DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 11 11/15/90

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Status: OR

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   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue 11

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 --   DargonZine Volume 3, Issue 11       11/15/90          Cir 1057   --

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 --                            Contents                                --

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

  DAG                          Yours Truly            Editorial

  The Bronze Horseman III      Max Khaytsus           Ober 5-7, 1013

  Understanding                Bill Erdley            Yule, 1014

  Opus Interruptus             Wendy Hennequin        Melrin 4-5, 1014

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                      Dafydd's Amber Glow

                   by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor

           First,  I hope  that I  haven't  lost any  of you  loyal

       readers by  waiting so long to  get this issue out.  We have

       lots of  material now,  so there should  be lots  of reading

       material  coming your  way between  now and  the end  of the

       year,  which should  make up  for the  long dry  spell since

       August.

           Next, I would  like to officially welcome  a new author,

       Bill  Erdley,  to the  published  fold.  I'm sure  he  never

       thought he'd see this story in  print - he only submitted it

       to me an eon ago! But here  it is, and I'm sure you all will

       like it. It  presents a different perspective  on the little

       war we're having, and does so very effectively.

           Lastly, for those of you  who haven't heard, the Archive

       at  MGSE  is   no  longer  functioning  for   a  variety  of

       unavoidable reasons. What this means is that the back-issues

       of DargonZine are  no longer available in  an automated way.

       When the Archive accepted DargonZine as part of its service,

       I  archived all  of the  back-issues to  tape (I  needed the

       space desperately!).  So, while  I do  still have  access to

       them, I do not have them on hand at all times. Consequently,

       if  anyone wants  back-issues of  DargonZine from  now until

       someone  else volunteers  to  house and  distribute them  (a

       veiled plea!), they  will have to send their  requests to me

       and I will put them in  a queue. When I have enough requests

       and enough time,  I will send them  all out at once  - it is

       unlikely that  this will  be any more  frequent than  once a

       month (sorry).

           Now, on with the stories.....

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                       The Bronze Horseman

                              Part 3

                          by Max Khaytsus

               (b.c.k.a. <khaytsus@tramp.colorado.edu>)

      "He's not dead!"  Kera looked defiantly at the  farmer. "He can't

 be!"

      "I saw it with my own eyes, Miss. They jousted and then Sir Quinn

 cut his  throat. He's  not the  first one  either. Knights  and bounty

 hunters from  all over have been  coming to collect the  reward on his

 head."

      "No!"

      "Trust me, Miss, he's  dead. I can take you to  his grave, if you

 want."

      "All right," Kera  said. Seeing Rien's grave would  not help her,

 but maybe it would  let her know one way or the  other for certain. If

 what the farmer said was true,  she would finish the job Rien started.

 Quinn would become the target of her revenge.

     "Miss?  Miss?"

      Kera looked up, a single tear coursing down her cheek.

      "Are you all  right? I'm sorry about your friend.  Sir Quinn is a

 renegade,  you know.  Come, it's  not  safe here.  Those brigands  are

 always on the lookout for new blood."

      Kera felt another  tear run down her cheek and  tried to hide it.

 Rien was all she'd  ever had, the only one who ever  cared and now she

 was on her own. "I'm fine," she wiped her eyes. "Show me the grave."

      "This way," the farmer led her towards the cluster of huts at the

 edge of the field and she  followed blindly. Nothing seemed to matter,

 not even  as she  realized that this  might be a  trap. She  could not

 imagine what to do next. It was  as if all control and ability to make

 decisions suddenly escaped her.

      "It's right here," the farmer stopped short of a cleared patch of

 land, not  far from the  edge of the road  leading to the  village. It

 contained  seven wooden  markers, representing  the men  Quinn killed.

 "Your friend  is on the edge  there," the farmer pointed.  "He was the

 last killed."

      Kera walked over  and sank to her knees. `And  yet another knight

 lies buried here,  slain by Sir Garwood Quinn on  20 Seber 1013,' read

 the  marker. This  time Kera  forced  herself not  to cry  and made  a

 decision. She  was going to get  revenge, no matter what  stood in her

 way.

      "They're coming, Miss! You'd better  hide!" She heard the frantic

 words of the farmer and turned. On the road at the edge of the village

 were three  mounted men. As  the farmer began to  run, the one  in the

 middle pointed  at him  and one  of his  companions charged  after the

 running  man, drawing  his sword  on the  charge. The  other two  rode

 slowly up to Kera and she gasped. The one who appeared to be in charge

 was Rien.

      "You're  not from  this village,"  Rien declared.  "What is  your

 business here?"

      "I-I..." Kera  stuttered and  saw Rien wink.  "I was  looking for

 someone..."

      "One of them, perhaps?" he pointed at the graves.

      "This one, I think..." Kera pointed  to the last grave. "It's not

 marked."

      "But it is marked," Rien insisted.  "Some fool knight who lost to

 Sir Quinn. He got all the honors he deserved."

      At that  moment the brigand  who had  charged off into  the field

 after the farmer came riding back  alone. "I struck him down, but he's

 still alive. He's from the village."

1     "Get  the village  healer to  take  care of  him and  I want  him

 brought  to me  when he  can talk,"  Rien said  and the  man rode  off

 towards the village.

      "I  hope your  find  was  satisfactory, as  you  won't have  much

 satisfaction from now on." Rien winked again. "Come here, wench."

      Kera walked  over to him  and he pulled her  up on his  horse and

 quickly removed  the two daggers  in her  belt. Kera was  suddenly too

 scared to move.

      "Here," Rien handed the blades  to his companion. "Remain here. I

 will send someone to replace me, so you may complete the patrol."

      "Yes, Sir," the man answered and Rien galloped off.

      A safe distance away Rien slowed  his horse. Kera still could not

 move. She  did not know  what happened to Rien,  what he was  after or

 even who was buried in the  grave. More than anything else, she wanted

 to embrace Rien, but could not permit herself to do so.

      "I am glad you're here," she  finally heard Rien's voice and felt

 his arm  tighten around her waist.  "It's a lot worse  than I thought.

 Quinn is holed up here as if he  was born in this place. He has plenty

 of men, too. I managed to  become his lieutenant after killing the man

 who originally held the  job, but I needed you. When  I kill him, this

 place won't be safe  for anyone. We'll need to be  together. For now I

 need you to pretend you'd rather be anywhere else but here."

      "I love you,"  Kera said almost inaudibly and  Rien realized that

 she was crying.

      The horse  came to a  dead stop and  Rien's grip on  Kera's waist

 tightened. "No. Not here and not now. Please."

      Kera  nodded through  her tears  and Rien  kicked the  horse into

 motion again. "Did you get everything at Sharks' Cove?"

      "It's a  few leagues  out of  town," Kera  answered. "I  tied the

 horses to a tree away from the road."

      "Good," Rien approved. "I'll check on them in the morning."

      They rode through the village which appeared to be deserted. Rien

 stopped the horse before the largest building in sight and helped Kera

 down, then jumped off himself. Kera noticed that he had a limp, but he

 pushed her ahead of himself before she could say anything.

      The building  was a tavern  and an  inn. Inside four  men lounged

 around drinking  and a  bartender stood behind  the bar.  Kera noticed

 there was a metal chain around his neck which led up to the rafters.

      Rien kicked  the chair out from  one of the drunker  looking men.

 "How often  do I have to  keep telling you  not to drink if  you can't

 hold your booze?"

      The man  groaned, rising his hands  to his head and  Rien, having

 picked up a half  full goblet off the table, threw it  at the man. "Go

 get Quinn and clean up this mess when you get back!"

      The man  stumbled up to his  feet and staggered off  as the other

 three straightened themselves  out. Rien shoved Kera into  a chair and

 picking up the jug on the table took a few deep swallows from it, then

 sat down himself.  A few moments later a tall  dark haired man dressed

 in a fashionable  red tunic and grey pants came  down the stairs. Rien

 immediately stood back up.

