
        "Yes," Taliat smiled softly. "I have put out word that whoever can prove to know more about this ruin-thing - other than what you were told by lady La'lyvain. How fares the young dragonbreath, anyway?"
        "Losing her flame," I said and contemplated briefly as I emptied my third glass of wine. "Yes, she hinted that there was an old book of the cousins' that had told 'twas a gravesite... and frankly, 'twas not untrue."
        "Oh?" said Contesq and winced. "Well, with those sphere-things and... whatever they were..."
        "Yes," I said and frowned. "We never looked around for anything but Andre's supposed 'mercenaries'. And you know very well what happens when seasons upon seasons pass - 'tcould be that the graves are now feets deep in the ground." I remembered how one of the ghosts had fallen through the ground and not left behind a body, whereas a few had seemed to collapse into motionless 'bodies' in midair. Some had seemed to stand in waist-deep in the ground. It made sense.
        "Well," Taliat said, "that would depend on how long the graves have been there."
        "Verily. But 'tis safe to assume that they have been there before the Empire of Iron existed even as a dream."
        "There's naught but air to fix a date to anymore."
        "A remnant from the Primal Days, maybe?" Contesq asked, surprising both of us Bleeders. "Oh come on. my parents could afford teachers," she said as we began to stare.
        I had nearly forgotten by then how suspicious Contesq was. 'New to the business', but capable of fending for herself both professionally and in a battle. Smart and full of surprises - and very strange. The Primal Days, the times before the Birthing Hour, were a relatively fresh concept, as a great segment of written history and sciences had been lost in the Deepwild scuffle. The remnants had been carried on as oral tradition - and frankly, even those of us who had survived and made it to the lands of the humans could not all remember everything as it was recorded.
        I remembered old lessons about the Primal Days, and was surprised when it was announced that old historical texts had been recovered from a raid up north into an Aesdaren stronghold. It was not all that long ago, maybe a few seasons, but still...
        "Well," I said. "That could well be a valid possibility, if one considers what the the shamen have told us for practically eternity." I pondered. I would need to talk to a Voice (Coerai, to be specific) about this. "Yes. I shall make inquiries concerning this. Oh, and Contesq, would you be so kind as to talk to your teacher about this? He, or she, sounds like someone who has acquired many scholarly acquaintances."
        She hesitated for a moment, but nodded nonetheless. She was nervous. Good.
        Taliat had finished her wine by then. "We, if it's all the same to you, I shall get started on my own inquiries. Do you want me to send some of your sneakier boys and girls into Turneau?"
        I pondered the question. King Andre knew of us Caedaren and our ways in battle. In the worst possible scenario he might have even enlisted a few rogue anardes - maybe even rogue Caedaren, but I shall not get started on that one  - to help guard his precious find. Even without that, it was very apparent he would be prepared for the kind of silent war we wage.
        "If you do, make sure the 'sneakier boys and girls' understand what 'tis they are signing up for. And only a few - and tell the subordinates to be picky. And no recent converts, no matter how gifted. Enough youngsters without offspring have died already."
        She nodded solemnly and gathered his scrolls. "I'll get to it. Lady Lumbiawe, it was a pleasure. As for you, Old Dancer, keep drinking your medication."
        I raised my wine glass at that. She smiled, turned and left.
        "I was expecting something more evil," Contesq said conversationally and stared at the spot where Taliat had been sitting.
        I smiled absent-mindedly and thought morbid half-drunken thoughts of the upcoming trip to the Teragonian outpost, therefore not giving much attentiton how she reached for something next to Taliat's plate.

        A scant few hours later I sat sheepishly in Tikr's room in the Teragonian hide and drank water to wash away the bitter taste in my mouth.
        "Why is it you can't handle with a simple layerslip these days?" Tikr asked sweetly and looked at the door.
        "I swear, the look on that poor girl's face," Contesq said with both sympathy and quiet, shameful amusement.
