In 11 different rooms, in 11 different places across the world, a meeting was in session. Each room was as different as the people who occupied them, but each had this in common – they were windowless and were protected by wards of such strength that even an Immortal would have to break a sweat to penetrate them. And certainly could not do so undetected.

In a small but comfortable study in a modest house in the coastal town of Devok, in Arushal, Kiril Vetaris addressed the ten faces that watched him from within the frames of ten oil paintings hung about the room. The expressions ranged from the serene to the annoyed…

“And that, my fellow councilors, is how matters currently stand with the Hand of Fortune. Are there any questions?”

A brabble of voices burst forth, as several of the images in the frames spoke at the same time. One was louder than the rest, a man of steel-gray hair and fleshy jowls, and eyes like obsidian, and he overrode the others.

“By the Void, man, this pet herd of yours grows ever more troublesome! And you wish to let them go on roaming the lands, releasing only-the-All-knows-what further horrors on us?!”

“It seems unfair for me to lay sole claim to this ‘herd’ as you call them,” Vetaris said dryly. “It was not I who first foresaw their importance to the coming struggle… I just happened to be the one in the best position to guide them.”

“Indeed,” said the raven-haired man with silver-blue eyes, dressed in black and silver, in another frame. “And I stand by my visions, ser… visions we have all shared by now, in one form or another, including you.”

“Yes, and I say the interpretation of these visions is not as clear as you would have us believe,” the obsidian-eyed man snorted, glaring at the face that shimmered in one of the ten tarot cards floating in an array around his desk. “I still misdoubt that they will be more problem than solution, in the end!”

“You must admit, Kiril, this most recent incident is… worrisome, to say the least,” put in an auburn-haired woman of middle years, with sea-green eyes, who viewed the others through ten crystal plates.  “They did release one of the Demon Lords, after all…”

“Exactly!” interrupted the obsidian-eyed man. “What’s next, Naventhül itself?”

“You exaggerate, my friend,” the man in black and silver replied calmly, raising a sardonic eyebrow at the image of the obsidian-eyed man in one of the ten large crystal balls set on pedestals in an arc before him. “We knew that there was a chance, indeed a likelihood, that at least one, perhaps more, of the Greater Demons would be freed, before this is over.”

“And we can hardly lay all the blame on our agents,” added an ebony skinned woman with silver streaks in her elaborately coiffed hair. “If the agent of the Vortex had not managed to release the Corruptor, the wards around Haranol would never have weakened, allowing it to cloud their minds.

“And I doubt anyone on this council could have pierced those illusions, unprepared and unwarned, save perhaps your Majesty,” she added, nodding to the image of the grave-faced Telnori in one of the pools of water around where she knelt in a cave of shimmering crystal.

“Perhaps, or perhaps not,” the Telnori sighed. “Even We may fall before the twisted mind of Chaos personified. But I hesitate to second-guess our agents in the field, and by all accounts they did well, both in re-imprisoning the Corruptor and in resisting Haranol… in that last they failed only by a hair.”

“Failure is failure, by a mile or a hair,” said the amber-skinned man in silk robes, his long black hair tied in an elegant braid down his back. “If they, and we, fail by a hair at the last, will that be any consolation as the world descends screaming into madness and oblivion?”

“Of course not,” replied the man in black and silver. “That is why we must not fail. The future is never fully set, and with the powers of Chaos involved it becomes even more uncertain, less open to reliable prediction. But while I acknowledge that the fate of this world hangs in the balance, I yet feel strongly that the Hand of Fortune ultimately tips the scales in our favor. Have faith, my friends.”

“Faith!” the obsidian-eyed man barked a laugh. “One of them is barking mad, for pity’s sake, and the Demon Lord of Air now wears his body, while he possesses the form of another! One is perhaps the subject of the Fire Prophecy, a dangerous card to play, while the woman grows increasingly prideful and arrogant. One has abandoned the group, and –”

“Draik has not abandoned his friends,” Vetaris interrupted firmly. “He will stand with the other eight when the critical time comes. And I have examined Erol closely – while he is not strictly sane, perhaps, his madness is a functional one. It allows him to go on, and I suspect he will… reintegrate, over time.

“As for Devrik, it is unclear if it is he or his son who the subject of the Fire Prophecy… or either. A dangerous card indeed, but better one we have in our hand than in our enemies’ I think. As for Mariala, she treads a perilous path, to be sure, but I have faith in her.

“Remember, these are mortal men and women, and young. They need time to fully become who we, who the world, needs them to be… but I am certain they will do so, in the end. And they have more time, as do we, thanks to their actions so far – if not for them, we would not have known of the Vortex as the agents behind our current troubles. Not before they were fully prepared, which would have been… bad.

“We have years now, I think we all agree, rather than mere months. So let us not try to change horses mid-stream, and trust instead that our loyal mounts will carry us through to victory. If they have occasionally stumbled, they have nonetheless thrown a serious stick into the Vortex’s spokes – and tipped the scales of the events yet to come slightly towards our favor!”

After another hour of back and forth, eventually consensus was reached, and one by one the images faded from Kiril Vetaris’ pictures, which resumed their normal appearance of landscapes and still lives. Finally, only the obsidian-eyed man remained, and he spoke now more conversationally.

“I will continue to play demon’s advocate,” he said, with a slight smile. “I think you place too much faith in these imperfect tools, but it does seem they are the best we have just now.

“But Kiril, all the prophecies, the visions, the readings – they all make it clear there will be nine of them at the crux, and that it will take all nine to succeed in… whatever the final crisis turns out to be… I wish we knew more about that. But even counting Draik Bartyne, there are only seven of them…”

“Have no fear, my friend,” Vetaris smiled more broadly himself. “There’s time yet before the final act, and I assure you, there are two others waiting in the wings…”

When news came of the sudden death of King Maldan, and the summoning of Vulk and Mariala to the capital, Korwin was torn as to which way to jump. Erol, or Erondal, or whatever he was calling himself these days, had decided to return immediately with the others, and Korwin was inclined to join them, as he wanted to begin some serious arcane projects in his own sanctum.

On the other hand, he, Devrik and Toran had found some recent common ground in their interest in armor and weapons. While Devrik had taken off for parts unknown, he and Toran continued to discuss the possibilities and techniques of creating individualized armor for the whole group. And Toran was staying in Dür a few days longer, to celebrate a major religious observance with the local Khundari masons and artisans working on repairing the keep.

The old apothecary should have finished processing the acid sacs of the giant Death Worm they’d killed back in the spring by now, and that was the key component to the Khundari strengthening techniques. But there wasn’t much he could do without Toran, so… he decided to stay.

The day after the others, including Draik, left was a quiet one, and Korwin and Toran were able to start drafting real plans for the armor they wanted to produce. But the two days after that were the Khundar’en, the dwarves’ most holy celebration, and Toran disappeared with all the other Khundari in town to some subterranean shrine. Outsiders were not welcome, and Korwin grew quickly bored.

Ser Alakor was busy with the defense of the region, and was out on patrols with his men as often as not, Raven had gone with the others to Shalara (not that she was inclined to give him the time of day for some reason, Korwin mused), Black Hawk was taciturn to the point of absurdity, and worst of all he didn’t have anything to read – he’d forgotten to take the Avikoran book out of the joint loot saddlebags before the others left.

Two days of practicing his deep mediation served only to increase his sense of gloom and general malaise. Fortunately, at sundown on the first of Kilta, Toran showed up from whatever hole he’d been in and suggested something that at least had the virtue of being interesting, if also potentially lethal.

“I’ve been thinking,” the Khundari Shadow Warrior explained as he quickly and efficiently began loading his pack. “Neither of us knows how to open a Nitaran Gate, and while the local cleric is willing to do it for us, I’m not inclined to step through a Portal without someone along who can re-open it if we end up in the wrong place.”

“Hard to argue with that,” Korwin agreed. He’d been a trifle nervous about it himself, but hadn’t been going to bring it up first.

“Traveling overland, through lands held by the rebel forces of the false Earl of Yorma, would be slow and possibly fatal – while we should be able pass for simple itinerant travelers, it is the Vortex in control there, and I think the odds of us being recognized are great.”

“Yes, that does seem like a risk not worth taking,” Korwin again agreed, wondering where this was going. “Which leaves..?”

“The river,” Toran answered with a rumbling sigh and a resigned look. Korwin’s eyebrows shot up.

“I thought you hated the water,” he said in surprise. “You claim you sink, not float.”

“True enoguh,” the Dwarf replied, his usual stoic expression sliding back into place. “But I know how to handle a small boat on lake or stream at need, even if I don’t like it. And frankly, I wouldn’t try this without you along, since I know you have extensive experience in matters aquatic.”

True enough, Korwin had spend much of his youth on the streams and rapids of his home island, not to mention the seas around it, and was quite skilled with small boats. He nodded and Toran continued.

“Ser Alakor’s scouts report that the Orthun is running high enough, thanks to the relatively wet summer we’ve had, for a light coracle to make it to the confluence of the Silvari with only two likely portages, and from there it’s navigable all the way to Shalara.”

“Um, isn’t the captured city of Tyendus at the confluence,” Korwin asked, frowning. “Not to mention the Tharkian castle of… um, what was it…”

“Kar Olsepor, on the east bank, yes,” Toran supplied, seemingly unconcerned. “Indeed, those are the main reasons I’m suggesting we do this. I don’t know how much intelligence the Queen-elect and her generals are getting from the captured territories, but I suspect it is fragmented and sporadic.

“I figure we can scout the whole river, from Tyendus and Olsepor to Kar Fensir, and arrive in Shalara in time for the coronation, with useful intelligence in hand.”

“You don’t suppose the Tharkians will have patrols on the river?”

“Of course they will, but I have complete faith in your ability to cloak us, especially at night, with your Avikoran magics.”

Korwin pondered the plan for awhile, but in the end he couldn’t really find a reason not to do it. Anything was better than being stuck in this backwater village another day.

“When do we leave?” he asked with a grin. Toran’s return smile was decidedly shark-like he thought.

“As soon as you’re packed!”

•••

The night time trip down the Orthun River was every bit as unnerving as Korwin had expected. Both moons were just past their darks, and provided nothing in the way of illumination. But between the stars, Toran’s superior Kundari night vision and Korwin’s affintiy for the water, they made it through alive. And with only one portage. They’d missed the second one, and had run a short, but fierce, rapid – that Korwin would not have tried in full sunlight, with a magic boat – screaming in terror the whole way.

They’d survived, to their extreme surprise.

Toran was grateful that Korwin had insisted on casting Power of Utorev on him, making him marvelously buoyant, although it hadn’t proved needful in the end. Just as the dawn was beginning to lighten the eastern sky they passed into the Silvari River, and the walled city of Tyendus came into view on the larger river’s western bank. A great stone bridge arched over the flood, and a massive castle could be seen rising from the early morning mists beyond it,

Hunkering down in the small boat, Korwin cast Klorida’s Shadow Body over them both, and the boat as well. As they turned into shades of gray they became essentially invisible on the water, even in the growing light. They floated at the river’s own pace, past the city and the fortress, under the great bridge, making careful note of all they saw – troops gathered, patrols on bridge and walls, the lack of farmers coming in to market, despite the beginning of harvest season, burned out manors and villages…

By the time the color began to leach back into into them they were well beyond the city, with countryside on either bank, and able to paddle at last. They stayed to the middle of the river until they were certain they’d traveled beyond the southern border of Tharkia, into the lands of Serviar. This still left occupied Nolkior on their righthand side, but at least gave them more freedom of movement.

They passed the haunted ruins of Xaranda, and the western locks of the Arakez Canal, in the late afternoon, and an hour before sunset Korwin again cloaked them in Klordia’s Shadow Body. They drifted past the captured keep of Dor Fensir, again noting what they could of troop dispositions and the lay of the land.

By the time the sliver of the greater moon had risen in the east they were out of enemy territory. Cramped and tired from so long in the small coracle, they decided to pull in to shore to spend the night, and beached on the eastern, Serviaran bank, just to be safe.

Shortly after dawn they climbed wearily back into the boat and began paddling southwest. Beyond the confluence of the Sürkil River traffic increased, and by mid-morning they were able to hail a passing sail barge. The ship’s master was happy to take their silver and let them hitch a ride, their little coracle tied on and trailing behind.