      "And what  have you brought  me this  time, Sir Keegan?"  the man

 looked over at Kera.

      "With all due respect, Sir  Quinn," Rien answered, "I brought her

 for myself. You told me I might select a woman for my own."

      "So I did,"  the man kept appraising Kera, "but  you said none in

 the village suited your interest."

      "None did, Sir, but she is not from the village. She came looking

 for one of the knights you jousted. I request her for my own."

      Quinn thought for  a moment. "Having found her, you  may have her

 for tonight,  Sir Keegan,  but I  want her tomorrow  and then  I shall

1decide. She is rather young. The  rest of the men might appreciate her

 as well. They need something new."

      "As you wish, Lord," Rien answered.

      "It's always as  I wish, Sir Keegan," Quin laughed  and went over

 to the bar. "Give me a drink, man!"

      The man Rien  kicked out of his  chair came back to  clean up the

 floor. "After you're done here, go  take up my patrol with Kritner and

 Breault," Rien told him. "Kritner will be in charge."

      "Right away, Sir," the man answered.

      Rien took Kera by her arm and  led her up the stairs, showing her

 into a luxurious room. "Sit," he let go of her and locked the door.

      Kera sat  down on the  bed. The way  Rien acted reminded  her too

 much of the  men working for Liriss. She noticed  him doing everything

 he said he was  against and it was beginning to  frighten her more and

 more.

      "Are you all right?" he finally asked her.

      "Fine," Kera answered, wiping the tears off her cheeks.

      Rien knelt in front of her. "You sure?"

      "Why are you limping?" Kera asked.

      "I got hurt proving to Quinn I'm as good as any four of his men,"

 Rien said. "It's fine now. I ride most of the time anyway."

      He and  Kera embraced and remained  that way for a  long time. It

 was dark in the room by the time they let go of each other.

      "How are your eyes?" Rien asked.

      "As good as ever," Kera said. "I think my sense of smell improved

 too."

      "It's not the disease?"

      "No, no.  That's all passed. I  guess I was so  concerned, I just

 didn't notice the change at first. How are you?"

      Rien smiled. "A little worse for wear, but fine. I am glad you're

 back," and he embraced her again.

      This time they let each other  go a lot sooner. "Are you hungry?"

 Rien asked and without waiting for an answer went to the door. "Let me

 get us some food." He put the  key in the lock and remained motionless

 for a moment.

      "What's wrong?" Kera asked.

      Rien waited a moment longer, then turned to Kera. "Scream."

      "What?"

      "Just scream."

      Kera did and her yell was followed by laughter from the corridor.

 She smiled and screamed again and Rien  pushed a chair so it fell over

 with a thud. More laughter could be heard outside and Kera bit down on

 her lip to prevent herself from doing the same.

      Rien placed  his index  finger to  his lips  and made  a shushing

 sound, then quickly unlocked the door and stepped out.

      "What are you doing here?" Kera heard Rien demanding.

      "Talking, Sir," someone answered.

      "Not at my door!"

      "Yes, Sir."

      "Bring dinner for me and my friend and then get lost."

      Kera heard footsteps hurrying away and Rien stepped back into the

 room,  holding  a candle.  He  was  smiling.  "I  have a  well  earned

 reputation."

      Kera smiled also,  in spite of being concerned over  how Rien was

 acting.  The  nagging  thoughts  of  how he  could  have  earned  that

 reputation were  shoved to the back  of her mind, where  she would not

 have to think about it.

      Rien placed  the candle in a  stand on the table  and returned to

 Kera. "Give me your cloak."

      Kera fumbled with the strings at her neck and handed it to him.

1     Rien turned it  over, shook it, then carelessly tossed  it on the

 floor in the middle of the room.  He then bent down and unlaced Kera's

 tunic, pulling it partially off of one shoulder.

      "What are  you doing?" she  asked him, but instead  of answering,

 Rien kissed her and roughed up her hair.

      A knock sounded at the door, "Yes?" Rien stood up and turned, one

 hand resting possessively on Kera's shoulder.

      The door opened  and a man walked in carrying  a tray. He stepped

 over the  cloak on  the floor  to place  the food  on the  table, then

 stepped back  and threw a quick  glance over at Kera,  who lowered her

 eyes. "Will there be anything else, Sir?" he asked Rien.

      "When's your patrol?"

      "Midnight, Sir."

      "Stay away from my door."

      The man  bowed and quickly  retreated from the room,  pulling the

 door closed after himself. Rien hurried to relock it.

      "Come," Rien called to Kera and  she came over to the table. "You

 can fix your tunic now," he motioned.

      "I  was  hoping I  would  be  removing  it later,"  she  answered

 cautiously.

      Rien smirked. "As you wish. I won't make you sleep dressed."

      Kera hurried through dinner, even  though it was much better than

 the trail rations she had been  enduring for the last couple of weeks.

 She found herself thinking of the  things she saw and heard. Listening

 to Rien she understood that he did his best to fit in with the rest of

 the cut-throats  around, but the  environment greatly reminded  her of

 Liriss' organization, something she thought was well behind her.

      "How did you join them?" Kera asked when she finished eating.

      "Here?" Rien asked and she nodded. "I was ambushed on the road. I

 realized it was an ambush, but there was nothing I could do when I was

 attacked,  other than  be ready.  So I  got hurt,  but I  did win  the

 fight."

      Kera smiled. Somehow she'd expected that.

      "That's when Quinn showed up," Rien  went on. "He had a couple of

 his men with  him and all had  crossbows, so I decided to  talk my way

 out of a conflict...or  rather into a job. A couple  of praises of his

 skill  and fame  and a  boast or  two about  my own  abilities got  me

 challenged to  a sword fight. Quinn's  pretty good, but I  let him win

 anyway. Told him I'm a knight.

      "That got him interested enough to  keep me around and a week ago

 I arranged for  a mishap to take his lieutenant.  Being the only other

 knight around, Quinn gave the position to me."

      "Why haven't you killed him yet?" Kera asked. "Sounds like you've

 had plenty of opportunities."

      "He  has men,"  Rien said,  "and I  cannot outfight  all of  them

 should  they  learn  that  I  either attempted  or  succeeded  in  the

 assassination. I  also promised  you I  would meet  you here.  I don't

 expect to stay long now. Just a few days so I can finish the job."

      There was some commotion and Rien  got up to look out the window.

 He saw  two men pushing  another one around  in the dark.  "The guards

 must have gotten a hold of another villager," he sighed.

      Kera took  a look too after  putting out the candle.  "Aren't you

 going to stop them before they kill him?"

      "No. There  are only so  many good things that  I can do  and not

 have anyone  wonder," Rien  said. "Don't worry,  they won't  kill him.

 There are  so few villagers left  that Quinn will have  their heads if

 they do."

      "Rien," Kera said, "Quinn told you he wants to bed me tomorrow."

      "He won't," Rien promised and put  his arms around Kera. "Tell me

 about your trip. What happened in Sharks' Cove?"

1

      Kera woke up alone, realizing that her arms had fallen asleep and

 to her surprise found that both her hands were tightly tied behind her

 back.  She struggled  against  the rope,  which  was looped  somewhere

 beneath the bed, but could not break or loosen it. With difficulty she

 sat up on the bed and  looked around. Her clothing was still scattered

 on the floor, but  Rien's were gone, as were the  dishes on the table.

 She tried to bend  over, to see what the rope was  attached to, but it

 was too short to give her that much freedom of movement. She kicked at

 the floor in anger and threw herself back on the bed.