        "The poor Voice," Nyanvara added with feminine smugness.
        "Poor Varus," I amended morbidly. "The worst is yet to come, I fear." I closed my eyes and thought, pushing the nausea away from my mind. Ironic as it was, it was consoling to think of the verbal lashing I was about to receive from Daughtra.
        "Do you want to answer me?" Tikr asked as he fetched the wine from his little stash.
        "Let me think for a moment... no!"
        My friend blinked at me while Nyanvara took the the time to eye Contesq in a manner that suggested she was plotting something. Personally, I have nothing against plots as long as the strings are securely in my hands. But when it came to Nyanvara plotting, I always felt I had the reason to fear the worst.
        "You make me feel so good, Varus," Tikr said sharply yet playfully and poured wine into four cups. One full, three others half-full. He took the pitcher with water in it next. "Wine, ladies?"
        "Please," Contesq said cheerfully, which was simply unfitting considering the situation.
        "As well," Nyanvara said more gravely. "Do you want me to come with you?"
        The only sound for a while was Tikr pouring the water in the three cups.
        "Oh," I said. "You were speaking to me?"
        "Yes, Varus," Tikr said glumly. "She spoke to you."
        I tried to let it slide, but it was one of those moments when Tikr was plain irritating simply because he existed. I glowered at him momentarily, and truly, what was the point in holding it back? I felt nauseated, as was always the case after a near-instant trip through the layers. And then there was the matter of Lady Primrose, which gnawed at my nerves like strong acid in one's eyes.
        I bit back a snappy reply, turned it around and slowly half-growled, "Is that wine for who I think 'tis for?"
        "The poor girl is shocked. Or at least exasperated," Tikr replied with clear disapproval in his voice. "Emptying your breakfast and lunch all over her floor like that..."
        Contesq rolled her eyes and poked her tongue out at both of us, then engaged conversation with Nyanvara.
        "Well, now she at least understands why I try to avoid layerslipping," I groaned and watched the door. Almost immediately someone knocked on it timidly.
        As I got up to open it despite my discomfort, Tikr called, "It's very muchly open, m'lady!"
        Annoyed as I was, I summoned to my face the most apologetic smile I possibly could and opened Tikr's door. Coerai gave me a long look before smiling restrainedly, nodding her thanks as she passed me.
        "Oh, hello. Wine, dear?" Tikr asked, his voice dripping honeyed cherry tea, and handed the remaining cup to Coerai.
        "Oh, please," she said and looked at the other two women and me before looking to Tikr again. "Crowded today, are we?"
        I decided the crowd was too much for me and put a hand on Coerai's shoulder, startling her and receiving a disapproving look from Tikr. "A word or a hundred, if I may? 'Thas to do with some things I believe you may be able to answer."
        "And you could not possibly discuss those things here? She just arrived," Tikr stung. I knew there was a look of curiosity on Contesq and Nyanvara's faces without actually having to look their way. But for some reason, it looked as if Contesq was trying to look like she was part of Tikr's wall.
        I glared at him before looking to Nyanvara for help. "Yes, I would love to have you with me when Daughtra - or Mother forbid, the Thronegod himself - makes an appearance. But please, I would like to know what I am getting into."
        Tikr bit his lip and kept quiet, whereas Coerai stared at me with a smile on her face. "Certainly, my lord. Lord Ombri'jo?"
        "Yes?"
        "Could you be so kind as to keep this cool for me?" Coerai asked, handing the cup back to him.
        I did not clearly see what happened, but the look on Tikr's face brightened. The astonishing part was, Coerai appeared to be slightly flustered.
        Oh, dear heavens.
        
        We sat on the underground meadow near the stone stairs and the stream, Coerai making herself a flower bracelet as I explained to her the things I found strange and what I suspected them to be. She was a Voice, and the one stereotype that was really worth taking granted for was how knowledgeable these magickers were of arcane and mundane sciences. Coerai, although not quite as brave and secretive as most of her faction, was remarkably well-learned. She had channels and knew plenty of learned sages, Voices and Hands who sent her news when something of interest came up.