By late afternoon they were warping in at the city docks in Shalara, and by sunset they were collapsing on their own beds, in their own homes.

•••

Unfortunately, Toran’s respite was short lived. He had a single day to relax and catch up with his Gyantari friend Ergaboreth before the official delegation from Dürkon arrived. Besides the Legate himself, Undayar Goldfinger, and his wife, there were eight other Khundari staff and servants. Despite knowing this was coming, and having spent the last two months preparing Khundari House for it, Toran found himself dismayed at the sudden loss of privacy.

The Legate was a pleasant enough old man, although his wife seemed haughty and cold, and the other dwarves were courteous and proper in dealing with Toran… but they all looked askance at the giant, and it quickly became clear that they considered Khundari House their domain now.

The coronation of Queen Miralda the First was the next day, however, and there was no time to settle turf disputes as the delegation prepared. As important new allies, the Khundari had a prominent place amongst the great nobles of the realm and the royal officers of the Court, and Legate Goldfinger had no intention of letting down the honor of his prince.

After the ceremony, when all her vassals were swearing fealty to their new monarch and the foreign dignitaries were offering their congratulations, he was gratified when the young Queen, having accepted Goldfingers credentials as official representative of the Principality of Dürkon, called Toran forth from the crowd of Khundari functionaries were he’d been relegated.

She had graciously, but pointedly, made clear her fondness for the Shadow Warrior and her hope that he would continue to be at the forefront of the growing amity between the two realms. Embarrassing as he found the whole episode, it was gratifying to see the thoughtful look on the Legate’s face, and the stoney blankness on his wife’s.

He really should be beyond these petty emotions he reminded himself, fading back into the crowd as Ergaboreth was called forward, sole representative of his people in the kingdom and so perforce an ambassador. It was unworthy of his training. Nonetheless, he smiled all the way home.

•••

Thereafter things at Khundari House settled into a routine. While the formal delegation took over the bulk of the mansion, Toran retained his own suite of rooms as well as the entire basement level, including Ergaboreth’s guest room. Since the forges and workshops were down there as well, this worked out well for his collaboration with Korwin on the armor they planned to create. He somehow failed to mention the secret passage that connected the lower levels with the other homes of the member of the Hand…

The day after the coronation Toran and Korwin, with Ergaboreth along to carry stuff, collected the processed Death Worm acid from the old alchemist, Rezik Khordam, as well as other supplies they would need to make their armor. By the time they retired for the evening the workshop was all set up and ready for action.

Over the next month the two mages saw little of their friends in the Hand, devoting themselves almost exclusively to the creation of several sets of armor. They did come out for Draik’s birthday, of course, and Devrik’s welcome home party. And once the fire mage/warrior was back, they drew him into the creation of his own set of armor.

Korwin also managed to find time to cast a permanent Frost Brand on his cutlass, and imbue a metal sphere Toran created for him with the same spell as it was forged. He hoped this would provide a nice surprise for some enemy down the road.

Since Toran was doing most of the actual forging and metalwork, Korwin found time to brew some beer and, with Ergaboreth’s help, renovate part of his house into an open sleeping loft. He also developed two new spells, based on the knowledge bequeathed him by his recent “possession.”

Despite his heavy schedule of metal working Toran, too, found time to continue his own studies, developing his own new spells from the wealth of information left in his subconscious mind. He also kept up his Shadow Warrior training, of course, and forged several new throwing stars, imbuing them with a certain spell…

By the time Vulk’s birthday rolled around, the friends had completed five sets of armor, one for each of the current members of the Hand. Only Toran himself was without new armor, since his Khundari-made Shadow Warrior kit was as good as anything he could make himself.

Although the sets varied in the number and type of pieces they contained, they all had a similar look – glossy, dark purple-black, with etched patterns of abstract Khundari designs, inlaid with enamels of various colors, different for each person: violet and gold for Vulk, who received his set first, on his birthday; green and gold for Mariala; red and orange for Devrik; blue and white for Korwin; and gray and white for Erol. Toran’s existing black-on-black matched quite well on its own he rather fancied.

By the time the Hand was preparing to move out for the Royal Wedding in Kar Therka, they were all wearing armor that weight about as much as kurbul, but was as effective as something between mail and plate. Not that they wore it to the wedding itself, of course…

The meeting with the Queen-elect and it’s follow-up with Master Vetaris had left Vulk exhausted and slightly depressed. Not that either meeting had gone badly, all things considered, although each had left him feeling like he’d been rode hard and put away wet. No, it was the knowledge that he had one more potentially disastrous meeting ahead of him that had him in a funk.

When he had made the decision to accept the gift of Dügora Oakheart, to shoulder the burden of the old Telnori’s lifetime of knowledge of the magic of The Green, he’d done so on the spur of the moment. It was true that the moment had been a seemingly eternal one, outside of time, but he had felt the pressure of the life-and-death events awaiting him, and he had decided quickly. It had felt like the right decision, then and in the immediate days that followed.

But since his return to his normal life he had started to second-guess himself. True, the knowledge had probably saved his life, and his friends’, when the spell for neutralizing toxins had popped, unbidden, into his head; and he was intrigued by the possibilities that swirled inside his head even now. But he resisted taking more of that power, fearing the effect it would have on his relationship with the goddess.

And soon he would have to explain and justify his decision to fellow clreics, his superiors in the temple. If he was so uncertain himself, how could he hope to convince them of the rightness of his actions? He supposed he really ought to report to the temple here in Shalara, it being just down the street from his home, after all. But he preferred to take the matter to his home temple, in Lothkir, if he could.

Besides, Miralda had made it clear that she wanted him there for her Coranation, explaining that she proposed to make him her Queen’s Herald, if her marriage plans came to fruition, with a roving commission to be her eyes and ears as he went about his duties with the Hand. As such, it was important that he be there when she was crowned. But Kasira alone knew how the local temple would react to his news… he couldn’t risk being detained, at least until after the royal investiture.

So he could put off that third and worrisome meeting for awhile longer; indeed, he would have to, it was the responsible thing to do. Yes, he thought with a wry smile, that holds up plausibly enough. He could put it all out of his mind for now…

But after seeing Mariala back to the Green Tower, instead of heading home to Krendan House, he had gone to the temple to meditate and pray for guidance. When he finally went home, hours later, he felt more relaxed but no closer to an answer than he had before.

That night he dreamed…

•••

Vulk stood in a familiar wood, golden summer sunlight filtering down through the shifting green of the immense oaks surrounding him. He knew that he was dreaming, but also that this was as real as any physical reality. He was again barefoot, but this time he wore a robe in the purple and magenta of his cult, a golden belt around his waist.

He looked up at the sound of sudden laughter, and he saw that Dügora was again seated at a sylvan picnic under the largest oak in the forest. Dressed as before in only a green kilt, he now had a peregrine falcon perched on his wrist and he fed it tidbits from his trencher. Across from him sat a young woman with curling dark hair that tumbled over bared shoulders. She was dressed like a serving wench in a tavern, and her eyes sparkled as she looked up at Vulk.

She tossed him the golden ball she had been idly playing with, and he caught it without hesitation or fumbling. Her smile deepened.

“We were just speaking of you,” she said, gesturing him to come forward. He did, and sat at her further urging, the three of them now making a triangle around the spread blanket and its overflowing abundance of food.

“Yes, my boy,” Dügora rumbled in his deep baritone. “I thought we’d worked all this out the last time you were here, but it seems you still have doubts.”

“It seemed right at the time,” Vulk half-apologized. “But since then…”

“You fear that accepting the power of The Green will lessen you in My eyes,” the young woman said, her smile turning grave. “Is this not so?”

“Yes, Lady,” Vulk replied, staring down at the golden ball in his hand, unable to meet her gaze in his awe and sudden dread. He had known who this must be, how not? But the reality of it was so overwhelming…

“You are young yet, my child,” the goddess went on with a sigh. “The truth you must now learn usually come to men and women much later in life… if it comes at all. And some never wish to know more of the truth than they already believe they possess. But I think you are not such a one.”

Vulk looked up then to meet Her gaze, and looking into those eyes he sensed an infinite depth, like looking into a well of stars, and an endless compassion.

“What truth would you have me learn, Lady,” he asked, surrendering his will to Hers.

“Simply that I am not as you have envisioned of me, my young acolyte, that I am both less… and more.”

“I don’t understand…”

“You once had an argument, right here, with our host, did you not? A discussion about the nature of the Immortals, including me. You ended by agreeing to disagree, but now it is time for you to concede the debate. I will be blunt – you were mostly wrong, and he was substantially right.”

He could hear the laughter in Her voice, and even though it was a kind, gentle laughter, he flushed hotly.

“You are saying that you are not a goddess,” he asked roughly, and his voice shook. “ That you are not worthy of veneration, and that I have foolishly wasted my life in following you?”

“Well, your life is not over, Vulk, so I hardly think we can make a judgement about whether or not you’ve wasted it just yet,” Kasira replied gently. “And while it is true that I am not a goddess in the sense that most mortals mean the word, I hope that I am nonetheless worthy of the respect and loyalty of those who believe in and follow Me.

“I am Kasira, Goddess of Fortune, because that is what mortals need me to be right now, but I was not always Her, and I will cease to be Her when the need is gone. But I have existed for more than five thousand years, from the time when this world was a barren sphere of rock and water, and I will go on for – well, even we Immortlas don’t know how long we will endure… all things in this world must end eventually. Even We.

“But We were responsible for bringing forth life on this world, and, in some part, for the evils that now beset it. So We must play Our part in making sure life goes on, and thrives, until it can stand alone and eventually rise to join Us. For that is the great secret, Vulk – We were once as you are now, and you, as a race, are capable of becoming what We are now. But you are still very much children, and children need guidance, and protection…”

Vulk wasn’t as staggered as he thought he should be. He was intelligent, and he’d progressed far enough in the Church to be aware of many of the doctrines that simple lay folk were “shielded” from. None of them were out of line with what he’d just been told… although none he knew of were so completely… honest.

“Does every leader of the Church, of all the various cults, know this?” he asked after a moment.

“Many do, not all,” She answered gravely. “It’s usually a process, and few get so full and direct an accounting as you just have… they are more usually brought to such an understanding as they can handle, slowly, as gently as possible. I’m sorry that your awakening has been so abrupt.”

“So, my power as a cantor does NOT come as a gift from you,” Vulk asked, as his mind began to work again. “Out rituals are really no more than spells –”

“Oh no,” Kasira assured him. “The mental templates of the rituals bind you to my consciousness. In a sense, you are my eyes and ears in the world, along with your fellow cantors. And so the power flows from me to you, although you retain free will as to how to use it.” She smiled. “While I retain the right to veto those decisions, if I disapprove.”

“I’ve seen some bad clerics over the years,” Vulk said, considering this. “You must not disapprove of much…”

“Oh, I have to discipline my followers every so often,” Kasira laughed. “But children must be allowed to make their own mistakes. How else do they grow? We tend to step in only when the problem becomes serious, and the consequences broad.”

Vulk felt like he should bristle at being called a child, but his awareness of her immense age and power – like lightening bottled up in a jar – made him realize the characterization was true. He’d met another god once before, and it didn’t get any less awe-inspiring the second time, no matter what these beings called themselves.

“The things I represent, and those that the others represent, are universal human truths,” the Immortal went on, reaching out to take her falcon from Dügora. “The fact that I am not a supernatural personification of those things, as such, in no way diminishes their importance to Humankind… will you not continue to be my eyes and ears in the world of mortals, Vulk Elida?”

He realized then that it didn’t matter what she called herself, or how he chose to define her – she was, in fact so far beyond him in knowledge, understanding and strength… well, a cat might compare itself to him, and be closer to the truth than he would be in imagining himself as anything like this ageless Power. He knew he would continue to honor and serve his chosen patron, whatever she might be.

Kasira seemed to know his decision the moment he made it, without his speaking. She smiled, and rose to her feet. Dügora rose as well, and Vulk scrambled up quickly. He realized suddenly that the goddess was taller than he was…

“You choose still to serve me, my son, and I accept your renewed service. You will find that I repay loyalty with loyalty. Know then that you can serve me and still wield the power of The Green that is the legacy of the Oakheart… it shall be a narrow path you tread, but I trust you will find your way.