      "Son of a ...!" She couldn't  think of a good derogatory word for

 an elf. `What am I going to do?  Run away?' She rolled over to look at

 the window a  few feet away. All she  could see was a clear  sky and a

 ray of sunlight filling the room. It must be late morning. Kera tossed

 a bit longer, making herself comfortable.  It made sense to her that a

 prisoner could not roam free, but couldn't Rien just lock her in or at

 least tie her more comfortably? She  wondered if the door was unlocked

 and maneuvered herself under the blanket. `He wouldn't dare...'

      The  street  was reasonably  quiet  and  occasionally voices  and

 footsteps could  be heard in the  corridor. After what seemed  like an

 eternity of  staring at the same  spot on the wall,  Kera decided that

 her only  course of action  was to wait and,  anyhow, the bed  was the

 most comfortable place in  the room and she could not  get free of the

 rope anyway.

      It was well past noon when Kera heard a key click in the lock and

 quickly slid further under the blanket.

      Rien walked in. She glared at him.

      "I'm sorry," Rien shut the door  and walked over. He sat down and

 untied the rope.

      Kera felt  like strangling  him, but instead  placed her  arms in

 front of herself and dropped her head in them.

      "Why?"

      "If you are to appear as my captive, it has to be full time."

      "Who's going to see me?"

      "Quinn  has keys  to all  doors. Most  other men  could pick  the

 lock."

      "And you were going to leave me tied up for them?!"

      Rien stroked her back. "If you were free to roam about, could you

 pick it?"

      "Why didn't you warn me?"

      "I didn't think of it last night  and did not want to wake you up

 this morning.  You tend to sleep  late, so you would  have been spared

 most of the anxiety."

      Kera sighed. "If you keep this up long enough, I'll forgive you."

      Rien smiled  and continued running  his fingers along  her spine.

 "How long?"

      "Long," she answered and brushed the blanket back.

      Rien looked up to avoid meeting Kera's gaze and then moved behind

 her, so she would not see him. "I  moved the horses to a box canyon on

 the other side  of the hills to  the south," Rien said  after a while.

 "It's secluded and has good grass."

      Kera moaned in response.

      "Are you paying attention?"

      "Uh-huh."

      "I left  one of the healing  potions we took from  Terell on your

 horse. I am leaving another one in the room so you can be close to it.

 The third is  on my riding horse  here. I've got the  poison here too.

 You'll administer it to Quinn tonight."

      Kera turned over and Rien pulled his arms back. "What do you mean

 I'll administer  it?" She  looked down  at his  hands. "Keep  going, I

1haven't forgiven you yet."

      "Quinn wants  to see you  tonight," Rien reminded her.  "You will

 have the  opportunity. I will be  taking care of his  men." He reached

 out towards  Kera and  a second later  she jumped up  with a  burst of

 laughter.

      "Cut it out!"

      "That sounded pretty final," Rien said. "I guess I'm done."

      Kera covered her  stomach with her arms. "How are  we going to do

 that?"

      "You will take..."

      A knock  on the door  interrupted Rien.  He looked at  Kera, then

 stood up. She instinctively took the  rope and placed her hands behind

 her back.

      "Come," Rien turned to the door.

      The guard whom Kera met in the field the day before entered. "The

 old man is conscious, but the healer says he is not to be moved."

      Rien folded his arms and the  man took the opportunity to steal a

 glance at Kera.

      "Prepare my horse. I will be there shortly."

      The guard bowed and left.

      Rien turned to Kera and she fell  back on the bed. "I hate this,"

 she sighed.

      Rien sat down on the edge of  the bed. "I have to leave. You will

 add the poison to  Quinn's drink tonight. I will take  care of as many

 men as I can. We'll leave during the night."

      Kera looked up at him. His eyes were a nondescript blue-grey.

      "I have to tie you."

      She turned  over, placing her  hands on  her back and  closed her

 eyes to hide the pain.

      Rien secured her hands and left  without a word, locking the door

 after himself.

      Rien and  Breault dismounted  on the  neat lawn  in front  of the

 healer's hut.  The healer,  Sherestha, a  plump old  woman, scornfully

 muttered that these two could not walk the fifty yards from the tavern

 to her house.

      "How is he?" Rien asked.

      "He'll die if he's lucky," the woman answered.

      Rien took the healing potion from the saddle bag and went inside.

 The old  farmer lay on  his stomach on a  pile of blankets  and skins.

 Across his back were leaves and  herbs covering a foot long gash. Rien

 knelt down next to him.

      "He is not conscious," the woman said. "He's too old."

      Rien stood up and handed her the potion. "Make him drink it."

      "What is this?" Sherestha asked.

      "Does it matter? He'll die if he's lucky."

      Breault chuckled and the woman glared at him.

      "What is this?"

      "It will heal the wound," Rien said.

      The healer opened the vial  and smelled the contents, then turned

 the wounded  man on  his side  and began pouring  the liquid  into his

 mouth.

      The  smile on  Breault's  face diminished  as  the wound  started

 healing over. He looked at Rien.

      "Come, we need to talk, Breault."

      They walked out back with Rien saying no more.

      "Why are you  healing him?" Breault finally asked.  "What good is

 he to us?"

      "Are you questioning my authority?"

      Breault  drew himself  to  his full  six-four  height. "Yes,  Sir

1Keegan, I am."

      Rien calmly walked past him. "Don't you think I know better?"

      "I think something is wrong."

      Rien stopped. "Like what?"

      "There's something wrong with you."

      Rien remained  with his back to  Breault, but his hand  all ready

 held the hilt of his long dagger. "Like what, Breault?"

      "You like  life," the man  made the accusation and  started after

 Rien. "I've never seen you take it."

      Rien waited for  Breault to be directly behind  him, then turned,

 putting  the dagger  in his  stomach. "Don't  you like  life, Breault?

 Given the  choice, do  you want to  live?" He held  the man  still and

 forced it up under his rib cage.  "I am taking a life, Breault. Do you

 like it?"

      Red foam  began appearing at  the brigand's mouth and  he started

 slipping down.

      Rien let the  body drop to the ground. "Now  you've seen it all."

 He wiped the blade  on the dead man's tunic and  returned to the house

 after stopping by his horse. He noticed the wound on the farmer's back

 was almost gone and the old woman was looking it over.

      "He will never be able to repay you," she looked up.

      "You will," Rien said.

      "What do you want of me?"

      Rien  held up  the dark  green stalk  he had  retrieved from  his

 saddle bag.  "This is Wolfbane.  I want you  to make me  the strongest

 poison you can with it."

      "Why?" the woman asked.

      "I will free this village of its plague," he answered.

      "You alone?"

      "Mostly."

      "What's in it for you?"

      "Peace of mind. Revenge."

      "For what?"

      "One of the graves  out there belongs to a friend.  My lover is a

 prisoner at the tavern. Is that  reason enough? ...And," he added more

 carefully, as if the healer was  one of Quinn's people, "I just killed

 a man for trying to stop me."

      The  old woman  took the  stalk from  Rien's hands  and carefully

 studied him. "I will help you," she said finally.

      Kera lay on her back, staring at the wooden planks in the ceiling

 when she heard  a key turn in  the lock. `About time,'  she thought to

 herself  and turned  over. The  door  creaked open  and Garwood  Quinn

 walked in. Kera's  eyes immediately snapped shut and  she pretended to

 be asleep. She  heard Quinn walk up to her  and immediately wished she

 was better covered by  the blanket. He stood over her  for a bit, then

 walked away. A  chair was shoved aside and the  shutters on the window

 were pushed  open. Quinn came  back to the  bed and kicked  it solidly

 with  this boot.  Kera bolted  upright, looking  at him  with startled

 eyes. The knight smiled and she looked down.

      "Has Sir Keegan been a gentleman with you?" Quinn laughed.

      Kera didn't answer.

      Quinn grabbed her chin and forced her to face him. "Well?"