        I smiled as she handed me a flower bracelet. "How much can you tell me of the people who lived during the Primal Days, Coerai?"
        She raised her eyebrows, then smiled, a clear sign of her remembering things she at least partially knew. "Not much, I'm afraid. You've read your books when you were young. Do you remember?"
        I snorted. "Scalekin, skinkith, furkin and featherkith came after the Birthing Hour. My knowledge of the days before that is next to nothing. Could then then tell me if you had other suspicions concerning the gravesite that in the end was revealed to be a city of sorts?"
        "Oh. None, I have to say. Sincerely... Varus," she said nervously, as if wondering if she ought to be informal as well. I smiled to encourage that suspicion.
        After thinking of the other things in my mind, I said, "Can you tell me, then, what Colour-Born of the Primal Days would fit what we witnessed at the ruins? As you recall..."
        "...yes, well," she hemmed and cleared her throat, "we have been discussing that with the other Voices. The Souls, as usual, have been very unco-operative."
        Sighing in the way only an actor such as I can, I riposted with the 'please, you are teasing me'-look.
        She smiled distractedly, producing yet another bracelet. "Similar sort of spheres are usually only seen by top-notch magickers in areas where power is waxing at a steady rate and then waning quickly... this is hard to explain, but... do you perchance know the rudimentary basics of how essence is seen by magickers?"
        I nodded. "I have read the crudely explained basics. I know each thing living thing consists of colourful energies, and that there are colour winds of essence in the world, invisible to the untrained eye."
        "Yes. And you know that essence is what your soul is made up of, basically?"
        "In a... strange sort of manner, you mean to say. Not quite, but close enough to be utilised in..."
        She was quiet for a moment, as was I. It was a taboo most did not discuss, myself included unless my company did not get hysterical. Practicing necromancy more than is necessary means instant death to the would-be necromancer. I say 'necessary', because it is not even conventional magick to begin with. We refer to magick as the Living Art - clearly, necromancy is the opposite. And yet, it is not part of Father's legacy. The Dead Art itself is a shadow of the Living Art: part of it, nothing more and nothing less. I would, of course, be either naïve or a hypocrite should I say that no magicker needs the Dead Art. After all, it is very much a dualistic thing.
        "Yes," Coerai replied and put the flowers away. "Top-notch magickers develop a very keen sight for magickal currents. The first thing Voice novices are taught is to feel and see those currents at their will, but only a handful become so sensitive that they would really see the smallest of fluctuations... such as the essence of the souls joining the currents. The shells of the souls remain there or are flown away, and generally they can be almost any shape.
        "And you know what? That is what ghosts are. Shells that retain some basic memories that they live out, or in the worst case, shells that retain complex memories and even personalities... that live on.
        "Of course, those are sick minds. Who would embrace eternal anguish only to set right a few things amiss?
        "The thing I do remember being mentioned of the Primal Days is that Colours existed as solitary... colours. Simple, yes? And to think I once wondered why the kin and kith were called Colour-Born."
        She was being dramatic, like a storyteller. In a twisted sort of way, I even fancied it.
        "I shall not comment on the issue of ghosts and ancient fouls. So more to the point, we saw more humanoid ghosts, and then spheres and something... red, that was impossible to discern. It was death for the ghosts, certainly. Colours, warring?"
        Coerai stared at me - or through me. "Yes. But then I would suspect there were more than one sort of creature. Red hazy things, spheres of some colour and ghost of what colour?"
        "White. Gray. Something betwixt. Silvery, perhaps."
        "Odd. So very odd."
        "Verily. And do tell me this - what are the odds... no, is it possible at all that souls have survived in a sheltered place such as the ruins for as long as anarde history spans? Or longer?"