“When the course of events brings you to Lithkor, as they will soon enough, present yourself to your temple superiors there. You will not find them unsympathetic to your case, my son.”

And then she was gone, and the forest seemed suddenly empty. Vulk looked down and saw that he still wore the robes of his cult, but beneath them was the soft green under-tunic he’d worn when he first met his Telnori benefactor. His belt was now a twining of silver and gold…

“So, maybe now we can start working on you mastering The Green, eh?” Dügora laughed, slapping him on the back.

Vulk woke with a start, sitting straight up, the ancient Telnori’s laughter still echoing in his head. That had been a vivid dream! But was it really only a dream? It had seemed so much more real than reality… and it showed no signs of fading in his wakened state. He doubted he’d ever forget this one…

As he swung his legs out of bed, a small golden leather ball rolled off the covers and bounced to the floor, rolling to a stop in the corner. A sweet scent of celestial perfume lingered briefly in the air…

•••

The next morning the ambivalence Vulk had felt about his new powers was gone, and he quickly set about learning to master them. He felt no need now to share his situation with the local temple, content to wait until he returned to his home temple – he didn’t know when that would be, but he was entirely confident that it would be soon, as the goddess had predicted.

He still chose to think of his Immortal Patron as a goddess, preserving a lifetime of habit… and really, a ruby by any other name was still a ruby. He’d risen that morning after his vision, dream, whatever one wished to call it, the mysterious golden ball still clutched in his hand, as it had been when he’d finally fallen asleep again. Now he examined it more closely.

It seemed, in size and shape, to be like any of the small leather balls that children and youths were wont to kick and juggle with their feet, alone or in circles. But the leather, instead of the usual brown or black, was a shimmering golden color, like no leather he’d seen before, and the stitching was twined threads of green and silver.

He reverently tucked it into his belt pouch, uncertain of what else to do with it, but knowing that he didn’t wish to let it out of his possession. He spent the bulk of that day at the temple, praying and lending himself to help with daily services and lay petitioners seeking Kasira’s intervention. In the evening he began studying the book they’d recovered from the looters at Yalura, The Cycles of Toraz Revealed.

This became his habit over the next several days, broken occasionally by calls to attend at the palace over some point concerning the upcoming Coronation. Mariala handle most such issues, thankfully, but sometimes the Queen-elect had some task specifically for him. Two days before the ceremony the task was to find an appropriate hawk for the new Queen to give to Countess Thilisa, who was to become the new Lord of the Privy Seal.

Strolling about the market in Mangai Square, where the greatest concentration of beast masters in the city gathered, and the best, he had spent considerable time searching for the perfect raptor. He finally decided on a beautiful red-tailed hawk, of impeccable ancestry and well trained. As the hawk-master prepared to cage the bird for travel Vulk’s eye was suddenly caught by a bird he had previously missed. He stared in amazement.

The peregrine falcon sat on a high perch, a little away from the other birds, its head cocked with one gimlet eye trained steadily on Vulk. It was the same bird he had seen in his dream, or vision, which was still diamond-sharp in his mind. There was no mistaking those distinctive markings, especially the golden ring around the eyes. Kasira’s falcon…

“How much for that one,” Vulk had demanded of the vendor when he returned with the caged hawk, never taking his eyes off the bird. The man smiled and reached up to take the peregrine onto his leather-gloved wrist.

“A good eye, m’lord,” he said. “One of my finest birds, trained by the best in the business – my son, in fact! It – oh, ser, I wouldn’t do that, you’re not wearing gloves!”

Vulk had reached out for the bird, and before the vendor could draw it back the creature had flapped over to take a firm grip on his wrist. He felt the talons, but they didn’t break the skin, and he grinned suddenly.

“How much?” he asked, and the man named a ridiculous figure. Vulk drew out his purse and shook out the requisite coins into the surprised man’s hand. They’d haggled at length over the price of the red-tail hawk, but Vulk was in no mood to dicker now. He declined the man’s offer of a cage for his second purchase with an absent shake of the head.

He had planned to return directly to Kar Landsar with the Queen-elect’s gift, but he now decided he would take Cherdon home first. The name had popped unbidden into his head, and he smiled as he considered it. Whether it was the goddess or his own subconcious that had prompted it, the name was certainly a fit one – Cherdon was Kasira’s semi-divine avenger against those who would misuse Fortune’s gifts, the Balancer of Scales.

That night, with Cherdon watching from a wooden perch he’d set up on his desk, Vulk poured over the green leather bound book and drew up all he could from the dark pool of knowledge that bubbled in his unconscious mind, Dügar’s gift. Sometime after midnight he was ready, and he cast the spell that would bind the bird to him as a familiar…

He could feel the power surge up and out of him, and into the bird… and a corresponding, if smaller, surge back into him from Cherdon. He suffered a moment of vertigo as he seemed to see both the bird on its perch and himself seated at his desk, but it quickly passed. What didn’t pass was the subtle thread of connection he felt running between the two of them – it was strong, and he thought nothing could break it save the goddess herself.

The spell had exhausted him, and the falcon as well, and despite an urgent desire to test the limits of this new bond Vulk put the leather hood over Cherdon’s head, and drop himself into his bed, where he was asleep almost instantly.

He dreamed of flying that night…

•••

The next day he spent hours in the fields outside the city walls, flying Cherdon and testing the strength of their connection. The bird seemed unusually intelligent, and able to follow even fairly complex directions. If Vulk concentrated, he could perceive the world through the falcon’s senses – the eyesight was amazing, the sense of flying disorienting. He found it best to close his eyes to avoid the nausea that this double vision could produce.

He also found that the range of this ability seemed to be about a kilometer – beyond that he had only a sense of Cherdon’s direction and his general state of being. And when the bird stooped on prey, he felt a visceral thrill in his own stomach at the kill…

Vulk would have liked to spend another day working with his new familiar (training seemed redundant – the peregrine had started out well-trained and the connection with Vulk made him seem almost an extension of the cantor’s own will), but the Coronation took precedence. He reluctantly left Cherdon at Krendan House, in the temporary mews he’d had Cris construct in the attic.

The ceremony went off very well, with no problems or disasters. He had been in the inner circle of nobles and royal officials, along with Mariala and Toran, the latter having been part of the official Khundari delegation from Dürkon. The string of parties across the city that night provided enough distractions to keep his mind off his familiar, and the hot Queen’s Guard soldier on leave kept him distracted much of the next day as well.

But thereafter he spent the next several days in serious study and prayer, with occasional breaks to oversee Cris’ preparations for the big party he was throwing Draik, to celebrate his friend’s 27th birthday. He found that Cherdon was happiest when he could accompany him around town, and was perfectly capable of staying nearby, on rooftop or tree, when decorum prevented his entry into home, shop or temple.

Fortunately carrying a falcon about, while not common, was not an unheard of affectation of the upper classes, so people quickly got used to the Kasiran cantor and herald who went everywhere with his bird. And really, the creature was well behaved, never shitting inside… unless he took a dislike to someone, of course.

Draik’s party was a great success, and the Demon’s Rain meteor shower that night was a particularly spectacular one. Everyone missed Devrik, of course, but Raven seemed certain he was fine and they all raised a glass in his name.

Three days later Vulk and Mariala boarded the HMS Queen’s Pearl to sail for Lothkir with the marriage proposal delegation to King Dorikon. The voyage was uneventful, and the delegation was received by the Arushali Court with all due pomp and respect. After the initial meeting with the King and his advisors there seemed little for Vulk to do – Mariala was keeping an eye on things, reporting by her magic paper to the Queen, seeming to have an uncanny skill at reading the mood of people.

So on the second day he slipped away from the palace to visit his old temple and finally confess his current status to his superiors. His old mentor, Darik Arindel, former Master of Acolytes and currently Master of the Rolls, seemed pleased but unsurprised to see him.

‘We’ve been expecting you,” he’d said drily after the formal greetings. At his former student’s surprised look the older man had just laughed.

“If the flurry of omens, dreams, and two outright visions that have plagued us here in recent days is any indication, our Immortal Mistress has taken quite an interest in you. And I doubt this comes as any news to you, yes?”

Vulk was forced to admit that this was so, and started to expalin.

“No, no, save it for our meeting with the High Cantor,” Arindel had interrupted. “Might as well just tell the tale once, and she’s waiting for us in her office.”

The next two hours went smoother than Vulk had ever imagined they could. Apparently Kasira hadn’t been kidding when she’d said her temple would be sympathetic. The two clerics listened closely to his tale, including his vision of Kasira (though he left out her revelations of her true nature), then examined him closely in his mastery of the Toraz convocation.

Eventually the High Cantor dismissed Cantor Darik, leaving Vulk facing her alone across the expanse of her ironwood desk. The silver haired woman smiled as the door clicked shut, and absently handled the golden ball that Vulk had produced as evidence of his vision’s reality.

“Thank you for your reticence in front of Cantor Darik,” she said, handing the ball across to him at last. “He is not yet ready to hear the truths that I know you have heard… and from the Lady herself apaprently.”

“Um, yes, I… wasn’t sure how much of that I should repeat,” Vulk had admitted. “I wasn’t even sure if you –”

“Understood the true nature of the Immortals? You don’t get to this point in the Church, my son, without a practical grasp of reality.” She sat back in her chair and contemplated him.

“So, the question now is what to do with you. If you were simply a cantor with a bent for magic I would assign you to a Temple Sorcerer, to be trained in the proper use of your powers in keeping with Church orthodoxy, and be done with it. But your situation is not so simple… you have gained your knoweldge, and the power that comes with it, wholesale, as it were.

“Given your involvement in recent political and… other… events, and the direct, if annoyingly vague, guidance of Kasira herself –” she broke off at his surprised look.

“Oh yes, I know much of your involvement in the affairs of the Star Council, though I am not associated with them myself. Kiril Vetaris is an old friend, and he has kept me apprised of my star acolyte’s activities these past two years, as much as he can.

“So I think it best if I leave you in his capable hands. He will see to your proper training in the use of the T’ara as a mage, while I expect you to continue your training as a cantor in the temple in Shalara. And every so often I shall send someone to check up on you, just to be sure all is progressing as the Lady wants. When you have achieved true mastery, you will be made a Temple Sorcerer yourself.”

And with that Vulk was dismissed. He could hardly have asked for a better outcome, he thought as he made his way through the city. Feeling suddenly giddy and bouyant, he changed course and made for the Temple of Shala to visit with his older sister Kalyn. Of all his family, she might be the only one who could really understand what had happened to him. They’d always been close, despite the six year age difference, and it had been too long since he’d seen her…

•••

The next day, still basking in the glow of his reunion with his sister, Vulk was surprised to be summoned to a private audience with his King. Despite having met the man several times before, or at least been in his presence, this was the first time he would speak to him alone. He wondered what his monarch might want of him…

As it turned out, he wanted to talk about girls. Or one girl in paticular, Miralda of Nolkior. While females were certainly not Vulk’s strong suit, he felt comfortable talking about the new Queen, and quickly came to understand Dorikon’s purpose. Just as Miralda had said to Mariala and Vulk when she had questioned them about Dorikon, he wanted to have as strong a picture of his proposed bride as he could.

Vulk was relieved that he didn’t have to dissemble in the slightest. He thought Queen Miralda was brave, intelligent, compassionate and beautiful. She was grave and serious, but he’d seen her laugh enough to know she wasn’t without humor, and Dorikon himself was fairly grave and reserved, so he rather thought they’d suit in that regard.

When he was finally released from his royal interview he’d immediately sought out Mariala to fill her in on the details. No doubt Queen Miralda would hear all about it tonight…

•••

With the marriage contract successfully negotiated, the Nolikori party returned in triumph to Shalara eight days later. Having little to do in the actual negotiations, Vulk and Mariala had wandered the city and he’d shown her the sights and his favorite haunts. He’d introduced her to his sister, and the three of them dined out twice, before they sailed for home.

Back in Shalara, Vulk had resumed his studies, often spending hours in the new Library of the Hand that Mariala had set up in the Green Tower. Many of the books she’d inherited with the old building had to do with Torazin magics, and with the occasional tutoring from Master Vetaris, he felt he was making real progress.