      Tears formed in her eyes.

      "He  wasn't!"  Quinn laughed  with  delight.  "Well, I  won't  be

 either!"

      Kera tried to pull her head back, but Quinn tightened his grip on

 her jaw until she screamed in pain.

      "So you can talk..."

      Kera continued looking at him emptily.  It was the only thing she

1could do.

      Quinn pushed her  down and untied the rope from  the bed, retying

 the  lose end  around her  neck. "Come  on," he  pulled the  rope. "My

 room's bigger."

      Kera resisted and Quinn jerked hard  on the rope, making her fall

 to the floor.  The loop around her neck tightened  and constrained her

 breathing and as she began to to cough, Quinn stepped on the rope near

 her  neck. In  her  coughing fit,  Kera tightened  the  loop more  and

 started gasping for air.

      Quinn lazily bent down and loosened the loop, then pulled her up.

 "See what  can happen  if you  don't follow my  lead?" He  checked the

 knots at her neck  and hands and then pushed Kera  ahead of himself to

 the door. By the  time they reached it, he was all  ready ahead of her

 and pulling her  by the rope. "You  make this good and I  may even let

 you enjoy yourself."

      In the corridor they were stopped by a guard. "Sir Quinn, a wagon

 was just brought to the inn. The men say they have prisoners."

      Quinn looked at the guard with annoyance in his eyes, then shoved

 Kera into him. "Take her to my room and keep her there."

      Rien returned near dusk, his  vial refilled with a potent poison.

 He watched the off duty men roll two barrels into the bar from a wagon

 in the  street. He asked where  it had come  from and was told  that a

 merchant  and his  daughter  were captured  and  were currently  being

 questioned by  Quinn. The wagon was  being unloaded at his  order. The

 two casks contained wine.

      Rien  proceeded  upstairs to  his  room  only  to find  the  door

 unlocked and  the room  empty. He  scanned the area  for any  signs of

 struggle. There were none and he returned to the corridor where he saw

 a guard standing by Quinn's door.

      "Where is the girl who was in my room?"

      "Here," the man said. "Sir Quinn asked me to guard her."

      "Did she try to escape?"

      "I don't know, Sir.  I was only told to bring  her here and guard

 her."

      Rien opened the door and walked  in. The guard followed him. Kera

 sat inside  in a  chair, her hands  still tied behind  her and  a rope

 around her neck.

      "She  looks nice,  Sir," the  guard smiled  lecherously and  Kera

 glared up at him.

      "Did anyone hurt you?" Rien asked.

      Kera shook her head.

      "How long ago did Quinn leave?" Rien asked the guard.

      "Not long. Shortly  after sunset, when the wagon  was brought. He

 went to talk to the prisoners."

      "Good," Rien said. As the guard turned back to gawk at Kera, Rien

 forced his dagger into the man's back and carefully lowered him to the

 floor.

      "Are you sure  you're all right?" Rien asked  Kera again, cutting

 her loose with the bloody knife. "They didn't do anything to you?"

      "I'm fine, really. He didn't have the time."

      Rien helped Kera  up and put his free arm  around her. "Return to

 my room and get dressed. Come down in a bit. Be ready for a fight." He

 picked up an empty glass and walked out with Kera.

      She took  a turn  down the  side corridor to  Rien's room  and he

 proceeded to the top of the stairs. Below he saw Quinn's collection of

 thugs and cutthroats gathering together  for dinner. Behind the bar he

 noticed the two barrels that were brought in from the wagon. He smiled

 and poured the poison the healer made for him into the empty glass and

 proceeded down the stairs.

1     A  few of  the men  greeted him  on  his way  to the  bar and  he

 responded in kind. "Where's Quinn?" he asked the barman.

      "There," he was directed to the back room.

      "Make  my dinner,"  Rien  ordered  and the  man  left, the  chain

 clanking up above  him as he walked.  Rien went around the  bar to the

 barrels, opened one with a mallet and dumped the poison in. The men in

 the common  room quieted down hearing  the bang and looked  over. Some

 even came up. A couple more hits  and Rien removed all the portions of

 the splintered lid. "A little good  fortune that we can all share in!"

 he announced. "Help yourselves."

      The men  cheered and Rien, picking  up a pitcher and  scooping up

 some of the dark red liquid, left.

      Making his way past the mob that gathered around the barrel, Rien

 stopped in the corridor before the  back room door and and emptied the

 vial of poison he obtained from Terell into the pitcher. He opened the

 door and  entered. A guard stepped  out of his way  and Quinn, sitting

 with his back to the door  looked over his shoulder. Across from Quinn

 sat a middle aged man and a girl not yet out of her teens.

      "Good, Sir  Keegan. I am glad  you could join us.  You should see

 how this fool is trying to make a deal!"

      Rien smiled and placed the  pitcher before Quinn. "Compliments of

 our guest."

      Quinn released  a laugh as  Rien reached up to  a shelf to  get a

 goblet. "Get me two," Quinn instructed.

      Rien placed both glasses before  the knight and remained standing

 behind him.

      Quinn poured  wine into  both goblets  and moved  one to  the man

 across from him. "Let me remind you I have you, your property and your

 daughter. Offer  me something  I don't all  ready have,  otherwise you

 wanting to  go free is merely  wishful thinking. Drink a  little of my

 wine. Let it not be said I am not a hospitable man."

      Rien looked  down. There  was no  way to  stop the  merchant from

 poisoning himself. Quinn was about to have his last taste of wine.

      "No matter how badly I want my daughter and myself to to be free,

 I can give you nothing more than  what you've all ready taken from me.

 I will not drink stolen wine!" The  goblet bounced to the floor with a

 pronounced clank.

      Rien looked at  Quinn, whose eyebrows went up. "Then  why did you

 ask me to make a deal, you old fool?"

      The man did not respond and Quinn took a swallow from his goblet.

 "I will let my men practice with you tonight and your daughter can try

 and stay alive with me." He turned  back to Rien. "That bitch of yours

 is in my room. You may have her back."

      Rien nodded.

      "May  the gods  strike  you down  for what  you  are doing!"  the

 merchant exclaimed, glaring at the three rogues.

      "If they haven't yet, I doubt they will. Worry about yourself for

 now," Quinn  said, taking  a second, larger  swallow from  the goblet.

 "And tomorrow your worries may be over."

      Deep inside Rien smiled at the irony of the merchant's statement.

 If he  identified Terell's  poison correctly, Quinn  would not  have a

 pleasant death.

      Quinn coughed as he put the goblet down and again turned to Rien.

 "Good wine. Have the men break open a barrel."

      "All ready  have, Sir.  I knew you'd  be in a  good mood."  As he

 spoke, Rien noticed  Quinn's face beginning to redden and  his arm was

 curled under his stomach.

      Quinn  struggled to  get up,  holding onto  the table,  trying to

 maintain his  facing. A look of  horror spread on his  face. "Let them

 go, Rien..." and with those words  Quinn collapsed to the floor. Blood

1flowed out of his open mouth.

      "Get a  healer!" Rien turned  to the  startled guard and  the man

 made for the door, impaling himself on Rien's long dagger. Rien pushed

 the dying man down on top of Quinn. He waited for a moment for the man

 to die, then looked up at the merchant who was as white as a sheet.

      "In a few minutes you will leave  by this door and turn left down

 the corridor. The passage leads to the stables out back. There will be

 no guards. Take your horses and  wagon, nothing else, and go. The left

 fork of the road is not guarded."

      Not  giving the  merchant  a  chance to  recover  from his  death

 sentence and its subsequent favorable  resolution, Rien left the room,

 proceeding to  the stables. He  killed the  man standing guard  in the

 doorway and then  another one outside the barn door.  He took a little

 more time to compensate the merchant with some of Quinn's lootings and

 after dumping a  bag in the wagon bed, circled  around the building to

 the front  entrance. The first thing  to catch his attention  were the

 two guards lying at the door.  `The healer's poison must be quick,' he

 thought,  walking past  them.  Inside  a good  half  of  the men  were

 sprawled out on  the floor and furniture and another  dozen or so were

 merrily drinking away.