        The Voice shrugged. "Generally spirits will fade away slower in ruins, abandoned halls and such, where they are more sheltered from the divine winds." (Her words, not mine.) "Some move with the body and haunt the grave, but..." She smiled. "Yes, I know you are spoiling for the answer, Varus. And here it is: I can't say. It's possible, but it could need some factors... such as... well.
        "I can tell you that what little research we managed to do before the Fists threw us out revealed that the ground there was soaked with essence. Like a temple's hallowed ground, though possibly even of larger magnitude than the... Grand Temple's."
        "Oh," I said, more impressed than what I must have seemed, "that is... extraordinary. And it affects the ghosts?"
        She sighed and bit her lip. "Do you know that if you pour enough salt into a glass of water, eventually the salt will not dissolve?"
        This made sense. "Well said. I do believe I understand what you mean," I complimented her.
        "I'm glad. But tell you what," she said gently with a morose expression, "I'll ask around from some of the elders if they can tell me something more detailed about..."
        My memory suddenly decided the wheel should turn and I lifted my hand to cut her off. "Which brings to mind my next question. Does anyone know where Sheiko Nightwrought is?"
        She froze and blinked. "It's not for me to tell, even if I knew. She comes when she is summoned. Do you want to leave her a message?"
        For some reason, this was always the answer I got from the Voices whenever I wanted to know from them where Sheiko was. I could bide my time, I decided, and did as I usually do when the Voices become defensive. I said, "No, I shall summon her when I have the time."
        I was quiet for a moment too long, I suppose, because Coerai was still watching me and asked me a question before I could distract her with small talk or another question. "It's rare that someone gets... sick during a layerslip. Why?"
        I twitched and felt my paranoia ebb... and flow. She was Coerai, the gentlest Voice I knew - that she was a Voice should have been enough. The story would be a laughing matter amid Voices, but they would not spread the joke about me into other factions even - if they found it funny. They would maybe research it, but nothing more.
        So damn it. "You know how layerslipping works much better than I do, so I shall not lecture on it. 'Tis the principle that everyone has their own shortest route to point B from point A through the layers, and that is... what is wrong."
        "Oh. You mean that you are going through a series of layers that have something disconcerting in them?"
        "I am priviliged to see some very disgusting things. Things only Father could spawn... and often worse, something so nauseatingly alien I cannot bring myself to understand what I am seeing..."
        What I told her, I shall spare you from for a multitude of reasons. I have no intentions of trying to remember the horrors I bar from my mind and memories without even trying to. I still see those things, if you must know - and I am not happy at all. I see, but I cannot for my lifeblood's sake remember what exactly they are. Then again, I somehow feel that is for the best.
        "And you have suffered from this for the entirety of your life?" she asked, looking slightly dazed and unnerved by the prospect of some ancient fool.
        "No," I replied and wandered to the memory of the first time it had happened. "It... began recently, with the Springday Ball. On the very day." Granted, I had never been one to make use of layerslips, as I considered it more of a strategic advantage than a luxury - I prefer genuine travel over magickal tomfoolery, which is more guesswork than theory, a fact that most magickers would rather not admit.
        Oh, the fateful layerslip, yes... I was drunk. It was the turn of spring, and there was a party I was just coming from. It will do to say that I spent the next few days drunk as well after seeing things I still would rather not think about. I fear, though, that at some point I will have to think about them again.
        "This doesn't strike you as odd?" Coerai inquired with a touch of confusion to her voice. The tone was interesting; of course it struck me as odd, but she seemed to hint at something.
        Just as Coerai, slightly unnerved, was about to add something, I spotted one of my lads running down the stairs in a manner strongly reminiscent of a headless chicken's. I groaned mentally, but made a note to discuss this with her. "Well, fair lady, 'twould seem I am about to get neutered. I hope to speak with you again, later."
        The Voice smiled sympathetically, rising to her feet. "That's morbid."
        "Such is life," I replied, morbidly of course, and walked away.