It was a relief that Mariala’s young lady-in-waiting and de facto chatelaine, Seria, had finally seemed to calm down and get her act together. Her quaking fear of all things arcane had been very off-putting, making it unpleasant to visit the Tower – inconvenient, since that was mainly were the Hand was won’t to meet for business. But she seemed much better now, still a bit shy, but certainly happier. And she didn’t spill the wine anymore!

Engrossed in his studies, and his occasional training with Devrik (who had returned to the city the day after he and Mariala had returned), Toran and Erol (and it was still freaking him out to see the illusion of Erol alternating with the actual visage of Farendol), Vulk almost missed his 26th birthday.

But his friends hadn’t forgotten, and he was dragged out to a surprise party at the Swan’s Sorrow Inn, which Mariala had rented out for the night. Everyone was there, and he’d had a great time into the wee hours. There’d been a tense moment when the wee baby Aldari had made a grab for Cherdon, but the bird had remained stoic and refrained from savaging the baby. His mother had snatched him up and it was decided it was past his bedtime…

Korwin and Toran had presented him with a beautiful set of armor pieces that they had crafted together using Khundari techniques, giant worm secretions, and magic. It was a deep purple-black, inset with violet and gold enamel in an abstract Khundari pattern, and both lighter and stronger than anything he’d had before. In deference to his herald status (they didn’t wear armor in the performance of their duties, it was considered an insult) it was designed to be worn under his robes if neccessary.

Five days after his birthday, the Royal Wedding took place on the border between Arushal and Nolkior, and the new Kingdom of Ukalus was declared. Many honors and titles were granted on that day – Vulk himself was named a Queen’s Herald, with a roving commission to be her eyes, ears and mouthpiece throughout the realm, and beyond. A Nolkiori herald of good family and strong repute was named a corresponding King’s Herald, with a similar writ to serve King Dorikon.

After the wedding the Hand had two whole days to celebrate before being summoned to attend on the new co-monarchs and their War Council…

In the days that followed the meeting with the Queen-elect Mariala found herself increasingly caught up in the swirl of events at Court. The young monarch had not had many close friends before her father’s sudden elevation, but in the months since then the number of young noblewomen who suddenly found her fascinating had skyrocketed. Grave and reserved by nature, Miralda had no illusions about the quality of these new “friends,” and diverted the most pressing or annoying  by playing them off against one another (and quietly amusing herself in the process Mariala rather thought).

The queen-to-be relied on a small handful of women she felt she could truly trust, including the Countess Thilisa, and after the events at Kar Urkonis, Mariala Teryne. Mariala had to admit she was both flattered and a little unnerved by this royal favor… the woman had the most penetrating gaze, much like her father, and a mind that was razor sharp behind her maiden modesty. Mariala had to occasionally remind herself that her soon-to-be liege was actually three years younger than she was.

She quickly came to feel very protective of the Queen-elect, and began to take an active hand in screening her from the most venal of her would-be hangers-on. This started a few days after the meeting, when she suddenly found she could sense… not the thoughts, exactly… but the emotions, the intentions, of some of the people around her.

She had been having dreams, ever since her “possession” by the spirit of King Taharazod, in which the two of them sat together and spoke of the powers of the mind and of the principles of Xavar’na. Always a lucid dreamer, even before her formal training as a mage of the mind, Mariala had grown increasingly frustrated at her inability to remember more than fragments of these vivid dreams. But if her waking mind didn’t remember what it was her mental-construct of the ancient king was teaching her, her subconscious mind apparently did.

The most obvious change was this ability to pick up on the emotional state of certain people around her… and sometimes a fleeting glimpse of thoughts, just out of reach. It didn’t work with everyone – Miralda and Countess Thilisa, for example, were quite impenetrable to her new skill, as were her most of her friends – but on the weak-willed or lazy, it seemed quite effective. It quickly became very easy to sense which of the courtiers were insincere leeches, desiring only their own advancement, and which were more sincerely concerned for Miralda. The latter group was depressingly small.

The second major change in Mariala’s psionic arsenal, as she’d come to think of it, took longer to become obvious. When she sensed that one of the courtiers was simply going to be a waste of the busy Queen-elect’s time, she intercepted the silly creature (it was almost always women) and diverted them with some trivial task “for Her Majesty.” They almost always seemed delighted and went away feeling special. But not everyone was so easily diverted.

Two days before the coronation, after a working luncheon with some of the more important nobles of the realm, Baron Tarin Denorval attempted to intercept Miralda before she could leave the chamber. Corpulent, in his mid-forties, notorious for his crude and boorish behavior, and currently seeming rather the worse for drink, he brushed past the Queen-elects servants, ignoring their murmured insistence that Her Majesty had pressing business elsewhere.

“Nonesense!” he’d bellowed. “You damn minions work her too hard.. such a delicate flower of noble womanhood… let the lady enjoy a moment of peace with a gentleman.”

Countess Thilisa, now five months pregnant and in no mood to deal with the situation, shepherded Miralda towards the rear exit with a beseeching look at Mariala. With a sigh Mariala interposed herself between the lumbering baron and their retreating monarch. She opened her mouth to spin some tale that might deflect the man when she caught the strongest emotional broadcast she’d yet experienced – and a definite thought, mixed in.

The man actually had the idea in his head that he would woo and win Miralda’s affections, that he could seduce her into making him her husband and thus king! The combination of lust, ambition and drunken arrogance almost made Mariala lose her recently finished lunch. Swallowing bile, and what she had planned to say, she instead simply barked out a harsh “Stop!”

Preparing to brush past her, as he had the servants, the baron suddenly jerked to a stop, staring at her in surprise before his brows drew down in a dark frown.

“My dear lady, I fail to see a need for such –”

“Shut up!” Mariala had hissed. “And get out! Now!”

The man’s jaw snapped shut, and without another word he turned, staggering slightly, making a bee-line for the main door, followed by his bemused manservant. Mariala watched him go in surprise, as did the remaining royal servants… one of who murmured “well done m’lady” as he passed. She had sensed an iron determination, underneath the drink, and yet he’d just turned and left as if…

It took some experimentation, but by the next day Mariala had discovered that she could, indeed, Command some people to do some things… as with her sensing of emotions and stray thoughts, it seemed to work best on people of lesser mental accomplishments, or those whose minds were clouded by drink or drugs. She could make such people obey simple, direct commands, as long as they weren’t obviously detrimental to their own well-being.

Unfortunately the pressing social obligations of the Coronation forced her to put aside further experimentation with her newly-emerged psionic talents for the next two days. While the rest of the Hand were invited to the wedding as gentle guests, and so at least inside the Great Temple and avoiding the crush of the crowds gathered outside, Mariala, Vulk and Toran were included in the inner circle of noble and diplomatic guests – Mariala as Margrave of Green Tower and confidant to the Queen, Vulk as a Royal Herald and advisor, and Toran as part of the ambassadorial party from the Principality of Dürkon.

Kita morning dawned bright and clear, and the ceremony went off without a hitch, at least none that the Hand were aware of. If there had been some dramatic last-minute foiling of an evil plot or daring elimination of a would-be assassin, some other heroes must have handled it, leaving the friends free to just enjoy themselves for once. Despite keeping a wary eye on Erol, whose mental state had begun to concern her, Mariala had a marvelous time at both the ceremony itself and the staggering number of parties that followed it.

Moving from the palace to a string of noble houses across the city, the celebrations were a moveable feast that lasted well into the evening of the second day. By the time Mariala had collapsed into bed on Nyrata night she was exhausted but happy. It was quite heady to be feted by the rich and powerful, though she had no illusions that it was for herself that she’d been invited to all the “best” parties… the experienced courtiers knew a rising star when they saw one, one who had the favor of the new monarch. At least for now.

The next eight days were relatively free, before Mariala and Vulk were to join the legation that was to sail to Lithkor to present the marriage proposal to King Dorikon IV, and, aside from the big party for Draik’s birthday on the 11th, she planned to spend the time organizing the library the Hand was assembling. The Green Tower was the obvious place for it, not least because there was already a small collection of books there, legacy of the previous Margraves. Mostly tomes on the Toraz convocation (to Vulk’s delight) and neutral magics, as well as mundane works on gardening, botany, and history. With Toran overseeing the linking of the last of the other houses to the subterranean network, and sealing off certain other passages, the Hand would have secure, secret access to the Tower at any time.

But before she could really begin work on all that, and concentrate on her studies, Mariala realized she’d have to deal with her young cousin. Seria Teryne was the youngest daughter of her mother’s brother Dinov, just 18 years old, and had been pressed on Mariala as the perfect “lady’s companion” for the new noblewoman. She was supposed to act as chatelaine of the Tower, as well as personal lady-in-waiting, but the fact was the girl was a nervous wreck, terrified by the “uncanny” nature of her new home and apparently unnerved by her cousin’s reputation as a “sorceress.”

She actually seemed competent enough, Mariala thought with an inward sigh as Seria fumbled about dressing her that Ionta morning, if she could just get over her absurd fear of “magic.” She seemed to think that her cousin would turn her into a newt at the first mistake (despite months of evidence to the contrary and a crate-worth of broken crockery), or that something unnatural was waiting to leap out of every shadow and devour her. She went practically catatonic on being left alone, and if not for Jeb’s and Cris’ help, Mariala shuddered to think what her home might have looked like after their latest adventure. If she could just get the girl to calm down…

A light went off over Mariala’s head. If she could Command Seria to forget this foolish fear, to simply calm down… a more complex command than she’d tried so far, to be sure, but it would be a good test of this new power… and if it worked, such a relief! Of course, it wasn’t exactly ethical, she supposed… using the power on enemies was one thing, and even on annoying courtiers, to protect the Queen… but this was family, and more for Mariala’s own comfort.

Well, not strictly true, she thought. If the girl couldn’t handle the job, and after more than two months she’d been given ample opportunity, then Mariala would have to send her home. Seria would feel disgarced, and the family would be upset… so really, it was in the girl’s own best interests if Mariala could… “fix” her.

“Seria,” she said as the girl finally finished fastening her bodice. “Look at me.”

The plump blond, about her own height (but rather more buxom, Mariala acknowledged wryly) turned her doe-eyed gaze on her cousin. Reaching inside for that certain mental “shape”… Mariala pushed…

“You’re feeling very calm today Seria, aren’t you. Not afraid at all, right?”

Almost immediately, she could see some of the tension go out of the girl… she hadn’t realized how tightly wound her cousin had been until she relaxed. And she had a rather nice smile, when it wasn’t pinched by anxiety. The rest of the day went remarkably well, and as she’d suspected, Seria was perfectly capable of doing her job once relieved of her debilitating fears.

Unfrotunately, by evening the effect had begun to wear off, and the girl became increasingly timid and hunched again, until she spilled wine all over the table at dinner. With another inward sigh Mariala once again reached for her new ability…

It took almost all of the next seven days, but by the time Mariala was preparing to depart for Arushal her young cousin seemed almost completely “cured” of her fearful distrust of magic. It had taken repeated pushes each day, which was more than a little tiring on Mariala – the power didn’t come without a cost, particularly when used so frequently – but it had been worth it. Not only was she now able to leave the care of her home in trusted, competent, hands, she had learned a few things about her new psionic ability.

The most interesting thing was that phrasing her “commands” as a question seemed much more likely to achieve success than direct orders, and eye contact helped, while proximity seemed less important. It was also moderately tiring, and could lead to nosebleeds if used too frequently or if she “pushed” too hard. But she was definitely getting better at it, and looked forward to trying it “in the field” when the opportunity arose.

In the meantime, it certainly made getting the best deal with vendors and shop keepers easier…

•••

The day before the departure for Arushal with the proposal delegation Master Vetaris showed up for a breakfast meeting, an unusual event as he usually met with the Hand in his own chambers, whether at home of in the palace.

“This is a personal meeting,” he explained over eggs and bacon, sipping his hot chocolate. Seria had laid out the food and departed, closing the door to the solar. “I merely wished to… check up on you, as it were, my dear. To see how you’re doing in the wake of recent events.”