      "Look!"  Rien noticed  someone get  up behind  the bar.  "Seli is

 dead!" The  man pulled the bartender  up and shoved him  over the bar,

 collapsing after him. Neither got up.

      Rien remained  at the door,  watching as  two or three  other men

 quietly passed out in front of  him. There was a commotion upstairs. A

 male voice  said something and a  moment later a body  hit the railing

 and broke  through, falling into the  common room. The man  had a deep

 wound in  his chest. Kera  appeared at the  top of the  stairs looking

 down. Besides her clothing she wore  Quinn's red cloak and scabbard. A

 bloodied sword  was in her hands.  She looked around the  common room,

 surprised that no one had reacted  and, after spotting Rien, went down

 stairs.

      As Kera passed  one of the tables,  a man at it got  up, took one

 step towards  her and collapsed.  She stood  in awe, looking  at Rien.

 "What did you do?"

      Rien  shrugged.  "I asked  the  village  healer  to make  me  the

 strongest poison she could with a stalk of Wolfbane I took from Maari.

 Wolfbane,  also   known  as  Monk's   Hood,  is  an   aphrodisiac  and

 hallucinogen  in small  quantities, but  too much  of it  will burn  a

 person out...or make them go mad.  She must have added something else.

 They don't even realize what's happening to them."

      Another man  fell out of his  chair as Kera stepped  over the one

 that had  fallen in front  of her. "I didn't  ask for a  lecture. What

 about Quinn?"

      "I gave him the poison I took from Terell's shop. He's dead too."

      Only three  of Quinn's  men remained upright  and it  was obvious

 they would  not last long. Nineteen  other bodies lay on  the floor. A

 job well done...if well could in any way be associated with death.

      "Come,"  Rien took  Kera's  hand. "There  are  still patrols  out

 there. We'd better leave."

      "Shouldn't they be killed too?"

      "There are  less than ten  men total,  all back alley  thugs. The

 villagers can take care of them if they don't flee on their own."

      Distant thunder rolled through the  skies as they stepped outside

 the tavern. Rien walked past the stables towards the forest.

      "Aren't we taking  the horses? It looks like it  will rain," Kera

 stopped him, "and what about all your stuff?"

      "We have horses waiting," Rien  answered. "They are more powerful

 than anything here and they carry  equipment. I have no use for looted

 treasure. The villagers need it more."

1     Kera tossed the cloak she wore to the ground. "Red is too obvious

 in the  moonlight," she  said. "And  it's not  my color."  She started

 unstrapping the sword when Rien stopped her.

      "It's a good blade. Keep it."

      It was well  into the night when Rien and  Kera reached the hilly

 area southwest of Phedra. Their target  was a cluster of boulders with

 a small  pass between  them. On the  other side, in  a box  in canyon,

 waited their two horses and escape from the remaining guards.

      "I  take it  you  didn't  bring them  through  here," Kera  said,

 looking over a passage so narrow that even she would not fit through.

      "I went all the way around," Rien answered. "Climbing over to the

 pass will  save us three leagues  of hiking. We'll have  to climb some

 twenty feet, though. There is a lip in the cliff face up there."

      "What's another three  leagues after the last  ten?" sighed Kera.

 She grabbed a  hold of some rocks and started  climbing. Rien followed

 her.

      "Do you smell smoke?" Kera asked when near the top.

      Below  her  Rien  took  his  time  to  finish  the  climb  before

 answering. "I've been  smelling it for a while. If  there was wind, we

 could tell where it's coming from."

      The step-like  formation in the face  of the cliff was  about two

 feet across, wide enough to stand on, but not much more.

      Rien leaned back on the wall. "Can you see the village?"

      "Right there,"  Kera pointed  into the  darkness. "It's  not very

 clear."

      "I'm impressed," Rien nodded. "Much superior to other people."

      "Do I look better with grey or brown eyes?" Kera asked.

      "Excuse me?"

      "You did notice that my eyes changed color?"

      "Of course! I told you they did."

      "So which is better?"

      "For what?"

      "My appearance!"

      "I'm partial to grey."

      "Took you long enough."

      Rien laughed and Kera took a step towards him.

      "If we weren't on  a cliff right now, I'd give  you a shove you'd

 remember for a while."

      "If you give me one here, I  promise you I will remember it for a

 while as well. At least on the way down."

      Rien took Kera's arm. "Come on. This slopes up. Watch your step."

      They made their way up the ledge  into the crack in the hill side

 and continued at a leisurely pace  for some time. They were passing an

 overhang which was  level with the top  of the hill on  the other side

 when a  loud sound of splintering  wood disturbed the night  and rocks

 started falling from  above. The thunder that has been  at the horizon

 for the duration of their walk, sounded overhead and a brilliant flash

 of lighting split the sky.

      Kera jumped back and fell against  the wall. One stone managed to

 bounce off her  shoulder and a mass of pebbles  sprayed over her back.

 When it was all  over, she stirred and got up. Rien lay  a few feet up

 ahead. He  must have taken the  brunt of the landslide.  Kera made her

 way to him. He was alive, but  unconscious. The top of the hill was no

 more than twenty feet away.

      While thinking of  what to do next, Kera  heard running footsteps

 and went up, in hope of  finding help, but instead encountered two men

 with swords, one of which promptly took a swing at her and missed. She

 backed down the slope, dodged his  second attack and then swung at him

 with her sword. Those late night practice sessions with Rien must have

1helped, as the man was knocked off  balance and fell past her, off the

 cliff. His  fading scream made Kera  realize how dangerous it  was for

 her to remain on the ledge and she hurried to level ground.

      The second  man, apparently wiser  for not taking the  same risk,

 held a torch in  one hand and a sword in  the other, patiently waiting

 for  her to  come up.  His first  swing was  with the  torch and  Kera

 instinctively jumped  back, stumbling  and landing  on her  back. With

 horror she realized  that her head was  over the edge of  a fifty foot

 drop. The man advanced  with the torch ahead of him  before Kera had a

 chance to  react. She could  not move with  it almost directly  in her

 face.

      "Drop  the sword,"  the  man  told her  and  when she  hesitated,

 brought the flame closer in. Kera smelled singing hair and immediately

 let the weapon go. The man kicked it aside. "Now get up. Slowly."

      Kera did so and took a step  back when the man motioned her to do

 so, but when he  bent down to pick up the sword, she  gave the torch a

 kick and it flew out of his hand and over the edge. Darkness descended

 on the small plateau. The man blindly swung his sword, but Kera had no

 problems  avoiding  the blow  and  remained  crouched on  the  ground.

 Without light and a cloudy  sky, her opponent was practically helpless

 and expected her  to be just as  lost, but was surprised  by getting a

 dagger in  his side. He swung  in the proper direction,  but was again

 too high.

      Kera remained  silent, watching him  trying to hear her.  After a

 while the man apparently  gave up and Kera was able  to put her dagger

 into his knee. He sank to  the ground, but swung again anyway, missing

 Kera completely. With another thrust she  finished him off and went to

 check on Rien. Thunder and  lightning made themselves known once again

 and a light rain began to fall.

      Kera found Rien still unconscious, laying where she left him. She

 took  the time  to examine  him  now. It  was difficult  in the  rain,

 without light  -- everything was  red or black or  both -- but  it was

 enough to determine  his condition. The most obvious wound  was in his

 side. It  was dirty and  bloody and the  clothing was torn.  Kera, not

 quite sure  of what to do,  decided to move  him to the level  area up

 above, instead  of continuing on the  thin ledge. It was  amazing that

 neither one of them had fallen off it in the first place.