        I was most surprised when I was not facing only the Daughter of the Shield, but of the Sword and the Cantrip as well. Of the three, only Eliandra was actually blood-related to the royal family - the two others were prominent females that had been chosen because they were excellent at what they did. As you know, in the early days of the Iron Kingdom the position of a Daughtra had been literally the title. And as matters cooled down the titles became more ceremonial than anything.
        As you also know, the Thronegod's answer to the lack of relatives to fill the roles had been to designate his sister as the Shieldbearer and two noblewomen to the other titles. The history books do not speak much much of these two women, and I never learned their true names - especially not the Cantripcaster's. I tried, certainly, because that sort of information could have proved very useful.
        When Nyanvara and I received them in the same room I had broken fast with Eliandra, we quietly sweated under their gaze. They were calm as we chatted pleasantries and the women shared a meal - I did not feel as if I could keep it inside. That placidness spelled disaster with cat-sized letters that dripped blood. I believe the cat was still on the wall, protesting meekly.
        And Tikr was nowhere to be seen. The twit. It was good, because Nyanvara had warned me not to say one angry word of all the ugly surprises we came across with Contesq, the Eyes, the Bleeders and the Fists. Angry as that had made me (for it is a mark of shame if so many are killed in one's command), I had no choice. She was the authority - and one of the few inheritors of a noble's title that I recognised as worthy.
        It made me feel exceedingly sheepish.
        "I believe we are all comfortably settled down now and can talk of more serious matters," spoke Cantrip, a woman who had to be a sorceress. She had the air of a very potent magicker, and a magicker of other kind would have looked much older. Everyone knows sorcerers have something lighter than blood in their veins... or, well, anyone who has killed one. I truly find the word "sorceror" inaccurate, as these wrongly named 'sorcerors' do not (usually) court with black magick, to which the name traditionally referred to. Is it their fault their father or mother created a child of their own with magick?
        "Certainly," Nyanvara replied. "We already suspect we know why you have honoured us with your presence."
        Daughtra - that is, Eliandra - and I had stared at each other blankly for a good while now, both of us fully aware of what was coming.
        "We would like to know what exactly happened there in Roonvalle," Cantrip continued, giving for the first time a name for the place as far as I knew, "as I am quite sure you are more than aware of the... explosive manner of the happenings of late."
        I winced, though in reality it was a masked teeth-baring grimace. A mistake, if I ever had done one. Swordwielder, the eldest (seemingly) and tallest of the women addressed me. "What happened?"
        Without hesitation (and self-preservational intentions) I answered, "A horde of uncouth barbarians with deep dislike for deviations from the life they choose the lead, along with a bad attitude toward their (more civilized) kin, not to mention the fools who cross them. Ladies, I would tell you what we call their lot and where to find them, but 'tis not necessary."
        Nyanvara stared at me as I was out of my mind, which certainly was not far from the truth.
        Eliandra found the notion first irritating, and then amusing. "You decide for us, good sir."
        I stifled the desire to at least act slightly informally. "Daughtras, I implore you. I am tired, I am ill and I have seen enough. What can we help you with? Please, be blunt."
        "Well, I might as well ask the same," Nyanvara said sharply at me. "Because we would genuinely like to know what we can do to help you."
        "For starters," said Sword, "how about telling us your version of what happened?"
        "Oh, that I can do," I said and glanced at Nyanvara for confirmation. As she did not protest, I stood up and began to pace. I told them what happened while revealing as little as I could about the Caedaren outlook on it. Yes, I told them the site was haunted and that it was indeed an ancient ruin that flew over two border kingdoms to Turneau after a pitched battle in the ruins...
        ...and they were satisfied with that. But they were not satisfied with the Fists and what they had done.
        Sword in particular decided our tales were not satisfactory. "What do you mean you do not know what these... barbarians were thinking?"
        I sighed and looked to Eliandra, pleadingly. "Daughtra Shield, you must know who we are referring to."