“Surprising well,” Mariala had laughed, a little uneasily. She had grown to think of the old man as her mentor, even a friend, but she hadn’t yet mentioned her new psionic abilities to him. She wasn’t sure why, but she didn’t really want to even now. “I find my mind bubbling over with new spell ideas – I’m not sure how many are fragments from King Taharazod and how many are my own thoughts – but they seem to be slowly coalescing into useable ideas.”

“How wonderful,” Vetaris said, smiling. “I’d love to hear some of these ideas, if you feel comfortable sharing them.”

“How not, with you at least,” she’d replied, and for the next hour they’d discussed her ideas for several new spells. Talking about them aloud clarified her ideas more strongly than mere thought had done, and the Gray Mage made several comments and suggestions that snapped more than one piece into place in her mind. He agreed that many of the ideas were likely from her “melding” with the ancient Telnori king, but filtered through her own experience and mental template.

“You’re progressing amazingly fast, my dear,” he said at last. “Even before this latest surprise, you showed great promise as a mage, and the experience seems to have accelerated things even more.

“Which brings me to one of the reasons for my visit, Mariala. I am a little concerned that you have not returned to your chantry, to make the case for your elevation to Vendari. It’s been well over a year and a day since you left on your journeyman’s travels…”

“True,” Mariala agreed. “But you know that most Kolori take anywhere from three to five years to make the transition… it’s barely even two years since I left Aquina.”

“Yes, but you are not “most” Kolori… and you were ready almost a year ago, I think. You’ve had more experience, with your friends and comrades, than most journeymen see in a decade. So why not make the gifts and take the tests and advance to Master?”

“Well, there’s hardly been time,” Mariala temporized, not really sure herself why she hadn’t yet tried for the rank that, two years ago, had seemed the most important thing int the world to her. “You and the Star Council have kept us very busy… and frankly, fighting the Vortex seems more important than academic status.”

“It’s more than academic status,” Vetaris objected mildly. “As you well know. You won’t be able to expand your studies into other Convocations without the formal approval of your Order granted by the title of Vendari… and I think it would be a shame to limit yourself to only the study of Xavar’na, no matter how naturally skilled you are at it.

“I hesitate to say this… like all young mages your ego is quite swelled enough… but I feel very confident that you have the makings of a Gray Mage in you, if you are willing to make an effort.”

Mariala was shocked into silence by that. Very few mages every advanced to the point of mastering all Convocations of magic, and though she’d fantasized about it, like all apprentices, she’d never really thought it was possible. It required years of work and study, which she’d always enjoyed… but these last two years, being out in the world, learning to fight, to really live, had changed her more than she’d realized until this moment.

She had skill and power and wealth right now… her elevation to the nobility, however junior, had been surprisingly pleasant… how much of that would she have to give up, and for how many years, to achieve the kind of arcane power Kiril Vetaris wielded? And did she really want to?

“You’ve given me much to think about,” she said at last, pensively gulping the last of her own hot chocolate. “I… I don’t know.”

“The path to wisdom begins with those three words,” Master Vetaris said gently. “And that was all I wanted, to make you think. Whatever you decide to do, do it because you’ve thought it out and made the best decision for yourself – don’t just drift into whatever future lies along the path of least reisitence.”

They finished their breakfast in companionable silence, and the silver-haired mage departed soon thereafter, leaving Mariala to finish packing for her journey and to think deeply about her future.

•••

The legation to Arushal sailed from Shalara on the morning tide on the 14th of Kilta. Led by Baron Orsin Tirfall, the Lord Marshal of Kurikmarch and clan chief of the oldest noble bloodline in Nolkior, the diplomatic mission to the new allies was met with surprise but also wary interest. The talks went on for several days in various locales throughout the palace in Lothkir, between various groupings of nobles and diplomats.

Mariala watched and listened, and found her new empathic/telepathic skills both useful and… not so useful. Most of the high nobles and important courtiers in Dorikon’s court were strong-willed, able minded, and quite opaque to her, as was the King himself. But many of the servants and lessor dignitaries around the negotiations were more “open” to her new senses, and from them she was able to garner an impression of the mood of the Court.

She wrote on her entangled parchment each evening, sending her impressions of the day back to Queen Miralda, who held the corresponding parchements. On the whole, the marriage idea seemed to be being well-received by the important nobles, though there were many technical details that worried them.

The King was harder to read, but on the third day he was closeted alone with Vulk for almost two hours. He apparently wanted a more personal idea of the woman it was being proposed he should marry, from a cleric and noble of his own realm. Whatever Vulk said, it must have been convincing, because the next day the King agreed in principle to the marriage, and the real discussions began on hammering out the marriage contract.

Four days later, the legation departed Lothkir with a final marriage contract in hand. Arushal would begin moving troops east immedieately, and the King and his Court would meet the Queen and her Court at Dor Therka, the Nolkioran keep closest to the border, on the 10th of Turniki for the marriage ceremony. And shortly thereafter, the united kingdom would begin it’s assault on the rebel Earl of Yorma, and his Vortex masters.

•••

Mariala was pleased to find her young cousin still functioning well, and competently running her household. She still was a bit shy about going into the more “uncanny” rooms of the Tower, especially the library and Mariala’s sanctum, but that was not a problem since she’d rather she stayed out of those areas anyway. Apparently if she “pushed” someone long enough, reinforcing an idea regularly, she could effect a permanent change in behavior and mental outlook.

Intersting… she began to wonder if she could do something about Korwin’s annoying kleptomania problem…

The next day Devrik returned to Shalara, to the great relief of his friends and the joy of his wife and son. He appeared much more relaxed and at ease with himself and, to Mariala’s eye, much of his recent lethal tension seemed dissipated. Still his quiet, stoic self, he was reluctant to go into details about his journey, though he did regale them with several anecdotes during his welcome home feast at Vulk’s mansion, Krendan House. Whatever had happened, if was a relief to see their friend again, and see him happier than he had been in awhile.

The next several days passed in study and contemplation. The library was set up, her sanctum fully warded, and Mariala began to make real progress in her development of several new spells. Even the calls from the Queen for help in preparation for the wedding did little to interrupt her work, though of course she did make some time for those social duties. She also took the time to be fitted for the new armor that Toran and Korwin were developing for the team – lighter and stronger, it would be a real advantage in a fight, something she had come to appreciate all too well!

Vulk’s birhday, on the 5th of Kilta was a fairly quiet affair, given how wrapped up the whole city was in preparation for the wedding and the war. Mariala threw an intimate party for just their circle, which by this time was large enough that she had to rent out the Swan’s Sorrow Inn for the night.

The next day the Court began the shift from the capital to Dor Therka, and the Hand went with them. Though the days leading up to the wedding had been gray, cold and rainy, the day of the wedding dawned clear and quickly turned into a beautiful late-summer day. Mariala suspected esoteric forces at work.

The wedding ceremony itself was held in the afternoon, in the courtyard of the keep, the only place large enough to hold both Courts and gathered gentry of two kingdoms. The chief clerics of both realms presided jointly, and despite the annoying legalese and stifling traditions required for a royal union, Mariala found the whole thing quite moving. The two monarchs made an attractive couple, and she hoped they’d both be happy on a personal level – hardly common in dynastic marriages, but not impossible, either.

The wedding feast went on long into the night, thought the newlyweds withdrew early, to much good-humored ribaldry. And the next day, wearing matching silver armor, the King and Queen of the newly named Kingdom of Ukalus mounted their horses and prepared to go to war…

After Vulk and Mariala had met with Master Vetaris, a fairly long and grueling afternoon by their own account, Erol had expected to be called to meet with the man himself. Although he had never had much to do with the T’ara Kul in the earlier parts of his life, and frankly had only half believed in their magics (beyond the day-to-day kinds everyone knew), he understood they were very jealous of their powers and perogitives.

Practicing magic without the stamp of approval of their organizations could be a fatal mistake, if all the old stories were to be believed. Yet here he was, able to cast actual Vularun spells, and his mind was bubbling with ideas for new spells…

“Well, not my mind, exactly,” Erol said aloud.

“Indeed not,” he agreed in a deeper, more cultured voice. “It is I who possesses the knowledge of the T’ara, and I will feed it to you as seems best to me, my young friend. You are not yet ready for all that I can teach you!”

“I suppose not, Asakora” Erol sighed in his usual voice. “But I still wonder what the other mages will do when they find out I can cast spells…”

“When I was Kinen, before I merged my soul with my element to become Asakora, I had some dealing with the Umantari schools of magic… it’s true, they can be quite unreasonable with fellow Umantari practicing the Arts without training and official sanctioning.

“But those rules, and the Strictures of Yana, never applied to my people – the Telnori stand outside, and above, the Umantari Convocations, as well as those sad little schools of Khundari magics. Were we both still in your original body, it might be hard to argue an exemption for you, true. But since we now abide in this Telnori form, they have no standing to say yea or nay to us!”

“You don’t think there’ll be trouble with us… um… possessing Farendol’s body?” Erol asked hesitantly. He was still getting used to this new body, as superior as it was to his old one… it still felt odd, and not quite him… he felt no desire to give it up, however, even if he could.

“Hmmm, that remains to be seen,” Asakora replied, equally hesitantly. “Which is why I want you to practice that spell we’ve been working on. You must have it down perfectly, so that we may project the seeming of your old form around us whenever we need to. At least until some permanent accommodation can be made… probably with his Druidical superiors, but perhaps with his family, if –”

“And speaking of family,” Erol interrupted. “It will be easier to explain all this to my own if I can still look like myself. I had planned to visit soon, to see my mother in particular, before – before –”

His mind stuttered to a halt as a sudden searing vision of that last moment engulfed him… the swirling, malevolent, evil chaos of that alien mind as it touched his… the hideous probing… throwing up his mental shields and feeling them crumble… the rage and fury, his own, the other’s… then being hurled away…

“That’s in the past, Erol,” Asakora said, taking full control of their body and seating them in a comfortable chair in what they planned to make their sanctum. “I saved you then, my friend, and I’ll see that no such harm comes to you ever again,” he soothed.

Slowly the terror and horror faded from Erol’s mind, and he returned to himself. Asakora reluctantly released control back to him, as he reached for a flagon of wine and poured them a glass.

“Yes, you saved me, and yourself, too,” he said after taking a deep drink. “But I guess you couldn’t do the one without doing the other, right? Like you said when we first met, you don’t want your knowledge to die out…”

“True enough, I suppose,” Asakora replied with a sigh. “I said then that I was rolling the dice with you, being out of other options. But to be fair, I came to see your potential during the fight with the Corruptor… it was then that I decided to stay around. Why trust to the dice, when I can train and guide you myself? And a a lucky thing I did, too, as it turned out!”

Erol couldn’t argue with that, and at his internal mentor’s prodding he began once again the mental exercises that would allow him to shape a Form that would hold the Principle that would create the illusion of who he had been…

♦ ♦ ♦

It was a full tenday before any word came from Master Vetaris, and in that time Erol was not idle. He had very quickly mastered the Seeming of Erol, the spell that allowed him to appear as his old self. This had allowed him to ease Jeb into the truth about what had happened… frankly, he had been afraid that he would have to let the lad go, as there was no way to constantly maintain the illusion with someone so close, and he hadn’t been sure that the former farm boy could handle the truth.

But he had surprised Erol, once the initial shock and dismay had passed, by enthusiastically embracing the idea of a dual identity. He quickly became a past master at diverting non-Hand visitors and coming up with explanations as to why his employer and their honored house guest were never seen at the same time. Of course Erol didn’t really do any entertaining, beyond having his friends in the Hand over occasionally, so the deception was easily maintained with the neighbors and local tradesmen.

It was given about generally that Azkor (as they decided to call Farenderol publically) was a friend and mentor to Erol, and had volunteered to spend some time at Ironstone tutoring the former gladiator in maters both scholarly and social, as befitted his new rank as a knight of the realm. And they were known to keep rather a busy schedule.

Almost as soon as he had returned to Shalara Erol had begun working at turning the room next to his bedroom into a proper sanctum for his T’ara Kul studies, designing the plans himself, but with considerable help from Asakora. The day after the coronation of Queen Miralda, which Erol had attended with the others but not, of course, the visiting Azkor, workers arrived at Ironstone to begin the rennovations.