      While trying to move Rien, Kera found what looked like remains of

 a  mechanism that  could have  caused the  rock slide,  but it  was of

 little importance now. She struggled to get Rien up top and he groaned

 from pain in spite of being unconscious.

      Locating the brigand's camp, a small cave in the rocks, sheltered

 from the storm, Kera dragged Rien in and placed him on an even slab of

 rock towards the  back of the cavern.  There was a small  fire to keep

 warm and she tore off a few strips  of her tunic to make a bandage. It

 was only then that Kera noticed that her own shoulder was bloody where

 it had been hit.

      After washing  Rien's wounds,  Kera bandaged them.  She suspected

 that his ribs  were broken, but not  being a doctor, not  only did she

 not know  how to make sure,  but also how  to treat it. She  then took

 care of her own shoulder and looked over the cave. It was bare, except

 for the  fire and two  packs in the  corner. Searching them  she found

 nothing more than basic equipment. It looked like the two men had only

 been beginning to set up camp.

      Kera returned to  the cliff to pick up her  sword and then looked

 around to  see if the men  brought horses. Not finding  anything, Kera

 paused on the cliff overlooking the canyon. Through the rain she could

 tell it  was a good mile  wide and at  least three long. Kera  did not

 know where to begin looking for  their own mounts and the only healing

 potion she  could use was somewhere  out there. She spent  a long time

1looking down  into the  darkness, waiting for  a glimmer  of something

 other than trees. Finally giving up, Kera returned to the cave to take

 shelter for  the night. Maybe Rien  would wake up by  morning and tell

 her where to look.

      She  checked the  dressing on  Rien's side  one more  time before

 settling down to sleep. He was definitely weaker and this time did not

 even groan when  she moved him. His breathing was  shallow. The lesion

 was still oozing blood with no indication of stopping; the area around

 the  wound was  hot. Kera  made  the bandage  as tight  as she  could,

 knowing  it would  probably do  more damage  to the  broken ribs,  but

 preferring that to having Rien bleed to death.

      Upon  completion  of  the  task, Kera  made  herself  comfortable

 against the wall  of the cave, leaning slightly back  on the step-like

 rock formation and wishing for Rien's condition to improve by morning,

 finally fell asleep.

      Kera opened her eyes and was  nearly blinded by the bright lights

 around her. She blinked several times  at the light that was as bright

 as day and after a minute her eyes adjusted to the brightness. She sat

 in a  soft chair  with arm rests  in a large,  brightly lit  room. She

 looked up to see where the light was coming from, but saw nothing more

 than a uniformly glowing  ceiling. In front of her sat  a box, about a

 foot square, with  a glossy black surface that  reflected the ceiling,

 facing her. Kera reached out to touch it, but as soon as her hand made

 contact, the box made a noise and  lit up with an orange glow. Strange

 symbols appeared on the smooth surface.

      Startled,  Kera  jumped up  and  the  chair  she was  sitting  in

 swivelled and  rolled back. For  the first  time she noticed  that ten

 feet away, to her right, sat a young black-haired man. The clothing he

 was wearing  Kera could not recognize  as having ever seen  before. He

 wore faded blue pants and a sky-blue tunic carefully tucked into them.

 She gasped and he looked up at her, no less surprised. Next to him was

 a box identical to  the one Kera had touched --  she now noticed there

 were quite a few of them set in rows about the room.

      The young man  simply stared at her for a  minute, not quite sure

 what to say. The  box next to him flickered a couple  of times, but he

 did not look at it.

      Kera straightened out as the rolling chair bumped against a table

 on the other side  of the room. The box on that table  lit up like the

 first. "Where am  I?" Kera asked, concerned about all  the magic going

 off around her so freely.

      "En..."  the young  man began  to say  with what  appeared to  be

 reflex,  making Kera  believe it  was a  question he  heard often.  He

 picked up  a frame from a  pile of papers and  put it on his  face. It

 looked to be made  of thin strips of metal, twisted  to hold two round

 pieced of glass in place in front  of his eyes. A wider piece of metal

 connected the  two pieces  at the  bridge of his  nose and  two pieces

 extended from the other side to hook over his ears.

      The man  eyed Kera from head  to toe and she  stood there looking

 back at him, doing the same.  "Kera?" he finally asked, taking a quick

 glance at his box.

      Kera  nodded and  took  an unsure  step back.  She  felt for  her

 dagger, but remembered she was sleeping  before and did not have it on

 her. It was on  the ground in the cave, where she  had placed it after

 cutting bandages for Rien. "Rien?!"  she spun around, realizing he was

 not there.

      "Calm down!" the young man finally stood up. "He's fine."

      "He's  not  fine!"  Kera  fired back,  no  longer  concerned  for

 herself.  "He's  alone in  a  cave,  unconscious and  bleeding!  Maybe

 dying!"

      The young man again glanced at the box next to him. "Trust me. He

1will be fine,"  he said, not without compassion. Kera  noticed that he

 had a slight  accent that made his words softer.  "Please, sit down. I

 need to know how you got here."

      Kera did not care  one bit how she ended up in  the room. All she

 wanted was to be back with Rien, but realizing that this man seemed to

 know both her and her companion, she  sat down in the chair nearest to

 her. Just like the first one she  sat in, this one was soft, swivelled

 and moved freely on the floor.

      "I don't bite," Kera's host smiled  and indicated to a chair next

 to his own. Kera changed seats, but  not to the one he pointed to. She

 sat down  one chair away,  just in case she  would need to  move. That

 seemed to satisfy him and he sat back down, again looking at his box.

      Kera looked at the  desk at which she was now  sitting. On it was

 yet another of those boxes, but the  glossy front of it was not lit. A

 rectangular pad  with emphasized  squares sat before  it. Each  of the

 squares had a  different symbol on it.  On this desk, like  on some of

 the  others, lay  a pile  papers, scattered  around in  disarray. Kera

 picked one sheet up.  It was very smooth and thin  -- nothing like the

 parchment she had  ever seen. On it were uniform  proper letters which

 did not appear to be written by hand. Kera stealthily picked up a palm

 sized glossy item on the table to examine it.

      "You were  asleep," the young man  said. Kera was not  sure if it

 was a question or  a statement or even an order.  He still looked into

 the glow of the box.

      The door  across the room  opened and  a slender woman  with long

 brown hair  walked in.  "I got  it!" she declared  in a  joyful voice,

 holding up  sheets of parchment  similar to  those on the  tables. She

 stopped at the  door, looking at Kera. She wore  a white blouse neatly

 tucked into a narrow grey skirt that went down to her knees and a pink

 belt with a  butterfly buckle. The shoes on her  feet were elevated so

 that  she stood  balanced on  her toes.  Kera could  not believe  that

 someone  would   ever  wear  clothing  so   impractical  for  everyday

 activities.

      "Stay there," the  man said to the woman, holding  up his arm. "I

 don't know what's happened."

      The woman remained  standing by the door and the  man turned back

 to his box. He quickly  pressed different locations on the rectangular

 pad before the box and took one more look at Kera, then he turned back

 and deliberately  pressed one of  the right hand squares.  Darkness so

 dark that Kera could no longer see at all descended on the room.

      Her back hurting  from where a sharp rock pressed  into it forced

 Kera to leap up from the "steps" she was sleeping on. She looked about

 the cavern she  was in. The fire  was almost out and  her night vision

 began supplementing  her normal sight.  She noticed Rien lying  on the

 ground not far away. However much time passed, he has not moved.