        "We have explained to you of these and the renegades," Nyanvara added. "They are..."
        Eliandra waved it off like a fly and gave Sword a look. "The Thronegod, the Sage and we Daughtras know very well the bunch you are referring to," Cantrip replied before Lady Primrose could open her mouth. "Yes, you have told us of them when we asked of them. As we recall, you wanted to be close to them."
        I chuckled to hide my other reaction. "All right. Then you know as well that they are fickle allies, kin as they might be?"
        "Oh, don't be ridiculous," Sword said. "You also told us you could keep them restrained."
        I arched an eyebrow and looked at Nyanvara. "Did you and the Council promise this?"
        Lady La'lyvain shrugged. "As far as I remember, we said we would do our best to keep men and Fists away from each other. We've had to be resourceful and look at it from many different angles."
        I almost choked on my tea and laughed. So that was why the other hide was there. Nyanvara smiled apologetically, with a crooked undertone.
        "Yes," I said, deadpan, "very resourceful. But you see, our sources say there were no humans at the ruins at the time this happened - if there were, I am more than certain the Fists would have driven them off without violence... that is, of course, unless they felt threatened."
        Sensing some private joke was afoot, Sword decided it was more than all right to hate me and my jolly persona. Alas! Cantrip, who seemed quite non-commital and privately amused under a tasteful tone of icy detachement, locked eyes with Nyanvara. Eliandra remained casual, even though Sword clearly began to get a bit rebellious.
        "Oh, great. They're living on our territory, as are you, sir. And don't give me the cock and bull story about how we treat your cousins better than..."
        Discord ensued, and my hand moved...
        "Ho! Truce!" called Nyanvara as I rose to my feet, my hand ready to grab a plate - contrary to common belief, plates can be deadly. Sword was up on her feet as well, while Eliandra sat with a pained look on her face. I do believe she was muttering oaths under her breath.
        We warriors glared at each other momentarily, then sat down when Eliandra motioned for Sword to sit down, followed by a few glared daggers. Nyanvara did the same, and as I recovered from my fleeting outrage, I found myself to be quite sheepish again.
        "Are we all polite again?" Nyanvara asked sweetly and glanced at me again. "No, don't answer that. Ladies, Daughtras, we have a pact. You are acting as if we have broken it, when in reality no such thing has happened - and if it has, we have only done so to assist you. The good Carenda snaked his way through opposition to find out what was going on."
        "I'll believe you when I see the proof," spoke Sword, after which Eliandra said, as if she had not heard the other Daughtra at all, "Yes, I know. He personally promised me he would have a look into it. You failed to tell me... no, you told me that you couldn't promise military support."
        Needless to say Sword did not like it, but she just glared at me across the table instead of yapping. Cantrip remained quiet and did not interrupt her studies on us.
        Without losing the tempo at all, Nyanvara continued and avoided having to answer the questions apparent on the two other Daughtras' faces. "Yes, but everyone deemed it necessary after initial scouting," she lied, but only slightly. Everyone _involved_ deemed it necessary. "I take it you are here to ask for our assistance or maybe even knowledge of the flying ruins?"
        "Yes," Lady Primrose said and elegantly wiped a few strands from her face. It was as if the two other Daughtras did not exist - nor I, for that matter. All the better: this meant that I could I drink more delicious cherry tea and resume smiling at my daydreams of suffocating the Swordwielder. I had the eerie feeling Cantrip somehow sensed this.
        "We would like that very much, lady La'lyvain," Eliandra continued. "The trouble is, the security in Turneau has been tightened... but you knew that much, I gather. Your kind knows so much."
        I was actually charmed by that last sentence, and it took me a while to understand. At first, I felt sweet outrage again... but then shame, which turned to calm.
        "Only so much," Nyanvara said, outwardly unimpressed with a dash of modest humility. "We will tell you what we can, of course," she continued and began to spin a serpentining story that told all the facts they needed to know. I smiled and offered my comments in the right places. This included masked stabs at Sword.