He also hired a young woman to come in twice a tenday to clean the place, and gave long thought to the hiring of a decent cook. But most such expected to live in, and he certainly didn’t need uninformed eyes prying about all day and night. So, he continued to simply send Jeb out to Belos’ Cook Shack for meals. It was right across the street, very tasty, and not terribly expensive.

Not that he was hurting for money, of course, after they’d split the plunder from the ruins of Yalura. Plus, his revenues from his rental properties had begun to come in, and those were not insubstantial. One of those properties turned out to be a brothel, Veruth House, located only a few blocks from Ironstone at the west end of Helkar Avenue. It was an upper-middle class establishment, with a pleasant range of courtesans of both genders, and reasonable prices for persons of reasonable means.

The madame, Alina Veruth, was more than happy to provide a solution to her new landlord’s desire for female company – or more accurately, for his long-term guest’s desires. Ser Erol was not known to ever use any of the girls that were discreetly sent over several times a week, but Scholar Azkor soon gained quite a favorable reputation in certain circles of the city.

While the construction was going on in his sanctum-to-be Erol began searching for a glass maker who could provide him with very specifically designed glass spheres. These were needed for a spell Asakor had been working on for him, one that promised quite a nasty surprise to future enemies of the Hand during combat. In the end he decided on a local artisan, Irkon Vulse, whose shop was not only close by, at the corner of Stonefoot Street and Catspaw Road, but who was both talented and open to challenges.

Azkor and Irkon hit it off so well, and the first order of spheres were so well done, that when Ser Erol came to the shop to pay his “guest’s” bill, Irkon offered to make three large mirrors for the knight, recalling from his conversations with the scholar that his “host” desired such – at cost plus 5%. It was such a good deal that Erol scrapped his plans for highly polished copper sheeted walls in his sanctum at the last minute, much to the annoyance of his contractor.

It was shortly after the disgruntled carpenter and his men had left one afternoon the Jeb came into the half-finished study to announce that “some old dude” was here to see Ser Erol. This turned out to be Master Vetaris, whom the lad had left sitting in the sparsely furnished front parlor. Having already cast the Seeming of Erol to deal with the contractor, he wasted no time in going down to greet his visitor.

On seeing Erol the Gray Mage frowned momentarily, then smiled, somewhat grimly, in sudden understanding.

“I hadn’t heard that you had acquired the ability to restore your old appearance, ser,” he said as Erol seated himself across from him in the only other chair in the room. “An illusion, I sense, but… is it an artifact that produces such a strong seeming?”

“No, Magister, it’s a spell of my own devising,” Erol said, perhaps a bit smugly. He was gratified to see the old man’s eyes widen slightly. Asakora spoke silently, warning him not to get cocky.

“Well, I’m impressed, indeed I am,” Vetaris said, settling back and staring intently at his host. “Ser Vulk and Lady Mariala have filled me in on what happened out there, in the Blasted March, of course… but I had not expected someone so, er, previously untrained, to master so complex a spell so quickly.”

“Well, really I guess I have to give the credit to Asakora, the spirit who shared my mind for a short time, and passed on his powers… he, um, left it behind, the spell that is… along with some others…”

Vetaris leaned forward and waved a hand toward Erol. Suddenly the illusion was gone, leaving Farendol’s form facing the mage, a surprised look on his beautiful Telnori features.

“Really, ser!” Asakora huffed indignantly. “That is most rude, dispelling another mage’s work without so much as a by-your-leave. And in his own home, to boot!”

“My apologies,” the older man shrugged. “But I prefer to deal with things as they are, not as others might prefer I see them. To whom am I speaking?”

For a moment the man across from him seemed paralyzed, his body rigid with tension. But then he shook himself, like a man coming out of a doze, and relaxed. A brief smile flitted across his face.

“I suppose it was foolish of us to think we could deceive a Sur Vendaz of your reputation,” Asakora sighed. “Even an Umantari one. But it seemed politic that we should make the effort. I am Kiren Frostwind of Xaranda, latterly known as Asakora, the Elemental Great Beast of Air. Pleased to make your acquaintance, Magister Vetaris… Erol has told me somewhat of you, of course.”

“Of course,” Vetaris replied slowly, more than a little unsettled. “And is Erol still in there with you, Kiren?”

‘Of course he is, I haven’t possessed him or evicted his soul as that demon attempted, if that is what you’re implying!” The Telnori seemed slightly miffed at the suggestion. “And I prefer to go by my nom de elementium, ser, which as I’m sure you know is Asakora.”

For the next three hours the Gray Mage talked with, listened to and studied intently the man across from him. At one point Jeb brought refreshments, but aside from that they were undisturbed. By the time he rose to take his leave, Vetaris had come to the conclusion that Erol Doritar was almost certainly mad…

And yet it seemed to be a madness that was working for him, one that had kept him from going actually insane in the face of almost unthinkable horrors. He was morally certain that the spirit of Kiren Frostwind had departed this plane, like the others after the Corruptor was again contained, leaving only his mastery of his element and certain memories behind.

Of course there was always a possibility… but no, while Erol spoke differently when “Asakora” was ascendant, it wasn’t really the way a Telnori would speak, but more like how a moderately educated fighter might imagine a Telnori mage would speak…. on the third hand, he certainly seemed to know words and concepts that a former gladiator and soldier shouldn’t… of course the man’s father was a noted scholar, so who knows what he’d picked up as a boy… and there was no doubt Kiren had left specific knowledge buried in that mind… who knew how it might pop up… and Erol was well on his way to deciphering, and understanding, the text of that book the Hand had recovered, Reaping the Whirlwind – Profiles in Vularun Magery… and he had developed, apparently on his own, a very effective illusion spell… the combat spells he had described seemed equally sound…

Vetaris sighed and rubbed his temples. He was getting a headache, and it probably wouldn’t be the last before this matter was settled. But whatever his doubts about what was really going on in the Kildoran’s head, Vetaris had a strong sense that he had it under control, at least for now.

There remained the problem of the body he currently wore, however…

“Your wearing of Druid Farendol’s physical form is… problematic,” he admitted to Erol as they walked towards the front doors. “But I think that it is not insoluable. For now I think your solution of maintaining your appearance as you were is wise, although it would be best if you limited “Azkor’s” public appearances as much as possible, please.”

“I understand,” Erol replied, shrugging. “It can be a bit of a strain maintaining the illusion, anyway. Although it does seem to be getting easier…”

“Yes, it will continue to do so as you get stronger in your mastery of Vularu. And if we find it necessary to permanently keep up the illusion, I’m sure an artifact of some kind can be crafted…”

“And about my continuing mastery of Vularu” Erol asked diffidently. “Will there be complications from the T’ara Kul?”

“That, at least, I can assuredly fix,” Vetaris said with a wry smile. “Yours is far from the first case of psychic transfer of mastery, although we don’t like to advertise it. There have been rules in place for centuries to handle this sort of thing.

“It will require an examination by a panel of Ko Vendari, but I foresee no  problem there, since I will assemble them myself… and your mastery does seem quite strong. But until then, please be discreet in your use of the power, either as Erol or as, um, Asakora.”

Erol nodded gravely, and Master Vetaris took his leave.

♦ ♦ ♦

It was toward the end of the month when Erol again heard from Master Vetaris, and in the interval he had continued to study and advance in his understanding of Vularun priciples. But despite his determination to master this new knowledge under the guidance of Asakora, he was unwilling to let his physical skills atrophy. It took a tenday or better, but after regular bouts in Rekka’s Arena (now back in business after that fight with the Zalik Mal and the giant, hideous worm-thing), with a variety of sparring partners, he was finally getting the hang of this new body.

He was also getting more comfortable going out in public as Erol for more extended periods – the first time he spent an entire day and night out was on Draik’s 27th birthday. And even given how much he drank that night, he’d been surprised that the illusion held. Surprised, but grateful – it was a spectacular party, and the Demon’s Rain meteor shower that night had been even more spectacular.

He’d made real progress with several of the spells Arakora had felt he should learn, and he looked forward to trying them out in the field. He was also looking forward to testing his new armor, the special stuff Toran, Korwin and Draik had come up with using that disgusting worm acid… lighter and stronger they claimed, and it certainly seemed to live up to the promise.

By the time Kiril Vetaris showed up on his doorstep once again, Erol had almost forgotten about the various problems he faced – although Asakora had not. It was with some trepidation that he again faced the old Gray Mage, this time in his new sanctum cum study. But the concern soon gave way to relief when he heard what the Hand’s mentor had to say.

“The Council has informed me that they have decided, with some reservations, that the best thing to do at this point is simply acknowledge Farendol’s death in last month’s events, and let it be assumed his body was destroyed at the same time. To avoid the problem of someone recognizing his face, I have acquired a potion from another – from one of the members of the Council.”

He pulled a small flask from his vest cloak and handed it to Erol, who was not maintaining his illusion spell, knowing how the old man felt about it, at least in formal meetings such as this.

“Drink this, and within a few hours changes will begin in the body you wear… nothing major, for this is a subtle magic. But within five days your face will have changed enough that no one who knew Farendol will mistake you for him, close up. The vocal chords will also be slightly altered, to change your voice as well.

“It is a slow magic, so it would be advisable that you go out each day, meet the people who know “Azkor,” and interact with them as you normally would. People see what they expect, and if they notice something odd, they’ll simply put if off to imagination, or a bad memory.

“By the time the five days have passed they will have experienced the changes in your appearance incrementally, and will assume what they see now is what they have always seen… as I said, the changes will be subtle. But the process may be mildly uncomfortable for you, so be forewarned.

“On the sixth day, you will face your examination by three Ko Vendari. Do not wear your seeming, the Masters will wish to see you as you are, and they have been informed of the circumstances of your… translation. At least in broad terms – none of your examiners are associated with the Star Council in any way.”

Erol did as Master Vetaris instructed, after a brief internal debate, and the process was considerably more than just “uncomfortable.” He ached constantly for the five days, and half the time he felt as if tiny ants were crawling under his skin. But he was a warrior and a gladiator and stoic by nature, so he showed his discomfort not in the slightest. He went about the city as instructed, and while he did get the occasional double-take, for the most part people seemed not to notice the changes.

On the morning of the sixth day, as he prepared to ride out with Master Vetaris to the Vularun chantry outside of the city, he gazed into one of the mirrors in his sanctum, examining his new new face. He rather hoped that this was the last time he’d have to get used to seeing a stranger’s face staring back at him.

As promised, the changes were subtle… the cheek bones a little broader, not quite so prominent, the brow a little thicker, the lips thiner and the shape of mouth altered… even his eyes were slightly different in cast and color, more gray than blue now… he was slightly shorter, maybe a tad thicker… Taken indivdually, the changes didn’t amount to much, but in the aggregate… he had already carried his body very differently than the real Farendol had, and with this last transformation… Someone who’d known Farendol might think they’d recognized him across a crowded street, but on closer inspection would realize they’d been mistaken.

“Not bad,” Erol said to his reflection, with a sudden grin. He rather thought he caught little glimpses of his own, natural features in the mix….

“Indeed not, my young apprentice,” Asakora replied with a more sardonic smile. “But we should probably have new girls from Madame Veruth for awhile… to avoid any possible… confusion.”

♦ ♦ ♦

The examination at the Skyrim Chantry, located on a bluff overlooking the sea half a days ride south of the city, proved to be as smooth as Master Vetaris had promised. The examiners, two men and a woman, were Ko Vendari, representing all six Convocations between them. Erol had stayed in the background and let Asakora run things, but in his name, of course… Vetaris had agreed they didn’t need to know about his “passenger.”

He’d demonstrated not only his practical grasp of Vularun magics, but his intellectual understanding of the underlaying principles of the Convocation as well. His study of that looted book had been well worth the late nights and occasional headaches, he decided, to Asakora’s dry internal chuckle.

The last thing his examiners had him do was cast his Seeming of Erol, after which they had used their own powers to try and pierce the illusion. They had done so, but not quickly, and not, he rather fancied, easily. Indeed, they seemed slightly taken aback at the mastery of the Art he had displayed that afternoon.

“Well I should hope they’d be impressed,” Asakora had sniffed to Erol in silent affront as they retired to their guest quarters for the night. “I’ve been at this a thousand years longer than they’ve been alive, after all.”