      Kera sat down  next to him, realizing that she  held something in

 her  hand. It  was  the little  glossy  object she  picked  up in  the

 brightly lit  room that she  believed to have been  a dream. It  was a

 thin, smooth rectangular bar, made of some material she had never seen

 before. A slender chain was attached to one side, ending with a silver

 ring. At  the other end  was a strange  golden symbol that  Kera later

 realized to be  overlapping runic letters. A long red  line ran almost

 the full length of the item. It was crossed by many small black lines.

 Down both sides of the red line were more symbols, all in black.

      Kera turned the strange item over.  On the back side a circle was

 cut away in the square. In it floated a glowing arrow and in time Kera

 realized that no matter how it  was turned, level with the ground, the

 arrow always pointed in the same direction.

      She put it away and took  another look at Rien. His condition had

1not improved.  Kera lay down  next to him  and after some  tossing and

 turning, fell asleep again.

      Kera awoke to Rien  trying to turn over. She held  him down for a

 moment,  stroking his  hair and  he  relaxed. She  again examined  the

 condition of  his wounds and  was surprised to  find that the  cut was

 beginning to  heal over  and what she  originally thought  were broken

 ribs was only a severe bruise.

      Satisfied with her diagnoses,  Kera started making breakfast from

 the supplies the men she killed had, waiting for Rien to wake up.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                          Understanding

           by Bill Erdley <b.c.k.a. BERDLEY@BUCKNELL.BITNET>

      As I sit here  under this tree and watch my  friends die, I think

 of how nice a  day this is. It's a fine day to  just sit and watch the

 hawks circle  lazily through the  sky, occasionally dodging  an errant

 arrow. The clouds seem oblivious  to the carnage happening below them.

 The grass,  on the  other hand,  gets to  see it  all; the  blood, the

 horror, the death.

         The grass doesn't understand ...

      I was  one of  the first  to fall  during the  first rush.  I was

 holding my shield a little too high, and I caught an arrow in my right

 leg just  above the knee.  As I stopped to  remove it, I  took another

 arrow in the side.  I fell and crawled out of the  way of my comrades,

 who continued the attack. I had fallen  near the tree, so my crawl was

 not a long one,  but it was most painful. The arrow  in my leg snapped

 off when  I fell, but  the leg  is almost numb,  so I don't  notice. I

 removed the  arrow from  my side, but  it was high  enough to  catch a

 lung. Already  I am coughing  blood, and  the wound continues  to ooze

 through the rags that I hold over it. The rags are soaked.

      Even the grass beneath the tree knows the taste of blood ...

         ... but the tree won't understand.

      This is a fine day for sitting,  and for thinking. How many of us

 know  what we  are fighting  for? How  many know  who we  are fighting

 against?  We fight  for no  good reason,  except that  we are  told to

 fight. Those  that we fight  could as easily  be our neighbors  as our

 enemies. Yet we hack  and slash and kill those that  we have no reason

 to hate; fighting and killing and dying for the whims of some noble.

      I watch a man who I had met last night crash to the ground with a

 cry ...

         ... but the ground can't understand.

      The battle is going badly for us, and I watch my friends fall one

 by one.  They are  proud men;  strong men; brave  men who  would fight

 until they could fight no more. But  they could be proud at home, with

 their families, watching a new child  take it's first step. They could

 be strong  in the fields growing  crops or strong in  the shops making

 horse shoes or plow blades or axe  heads. They could be brave facing a

 storm without  shelter, or protecting  a neighbor from a  wild animal.

 But they are here; these proud, brave, strong men.

      They are here  to die beneath a  sky which has only  now begun to

 weep for them ...

         ... but even the sky doesn't understand.

      The  ground is  cool and  the grass  feels soft,  under the  tree

 beneath the sky.  The battle is almost over, and  the outcome assured;

 we have lost. I  need no longer watch, for I have  seen all that needs

 to be seen. A  warm breeze blows across my face  toward the carnage of

 the battlefield. I can smell the scent of wild flowers in the wind and

 it makes me smile. I can feel the wetness on my cheeks which must have

1come from tears, but I don't remember  crying. I think of my wife, who

 waits for my return.  I think of my children, playing  in a field like

 the one before me used to be.  I think of the nobles who demanded that

 this war  be fought.  I think of  the men whose  blood now  colors the

 meadow.

      Darkness begins to fall in the middle of the day as I think ...

         ... And I don't understand, either.

 ------------------------------------------------------------------------

1                         Opus Interruptus

                         by Wendy Hennequin

                (b.c.k.a. <hennequi@ctstateu.bitnet>)

      Relaxed at last,  Marcellon walked barefoot beside  a woman along

 the shore in Dargon. The sand was warm and the water cool, and the sea

 air soothed  the High Mage's  mind, overwrought with  conferences with

 the  King, War  Councils, nursing  the ill  and wounded  flocking from

 Pyridain, and all manner of  interruptions which dissolved his visions

 as if they were powdered sugar in a child's drink.

      Marcellon  turned to  the woman  beside him  and smiled.  She had

 started appearing  to him  about a  year ago, when  the High  Mage had

 first met Luthias Connall and his twin. Perhaps that explained why she

 looked as if  she could have been related; her  coloring was the same,

 and so was  the shape of her  eyes. She also bore  some resemblance to

 Lady Sable: they  were of a height,  and while they were  not cut from

 the same cloth, neither could either  outshine the other's own kind of

 beauty.

      She soothed  Marcellon's heart.  She always  seemed to  know what

 troubled him, and  although the woman seldom spoke of  the High Mage's

 anxieties, she calmed them by her presence, for Marcellon had the most

 certain feeling that this woman had everything under control.

      He had never seen her on the shore of Dargon before. Once, he saw

 her  in a  meadow, on  a moonlit  night, with  a tall,  blond man  who

 reminded Marcellon of Richard. Another time,  she sat with a man quite

 like Clifton. Once, the High Mage  envisioned her on an archery field,

 shooting arrows.  Marcellon pictured her  many times in a  moving, red

 room, small and uncomfortable.

      Thus, he called her the Wanderer.

      "Who will be hurt in the war?" Marcellon asked her suddenly.

      "The King will be wounded in the last battle," the Wanderer began

 calmly without looking at him.

      The  High Mage  smiled. Of  course she  would know;  the Wanderer

 always  seemed to  know  things,  even things  that  managed to  evade

 Marcellon's crystal.  That question had  nagged the magician  all day,

 but interrupted constantly, Marcellon could find no answers. He should

 have known the Wanderer would tell him.

      She  continued,  "Ittosai Michiya,  too,  will  be wounded."  The

 Wanderer halted and looked up  at her companion. "Clifton will receive

 a severe wound soon, and you must do something, or he will die."

      Clifton? Marcellon's  heart froze.  His daughter's  husband would

 die? "What should I do?"

      "That answer will come to  you soon enough," the Wanderer entoned

 calmly. "I do not need to tell you everything."

      "What of Luthias Connall?"

      That made the Wanderer smile. "Has he not suffered yet enough?"

      "That is not an answer," Marcellon chided guardedly.

      "Do not  worry about Luthias.  Be concerned instead  about Lauren

 and Clifton.  Clifton's wound  is certain;  his death  is not.  And if

 Lauren goes to the battle--"

      A bang--thunder?--sounded,  and Marcellon  jolted awake  to stare

 furiously  at the  door. Cephas  Stevene,  could he  not even  *sleep*

 without interruption?

      "What?" Marcellon  screamed violently, and the  knocking stopped.

 Damn it, hadn't he given the  servants strict orders to let him sleep?

 For God's  sake, he'd been  up all night  at the War  Council--so many

 stupid, mundane  things that  Haralan and Sir  Edward and  the various

 military and noble personel could  have handled by themselves, but no,

 the King  wanted Marcellon's wisdom  or visions or moral  support. God

 knew, but Marcellon  was certain that he instructed  his servants that

1he was absolutely not to be disturbed until at least noon.