        

        I walked briskily down the street as the Daughtras and Nyanvara walked out of the council hall, then toward where the Voices whispered their secrets. I was getting hungry. I felt grumpy... no, no. I was seething underneath the small gratitude I felt toward a very charming woman.
        Halfway down the street, I could hear someone call my name. I stopped, glanced over my shoulder and kept going. Eliandra caught up with me soon.
        "I was under the impression you were to go with the others," I said before she could say anything.
        "I beg your pardon, Carenda?"
        "The others, Daughtra."
        "Yes, the Daughter of the Cantrip can think well enough for herself. As I think you noticed. I needed to talk to you, not some flea-bitten magicker."
        I slowed down somewhat to eye her for any possible smugness or self-confidence in her... and of course, she was, like always depicted in stories, full of importance and self-assured while simultaneously managing to be so with beautiful, ineffable arrogance. She did not need me, the impression was: instead she was gracing me by allowing me to follow.
        And it was stunningly charming, I tell you. And why?
        Because I was bloody curious. Once again, I itched, burned and ached to know what it was the clever and undoubtedly skilled weaver of plots and deceit was up to. No, it was not the first time, as I had been 'keeping tabs' on her and a number of other Teragonian nobles. But to see her in person, like she was playing a game with yours truly as one of the pieces.
        "All right," I said, but only grudgingly in order to keep up appearances. I had all but forgotten how annoyed I was at her not telling me of the things we had witnessed. "But I warn you, after what transpired I feel I would like to be considered worthier than a pack mule."
        She smiled, despite the inherent hostility in my voice. "Of course. Where do you propose we take our negotiations?"
        I fumed slowly and patiently as I sucked on her reaction. It hurt - did she really have to pretend she knew nothing of the nature of the magicker and the beastkin?
        But suddenly, as I stared at her and fumed, I had an idea concerning the place of negotiations.

        "This is your home?" Eliandra asked in Ternian as she blinked at the wall of flowers in Nyanvara's home. The grandiose multiple-storied house with its delicate wall-paintings, the flowers that circled around them like frames and glass containers full of firefly colonies... well, at least I hope they were fireflies. Magickal bits and pieces in a glass container would have caused a certain tension in the air, but dim light was such a minor illusion...
        "Beautiful, yes?" I asked, not answering her question at all. "I quite fancy the touch with the flowers. And the pelt."
        "Moose, is it? Your own hands?"
        "Moose? Once, maybe. Observe the teeth: more fitting for a carnivore. But 'tis not my work," I said chipperly, while my mood remained... unhappily vengeful.
        At that she smiled uneasily. I led her to the fireplace and offered her a seat, then crouching to add some more fuel to the fire.
        "May I fetch you something, your Highness? I would offer tea, but..."
        The royal princess looked at me peculiarly, as if sensing I was somehow very amused beyond my mask of politeness. "No, I am quite fine, thank you. We could, however, begin negotiations."
        "Ah," I said.
        "You agree?"
        "No, you said 'negotiations'."
        "I did."
        "Yes."
        We stared at each other for a moment, almost starting to speak at the same time. I continued after a moment of silence from the both of us, slowly hatching my plan for simple, unseen vengeance. The little things make anyone happy.
        "Negotiations often mean there is something to be gained, or bargained for. What is it I can help you with, m'lady?"
        She smiled slowly, although the phrase clearly annoyed her. "I was certainly not about to force you to go on the defensive, good sir."
        I returned the expression with a sharp ferality to it. "I am quite aware of that. But there is something you want, and you have wanted it even before you arrived here, I would wager."
        "Carenda Sayluna!"
        "Exasperated, Daughtra? No, no, you are reputed to toss brimstone at those who do not please you, and I cannot help but think how calm you were when your peers were murderous, or at least highly undiplomatic."