The ride back to Shalara the next morning was pleasant, despite the overcast and the chill wind blowing in from the Sea of Ukal. It was the second day of Turniki, and fall was definitely in the air. The summer had been cooler and cloudier, no doubt due to the spring eruption of Mt. Katai, and the autumn promised to come early this year.

He was now officially a Kolori of the the Vularu Convocation, and had a year and a day, at minimum, to do the things he needed to if he wanted to advance in rank. The Skyrim Chantry had taken him on as a retroactively enrolled apprentice, and the lady Elira Coztormani, one of his examiners, had agreed to be his informal “advisor.”

“But,” Master Vetaris had said when they were well on their way home, “I trust that should you have questions or difficulties that you will seek out my help first, if possible. Should, um, Asakora  be unable to help you, of course…”

Erol grinned as they rode north, a strange new future stretching out before him – not one a war-hungry boy, eager to avenge his countries hurts at the hands of foreigners, could possibly have imagined, to be sure, but wonderful nonetheless…

On the morning of the second day after their return to Dor Dür Devrik left the keep just as the sun was beginning to lighten the eastern sky. Raven alone saw him off in that pale gray light – he’d said his good-byes to his friends the night before, and kissed his sleeping son in the pre-dawn darkness. Of them all, only Raven really understood this need of his to get away, to find his center again.

Actually, she seemed to understand it better than he did. He’d expected some resistance to his leaving again so soon, and alone – honestly, he’d expected fireworks. But she had been quietly understanding of his need to pursue what she called his “vision-quest.” Young men, and sometimes young women, of her tribe went off alone into the trackless marshland when they came of age, to find their spirit animal, the guiding spirit of their destiny, and gain their true name. She had done it herself at age 16, as had her brother, Black Hawk. Bird guides were strong in her tribe of the Rethmani, and most particularly in her family…

“You are old for a vision-quest, my love,” she had said the night before, after they had finished making love for the second time, half teasing and half serious. “I know your people’s ways are different than mine, but I think that your kind need a guiding spirit no less.

“I’m not sure how your people find it… in these schools you’ve told me of? Or in the wisdom of your elders? But whatever the method, I think you have not found yours… and it is time you did. Not just for your sake, but for our son’s. Solitude is the best way to hear the inner voice, my heart, to let the spirits reveal what makes your soul resonate in harmony with the All, rather than in opposition to it.”

Not how he would have said it perhaps, but her words had struck a chord within him. They had matched his own inchoate sense that he needed to get away, to free himself of all distractions so that he could find his balance again, discover the core of who he was, and finally seize control of his own destiny.

So it was with his wife’s blessing that he now climbed the gentle slope of the Elf’s Mound to the Gate that would take him… where? In his talks with Raven he had found that what his heart most wanted was to see the lands of his mother’s people. He had grown up on the tales she and his aunt had told of the wild, cold northlands, of viking raids and mysterious fjords, of waterfalls and glaciers… but as vividly as these pictures lived in his mind, he had never actually seen them with his own eyes.

“Perhaps that is at the heart of your troubles,” Raven had said, frowning thoughtfully, when he spoke of his desire. “You were born of two worlds, but you have ever only truly known your father’s world. It may be that whatever spirit is meant to guide you lays waiting in your mother’s homeland.”

But it seemed cheating somehow, using the Nitaran Gates for this journey… this vision-quest. Even if he knew for sure how to reach the northlands, which he didn’t. No, he would travel the long way, for was not the journey equally as important as the destination? Especially when you weren’t really sure what the destination was, precisely… beyond peace of mind.

With a wry grin, he summoned the energies required and opened the Gate to Shalara…

•••

From Shalara he had immediately booked passage on the next ship leaving for Olvânaal, a fast merchantman named Swiftwing. He had considered trying to commandeer the Fortune’s Favor, which was in port and preparing for a run to Fordym, in Valtira, but decided against it. Aside from having given up any right to do such a thing when he opted not to buy into ownership of the vessel with his friends, the whole point of this exercise was to get away from all he knew… and while Captain Levtor and the crew were not close friends, he knew them, and they him, all too well.

The Swiftwing left Shalara on the morning of 29 Emblio, sailing upstream on the wide waters of the Silvereye River, as Devrik stood at the rail and watched the city he now called home recede into the distance. As the last tower slipped into the summer haze, he felt a weight he had hardly been aware of lift from his shoulders. A least a little bit…

With a fair wind behind her, it took three days for the Swiftwing to reach the Western Locks of the Arakez Canal, three days spent in blissful silence except for the calming sounds of wind and water. Even the calls and chatter of the crew were no more than a meaningless background noise, like the babbling of a brook.

He had made it clear to Captain Alina Boreg, a tough, gray-haired, square-faced woman in her mid-fifties, that he wished to be left alone, and she had made sure her crew respected that. She had also invited him to dine with her each evening, a courtesy he had reluctantly accepted. Thankfully, he discovered that her own taciturn nature and disdain for small talk made the meals a quiet pleasure in their own right.

But now, as he stood at the starboard rail, he felt his carefully cultivated calm begin to slip away. The locks stood on the edge of the ruined city of Xaranda, and as the vessel rose, so too did his suppressed roil of memories, fears and suffocating rage. It was only a few kilometers from here that things had begun to fall apart, it seemed to him, and barely half a month ago. Where he had first met Farendol… and an Elemental Great Beast… a Beast of Fire…

It came to him then, suddenly, that it was his power over fire that was at the heart of this inner turmoil, whatever Raven thought about his heritage, his parents. He had been born with the power, it was a part of him, but it had brought him more trouble than joy so far. And worse, it seemed to be the focus of these damn prophecies about his destiny, and his son’s. Perhaps life would be better if he could snuff out the flame…

Kalos knew, he was more conflicted than ever after his brief but intense possession by the ancient Telnori mage Yimara Goldentouch, the soul of Zhezekar, the Great Elemental Beast of Fire. He had accepted her gift of knowledge, in the hope that it would help guide him to the right path, the Path of Light that everyone spoke of as one of his possible destinies.

He wondered now if that had been a mistake. All it had done so far was cloud and confuse his mind with memories and knowledge not his own… and he was certain that it was this very confusion that had allowed his mind to be so easily deceived by the Demon Lord Haranol. The reason he had been tricked into murdering a good man… one who had lived more than 600 years and might have lived two or three hundred more… cut down by Devrik’s own treacherous hand…

He cut off the thought, the same circling möbius strip of recrimination that had been playing in his mind since the event, and sought to regain his recent calm. And in that moment he made a fierce vow to himself that he would not to use his Yalvan powers on this journey, no matter the provocation. He would live or die by his sword alone on this “vision quest!”

•••

The transit of the canal took two days and two more sets of locks, days Devrik spent mostly in his small berth below decks. The edges of the Blasted March rolled by to the south, and he had no desire to spend any more time looking at that desolation. Nor wondering what the thrice-cursed Demon Lord might be getting up to out there…

Once the ship had cleared the Eastern Locks, however, he again spent most of his time above decks, enjoying the late summer sun on Lake Benil, and the rushing trip downstream on the River Ansil. By sunset on 5 Kilta, as the Swiftwing tied up at a dock in the city of Lairial, he had once again recovered a measure of peace and inner balance.

Devrik spent that night ashore, and all the next day, enjoying the sights and sounds of the historic and tragical city. He had always heard that the monument to Talorin Silvereye was beautiful, if not as massively impressive as the one in Azdantür, and seeing it he had to agree.

A serene pavilion of white marble and silver filagree, set in the center of an artificial lake and reached by a single low bridge, the monument referenced the the Rape of Lairial not at all, not even the Lairialan Odyssey. Instead it held a simple statue at its heart, of the famous Gray Mage surrounded by a score of children, water flowing from his hands to cascade among the smaller figures and surround them all in a circle of protection. Devrik was unexpectedly moved.

The Swiftwing sailed on the evening tide, and Devrik stood at the rail watching the lesser moon rise in the east and cast its pale violet light over the white walls of the receding city. Five hundred years ago a handful of boats had fled the burning, dying city, and the hundreds of children aboard them must have looked back much as he did now… if with very different emotions… while Talorin raised both the fog that shielded them and the winds that bore them away from all they had known. And on to safety…

Over the next five days Devrik found himself beginning to relax more, and by the time the ship sailed into the harbor of Poldarik on the afternoon of 11 Kilta he had become quite friendly with some of the crew, to the point of exchanging fighting tips, land vs. sea fighting. Erol had taught him a trick or two about ship fighting too, of course, but his mind quickly shied from thinking of his friend and his… current condition…

As soon as the vessel was warped in and tied off, Devrik took his leave of Captain Boreg and her men. Hoisting his light pack, settling his battlesword firmly in its sheath on his back, he strode up the hill toward the walled town of dark gray stone and black shingled roofs, the wooden beams of their peaks carved in the likenesses of dragons, wolves and ravens…

•••

A tenday later, Devrik stood in a clearing in the Forest of Herka Thûm, near the northern shore of the Long Lake, and heaved a sigh of weary resignation. When it was time to return home, he wouldn’t be going by way of Poldarik… killing one of the ruling lords of the land, however minor, however deserving of death, and however fair the fight, would not sit well with the other Olvânaali overlords, since it had been done in defense of the oppressed local Tarim folk.

He couldn’t really regret his actions, however… Gerik Hardalsig had been a brutal pig of a man, and his attempt to enslave the free Tarim clan of Rälum had been illegal even by the loose standards of his own conquering people. It was just a pity that, given how the always-restive relationship between the oppressed Tarim natives and their Skavarian-descended overlords had recently flared into open rebellion in some areas, Valkir Hardalsig’s peers were unlikely to be very understanding. Almost two hundred years had done little to truly integrate the two peoples, and it didn’t look to be starting now.

On his journey north to visit the thrandor of his mother’s family Devrik had guested at the small thrandor of Clan Hardalsig near the southern shore of the Long Lake, and been singularly unimpressed by his host and his fierce contempt for the local people. The man’s attitude certainly fit the pattern Devrik had noted soon after his arrival in Olvânaal, but seemed taken to an absurd extreme. Thus he’d been surprised when the Valkir had suggested that he should guest the next night at the steading of a Tarim neighbor across the lake, Clan Rälum.

The Rälum Chiefman, Hemsel, had been wary when the stranger arrived towards dusk, requesting shelter for the night, but the custom of guesting was strong and he would not lightly turn away a traveler, even a Skavarian such as Devrik obviously was. But during dinner Devrik won over his hosts with his tales of being raised in the western Lowlands, and had in turn been been deeply impressed by their kindness. As everyone relaxed and began to talk more freely, and he learned of the recent attempts by Clan Hardalsig to claim the Rälum as serfs, a claim rejected in the Clan Courts, he became increasingly uneasy.

Before retiring to his guest’s bed in the loft Devrik, after a brief internal debate over whether or not this constituted “using his powers,” had taken out his cards and laid down a reading… As a result, he and his hosts were able to ambush the attackers before they reached the steading in the dark hour before dawn.

Valkir Hardalsig had been shocked to find his plan apparently revealed, and outraged as only one who knows he is in the wrong can be. His fury at Devrik, to his mind a fellow Olvânaali who had betrayed him, was unbounded. He was practically frothing at the mouth when he’d accepted the traveler’s offer to settle the matter champion-to-champion in single combat.

The Valkir’s chief lieutenant seemed to think this was a bad idea, but a few fiercely whispered words from his lord silenced him. And a few minutes later, after Devrik had sent Hardalsig’s head flying from his shoulders, the man had obeyed his master’s final instructions and ordered his men to attack. But both Devrik and Chiefman Hemsel had been expecting treachery…

After the brief, bitter, fight, Devrik questioned the surviving lieutenant and discovered that Hardalsig had intended his former guest to be the perfect excuse to attack the hated Tarim steading – after the fact he would claim this foreign traveler had gone berserk and killed the household in their sleep, with the Valkir playing hero to ride in and succor the survivors. And not incidentally kill the berserk foreigner, of course. There might be suspicions, naturally, but with a fait accompli and none living to gainsay the tale, the result was unlikely to be challenged.

Now, as his hosts led off their prisoners and began discussing their next move, Devrik prepared to move on himself. He had been surprised at how much more he liked the Tarim folk of this land than his own supposed blood-kin; but as much as he hated the situation here, there was little he could do to change it. And the presence of a foreigner, maybe especially one with blood-ties here, could only complicate things.