        "Really," she said, in _that_ tone. (For the record, Ottaviano - I am referring to the stab-you-slowly-to-death-with-a-thousand-feathers-while-slowly-cooking-you-in-a-tar tone Amanda uses on you. While she is a woman worthy of praise for her lashing tongue, I do have to say the Daughtra managed to do that and more with one word.)
        "Well, forgive me, but I do believe you would rather have me speak my mind than hide behind courtesy."
        "That would be bad rhetoric."
        "'Tis, hmm?" I smirked. En garde, as the Franckan sworders say: whether or not she noticed it, I had just parried when the cadence suggested a dodge. The riposte was in mid-thrust, however. "Well, I hope you will tell me what 'tis you wish of me."
        Eliandra smiled, as though nearing the point of laughter. Containing what amusement ran through her spirit in the smile and taking the time to form her own parry, she looked to the wall of flowers. "I hoped I could find a sympathetic ear and a noble heart to help me with my troubles, Carenda."
        "Well, my ear is yours - not, of course, in the literal meaning of the phrase."
        "That is good," she said. "I'm quite sure you know what I wish of you."
        I chuckled. "Turneau. You wish that there would be a man, not necessarily sane but capable and experienced, and you wish the man would go forth and rid the continent of your problems.
        "How do you like faerietales, Daughtra?"
        She fixed her eyes on me, locked eyes with me... blinked at me, expressionlessly. "I fail to see how this is of consequence. And no," she continued before I could reply, "I need your ears. Not your... insanity, might and skill."
        I was puzzled, but for a mere moment. "Oh. Information. Of Turneau?"
        "The Throne will pay for it," she promised, her bearing serious and powerful, not pathetic and meek. "Andre must die before there is a war. The duchy must be a duchy again. Or better yet, part of Teragon."

        I said earlier I had a plan. I did, and it was so very, very likely to happen. You see, when the Grand Council ordered the factions in general to step down and wait with all our measuring devices and means turned toward Turneau, they did not forbid freewarriors and freemagickers from doing the factions' bidding in Turneau. No restrictions at all.
        Now, it was evil, indeed. I told you as much. If Eliandra had known who I was about to contact and bribe (and possibly withstand physical violence from), she would have begged me to let her come along. Or so I believe, considering how she earlier wanted me to relay a message to him.
        I never did, of course. Now was a good time. Sevroa, who had personally derived his name from the Daren translation of the derogatory term for a Caedaren, was at the time the only freewarrior I could trust to be at least somehow honourable, you see. He used to be a bloomer like Contesq before everything went straight to the hells for him and his quite respected family. If he would have had the patience to continue after we found him again, he would have made an excellent Master Eye or Arenda. Unfortunately, he had turned mercenary before we got a hold of him. He is the type that balances between law and crime, in the most roundabout sense of the phrase.
        Besides, he was the most likely to survive the ordeal for some very interesting reasons. But let me reassure you, it is not his force of personality. It is the fact that he has as much magick in him as a regular door knob - which, considering the magickal nature of the anardes, was about as likely as someone giving birth to a door knob. As far as I am concerned, that has happened. Sevroa was born, after all. My point? It was possible - in Sevroa's case, there were many stranger factors involved. Overall, the lad was predicted to be either instrumental in something or detrimental throughout his existence.
        (He is also predictably antagonistic toward any sort of preacher that tries to talk him into being a divine leading example for the his generation and the next.)
        So far, he has been both instrumental and detrimental, like the majority of those alive of his generation. But I digress! (Now and forever!)
        The decision to use him was all the more evil because I had been his father's mentor. I used this fact to manipulate him often, because he had an almost sickly interest in how glorious and great his father and his mother (a Hand) had been. Thus he allowed me near him, though there were a few others he would tolerate. Deep down inside, he was a very, very sick young man.
        After meeting him once too often, I came to the conclusion that sick young men should not be allowed to carry swords. This opinion did not change after our next meeting.