As he hefted his pack and strode off into the dark tangle of the surrounding forest he began to wonder if he should continue on with his plan to seek out his relatives after all. He’d given his clan name (in retrospect a mistake, but who could have known?) and he didn’t want to involve his unknown family in a blood feud. Vendetta Law! By Kalos, what a mess that was – for all its flaws, the Republic was at least a land of proper laws. Even if they could sometimes be twisted by the rich and powerful, but when and where was that not true, in any system of Men?

His mind occupied with these dark thoughts, he followed the narrow forest track northwestward all that day, avoiding the few scattered thrandors he passed. He had decided he would camp from now on, rather than risk further local complications, at least until he neared the lands of Clan Askalan. As dusk began to fall, earlier than usual thanks to the dense canopy of the forest, he began to look for a suitable spot to make camp.

As he cast about he suddenly spied a fire flickering through the undergrowth, apparently in a small clearing some way off the trail. Warily he approached, sword loosened in its sheath but not drawn. If this fellow traveler appeared benign, well and good, but if not…

“Well don’t just stand there skulking in the shadows, Devrik,” the woman on the far side of the campfire called out dryly. “Come join me… the fire keeps the damn mosquitos off. And I think we have much to talk about, sister-son.”

With a start of recognition, Devrik stepped out of the trees and into the clearing. It had been almost 15 years, but he knew that voice as well as any other in the world, save perhaps his mother’s.

“Aunt Kathela? Is that really you..?” For a moment suspicion and renewed fear of deceiving illusions darkened his mind. With a laugh his aunt quickly dispelled both suspicion and fear – the story she told, about his 11th birthday and the scene she’d come upon behind the drying shed – well, he knew she’d never shared that tale, and he hastily acknowledged the fact before she reached its embarrassing conclusion.

“But Aunt, how came you to be here?” he asked, seating himself on a rock conveniently placed across the fire from the small dark haired woman. Dark hair now heavily streaked with gray he saw with a shock. “This is no chance meeting, I think.”

“We skalds seldom have chance meetings,” she laughed. “Indeed, some would argue that no meeting is ever by chance… as we are all ruled by Fate.”

“Fate! Feh! I’ve had enough of Fate, thank you,” Devrik barked a harsh, unsmiling laugh. “ I will be the master of my own destiny, not the plaything of others, not even the Immortals!”

“So say we all, at some point in our lives,” Kathela replied cooly, her own smile fading away. “So what brings you to that point, my sister-son? Tell me what the years have brought you, since last we met.”

Reluctantly at first, and then with growing abandonment as he lost himself in the telling, he recounted the last 15 years of his life since leaving his mother and aunt in Thurnok… the two years in his father’s home, the disdainful wife and the half-brother she eventually bore… the fires, the near deaths, the rescue and the scarring of his voice… the banishment to the decade of hell in the Chantry of Kerig… the few highlights of those years, the teachers Wendeth and Kelskon, fellow student Sarno Janir, and the ancient wise-woman Mataya… the time with the mercenaries…

His story grew more detailed as he spoke of the last year and a half… his friends in the Hand of Fortune… his wife Raven and his son Aldari… the dangers they faced, not least from those who sought to use his powers… the meeting with the Mad God, and the gift He gave… possession by an ancient spirit of Fire… and at last, his delusional murder of a friend, and the wall he seemed to have hit…

As he wound down there was silence in the little circle of light – night had fallen fully while he spoke. His aunt picked up a stick and stirred the fire to greater life before she spoke.

“So,” she said at last, gazing intently at him over the flames. “You blame yourself for being unable to resist the manipulations of one of the most powerful of the ancient enemies of our world, one even the Immortals themselves cannot destroy, but only contain?”

“Yes!” Devrik growled fiercely. “Everyone – you, the priests of Korön, Mataya, even the god Kalos – speaks of my great destiny, for either good or evil. And now my son is dragged into it as well, and yet no one is willing or able to tell me what exactly it all means, how I should choose one path over another!

“I have no desire to bring the world down in fire and flame, but if I can’t control my own mind, if I can be so easily manipulated, how can I hope to be its savior? No, it’s better that I remove myself from it all, retire with Raven and our son away from the world, and take control of my own destiny, Fate be damed!”

“And that, my beloved sister-son, is at the heart of your turmoil,” Kathela smiled sadly. “You believe that control is truly possible, that with enough will and determination a man can seize his future and bend it to his own will alone.

“But Devrik, I tell you that that is a fantasy, and a dangerous one. For we are all – men, women, Immortals, and even the demons – embedded in the World together and enmeshed in the Web of Fate, whether we will or nil. We are bound inextricably to one another, and there is no escaping that.

“You say you desire a simple life, removed from the larger concerns of the world… consider it, then, in smaller wise. Say it is your desire of a day simply to sit in a tavern and drink quietly… but another man takes offense at your presence for he hates red haired men, so he seeks to fight you. You have no control over his actions – you may choose to fight him, or not, but that choice is forced upon you. And whichever you choose, or even if you choose not to choose, there will be ramifications moving out like ripples in a pond. Ripples of consequence, as great for each non-decision as for each decision, and no man can see them all, nor even the Immortals themselves.

“That is the reality of the World, for we are merely parts in a greater whole, and the other parts will interact with us no matter our desires in the thing. The only choice we are given is how we react to what the World throws at us; no matter how constrained we may feel, there is always a choice, and it is ours to make alone.

“Even suicide does not remove us from the Web of Fate, for that too is a choice, and the consequences ripple out to impact others, and we may never fully know where or when or how. You worry that you will be used as a force for evil, for destruction, or that your son will be so used. But Devrik, I have known you most of your life, and I tell you, you need not fear your destiny, for your feet have long been on the Path of Light.”

“You knew me for the first twelve years of my life, Aunt,” Devrik said bluntly, but without rancor. “I was an unformed boy when last you saw me, and much has happened since then to form the man I am now.”

“Ah, my sister-son, I hesitate to tell you this,” his aunt said with a wry smile. “And yet… perhaps it’s best you see that not all illusions are evil.”

As he looked across the flames at her, Kathela’s face began to change, aging before his eyes, becoming a mass of wrinkles in which were embedded two bright green eyes and an almost toothless smile. Her hair lengthened and coarsened, turn white and flying out in a rats nest of tangles. In an instant she had become Mataya, the old crone who had lived in a crude hut in the woods outside Kerig and been his unofficial teacher of wisdom not offered in the chantry.

‘You were Mataya all along?!” he growled, torn between anger and a strange excitement. “Why did you… why didn’t you tell me–”

“I did it because I was concerned, after we heard of the fires and your exile to the chantry, of what path your feet might be set upon. I had laid a firm foundation, but only a foundation, in your youth. I wished to see that the work of building your house was well started, and I felt that was best done in disguise.

“And I left when I did, before your final year, because you were beginning to see through the illusion. Not fully, not then, but I could see it would not be long, and it were best you not do so, then. But now..”

And suddenly Devrik found that he could see through the illusion to the woman beneath. He narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “You’re just letting me see through it –”

“No! Truly, I am not. You have a mind at least as strong as your body, Devrik, and such minds can build immunity to illusion and phantasms, once exposed to them. You had a powerful dose with that Demon Lord, and it has honed your native resistence. It will take work, and time, but you can strengthen your mind against false images… and take other steps as well.

“But it is not illusion or deception that is your problem now – it is your distrust of the Flame. Kalos has removed the phobia, true, and you have striven to suppress the ingrained, residual fear. But to fully become who you can be – I will not say who you should be – you must actively embrace the Flame! And I think I can help…”

She reached into the scrip at her side and pulled out a small vial, stoppered with a blue wax seal. Breaking the seal, she handed the vial across the flames to her nephew, who reluctantly took it. He stared dubiously at it, then at her.

“Trust me, Devrik. It will not hurt you, and it may well help you.”

Devrik considered for a moment, then with a quick motion he downed the contents. It tasted like bitter plum, with a smokey aftertaste. He waited expectantly, staring across at his aunt. He felt nothing.

“I don’t think-”

“Look into the flames!”

Kathela’s voice had taken on a deep, commanding resonance, and he automatically gazed down into the heart of the small fire – and suddenly it wasn’t a small campfire anymore, it was a bonfire, a blaze, a conflagration! And he was falling, falling into the flames, though he did not burn… he felt only a pleasant heat that beat upon him in rolling waves… and then he was standing in a place he’d been before, a vast cavern where flames rose from a great fissure… the place where he had met Yimara, in his possession by that ancient soul, the Flame at the Heart of the World…

She was not there now, but he felt the echo of her presence in his mind, and he looked again into the Flame… he saw the Chaos that was there, and it frightened him… but he continued to look, deeper, and suddenly he could see the patterns within the chaos… and going deeper still, chaos again seemed to be in ascendance… but within that chaos he again found structure and order… Chaos and Order, inextricably linked in an eternal dance, going deeper than any human mind could grasp…

He never fully remembered the totality of that vision, but when, after some timeless time he had returned to himself, and the small campfire in the heart of a dark forest, he knew that he had touched something Real. The fear was well and truly gone, and he knew that the Flame was his destiny after all, and that it would be on his terms and no one elses.

There was a reason there were two gods of fire, he thought, still gazing into the flames. Fire represented both destruction and creation, and both were equally true and eternally linked. Kalos was the Fire Creative, and Korön personified the Fire Destructive, and Devrik knew where his allegiance lay. He had long worshipped Cael, a fighting god and god of honor, but perhaps his true faith belonged with the Mad God after all… he had sought a spirit guide, and found that he’d already been given one in the form of Yimara.

He looked up then, half expecting his aunt to have vanished, but she was there, watching him intently. He didn’t try to explain what he’d seen, what he now knew, and she didn’t ask. She simply smiled when she saw the certainty in his eyes.

They made camp then, ate a quick meal, and retired to their bedrolls. They spoke no more of weighty matters, only of the small matters of family and daily life. Kathela was anxious to hear all he could tell her of his son, and of his wife, and he in turn was pleased to hear more of his mother than her terse letters usually revealed.

The next morning on arising, his aunt announced that she planned to accompany him to the Askalan thrandor, to make sure he got into no more trouble and that he received the proper welcome. When he expressed concern over the possibility of a feud with the Clan Hardalsig after his recent actions, she just smiled and said she’d see to it… by the time she was done, his own relatives would be willing to hang the deceased Valkir themselves!

Two days travel brought them to the ancestral lands of the Clan Askalan, and Devrik at long last met his northern family. With his aunt to guide him, a respected (and, he soon realized, somewhat feared) skald of wide repute, it all went fairly smoothly.

He met the uncle for whom he’d been named, and his three cousins, all of a similar age to himself, and visited the grave of Kathela’s twin brother Stavin, who had died the day after they were born. The younger of his uncles, Tynal, lived with his wife and three children on the coast four days hard riding north, so he only heard tales of them.

His grandfather Ronalt had died almost 30 years ago, but his grandmother Akio was still alive at 75 and ruling over her family with an iron will. She accepted this new grandson, whom she had only known of theoretically, with provisional wariness, but by the end of his visit had fully embraced him as a lost sheep of her flock.

“When you and your barbarian wife get tired of those crowded cities of the southern lowlands,” she told him as he took his leave of her on his final day, “you bring that great-grandson of mine back here – you’ll always have a place at your clan’s hearths.”

After all the goodbyes were said and gifts exchanged Kathela guided Devrik to a spot she knew of half a days ride east of the thrandor. There, in an open glen a waterfall tumbled over a short cliff into a small pool. Rough steps had long ago been carved into the stone wall, leading to a circle of partially tumbled standing stones near the edge of the stream.

“The closest Gate to the old homestead,” she said. “Memorize its pattern, sister-son, if you wish to more easily return here someday. And now, I leave you to find your way back to your wife, son and friends, while I go about the land and make sure your heroic muddling about with the Tarim and their troubles comes out properly…”

She hugged him then, and without another word strode off into the dappled shade of the forest. When she and vanished from sight Devrik turned reached out with the Sight to find the Nitaran hole in the fabric of space-time, and give it a certain, specific, wrench…

He stepped between the standing stones and vanished.