      *They*   had  been   doing  it   to  him   all  week--they,   the

 indescribable,  ever-present *they*--the  King, Sir  Edward, the  sick

 ones, the desperate, the dying,  everyone and anyone--and never was it

 worse than it  was now. *They* had stolen the  Wanderer's warning from

 him. His  only daughter was in  danger if she went  to the battle...or

 maybe Clifton could only be saved if she went to the battle. Marcellon

 didn't know, thanks to *them.*

      "Well," Marcellon seethed,  rolling out of the  couch and seizing

 the door handle, "which one of *you* is it this time?"

      He threw open  the door and was surprised to  see Luthias Connall

 there.  The High  Mage  relented a  little. Luthias  had  been at  the

 previous evening's War Council--and had distinguished himself with his

 knowledge  of strategy  and  tactics--and if  Luthias  was willing  to

 disturb Marcellon this  early in the morning after being  up all night

 at War Council, there was a good reason.

      Marcellon looked the young man  over. Luthias Connall was a tall,

 handsome, strong man with the gait and bearing of a warrior- -usually.

 Today, he held his shoulders straight with great effort, but Marcellon

 felt defeat oozing from young Sir  Luthias, as if he fighting a battle

 he  knew he  could not  win. The  Count was  tired, haggard,  haunted,

 anxious--just as  he had been  during Duke Dargon's trial  months ago.

 Hell, Marcellon thought,  staring, he hadn't even been  this bad after

 Mon-Taerleor and his cohorts in Beinison had finished with him.

      "Sit  before  you collapse,"  Marcellon  ordered  with the  brisk

 authority of a healer. "What is it, Luthias, son?"

      "I  need a  sleeping potion,"  the Knight  stated with  his usual

 directness.

      Marcellon practically  shrieked, "You fool!  And you woke  me for

 that? Stole the chance to save  my daughter and her husband for that?"

 The High Mage subdued his frustration, however. If Luthias had come to

 him,  something truly  needed fixing  beyond the  power of  a sleeping

 potion. "Why not have you wife make you one?"

      The Count of Connall scowled  through his beard. "Oh, she'll make

 one for  me, all right, but  not for her." His  eyes pleading, Luthias

 faced the  magician. "If  she doesn't  get some  sleep, it'll  kill us

 both."

      Marcellon  sat on  the edge  of his  barely rumpled  bed. "What's

 wrong that she's  not sleeping? Is it  the babes? I thought  you had a

 wet nurse."

      "We do. It's not the girls, Marcellon. It's me."

      Marcellon fought to  hide a smile. "Most men would  enjoy a woman

 who couldn't get enough, manling."

      Worried  as he  was,  young Luthias  still--still!--rose for  the

 teasing.  "You--!" he  began, but  he  finished with  a pillow  tossed

 expertly at Marcellon's  head. The High Mage murmered a  word, and the

 feather missle dropped  inches from his face.  Luthias was sputtering.

 "You--you know  better--I mean Sable  isn't--I mean she  is--damn you,

 magician."

      The last  was uttered  in half-hearty exasperation,  so Marcellon

 didn't take it seriously. Oh,  young Luthias Connall had reason enough

 to hate users of magic after what the Beinisonian butchers had done to

 him, but the Knight reserved no  ire or prejudice for Marcellon or his

 daughter Lauren. These two he trusted.

      "And don't call me manling," Luthias finished.

      Marcellon chuckled at the displeasure  in the Count's brown eyes.

 The High Mage held no fear of  Luthias in his heart, just as the Count

 harbored no awe of him.  "Come, Luthias," Marcellon encouraged gently,

 "what's wrong with Myrande that she isn't sleeping?"

      The Knight's  expression questioned the mage's  tone. "You're not

1angry with me any more?"

      Marcellon waved the  question away with his hand, much  as he had

 dismissed the pillow. He could search  the crystal later for a warning

 for Lauren and salvation for Clifton. "I know as well as you that your

 Lady Sable won't take a sleeping potion without being tricked. What is

 it, Luthias, son?"

      "She's worried about me," the Count explained. "She's afraid I'll

 die in the war."

      Marcellon considered this. "That  isn't an unreasonable fear. How

 soon do you ride out with the cavalry, General?"

      "The  King promised  me I  wouldn't ride  until after  the Melrin

 Ball. I can't believe he's still celebrating at a time like this."

      Marcellon  understood  it,  however. The  celebrations  gave  the

 message that all  was normal, all would be right  again. Without those

 assurances, the  populace would fall  apart. "He has his  reasons, but

 I'm certain he won't make you attend."

      "Oh, I'm going," Luthias countered, half-laughing.

      Marcellon frowned  mightily. Damn Haralan!  One of these  days he

 was going  to push  Luthias Connall too  far. First,  Clifton's trial,

 then Beinison, now,  Haralan was going to force Luthias  to attend the

 same ball at which his brother had been murdered a year ago.

      Luthias laughed  outright. "Of my own  accord, Marcellon, believe

 it or not. I promised Sable when  I left for Beinison that I'd be back

 to dance  with her at the  Melrin Ball. I keep  my promises. Besides,"

 the Count concluded, his eyes merry,  "if I stayed home, Roisart would

 taunt me  from his tomb, 'Just  another excuse not to  go dancing, eh,

 twin?'"

      Well,  something was  getting better,  the High  Mage noted  with

 satisfaction. Marcellon  had never heard  Luthias joke about  his dead

 brother.

      "Anyway, you'd better give me  the potion. Between her nightmares

 and mine, no one in the house is getting any sleep."

      "Your nightmares?"  Marcellon sometimes dreamed them  too, houses

 or miles away;  those dreams of torture, longing,  flight, cold, fear,

 and murder were incredibly powerful. Marcellon never dared ask if they

 were real. He didn't want to know. "The same ones?"

      "Mostly."

      "What are the new ones?"

      Luthias considered. "I'm tied to a horse. The ocean's in front of

 me, filled with a thousand ships--ours and theirs. There's a battle--I

 move with it, but I can't get  to the ships. I can see Clifton's ship.

 It's hit by  something, and I see  Clifton fall, and the  sea turns to

 blood."

      "Blood," Marcellon whispered. Clifton  would be wounded and bleed

 to death. Oh, granted Luthias Connall  was no mage, and his talent for

 magic  was recessive,  but  the Knight's  dreams  occasionally took  a

 prophetic turn. Roisart had been more  powerful; if only he had lived,

 Marcellon groaned to himself. He could have used the help.

      Then he saw  in his mind a  young man of medium  height with jet-

 black hair and  hazel eyes. His face was Luthias',  but the expression

 it wore was closer to Roisart's face.

      *Roisart-Talador,* Marcellon thought, and  Luthias was before him

 once more. The High Mage blinked the image away.

      "Marcellon?"

      "Clifton is going  to be wounded and bleed to  death," the wizard

 explained, rising, for  there was no time to lose.  He glanced out his

 window and raised both eyebrows. It was past noon, at least two hours.

 He might be able to do it today, on an off chance, if he had help. "If

 I can make him a ring--"

      Luthias shook his head. "What good is a ring going to do him?"

1     "I can  enchant it so  that he will  never loose enough  blood to

 die." At  the Count's look of  disbelief, the magician laughed.  "I am

 not High Mage because I lack power. Still," Marcellon mused, "I cannot

 do it alone. Send your wife to me. Part of the process includes making

 potions, and she has experience in that area."

      "What about the sleeping potion?"

      Marcellon's mind  raced. "We have  only until sunset  to complete

 this," he told the Knight. "The  process must all be completed between

 dawn and sunset."

      "Why not wait till tomorrow? You'll have more time."

      Tomorrow? But  who knew when  the battle  would be? That  was one

 thing that  frequently enfuriated the  mage. He often knew  what would

 happen,  but seldom  knew  when.  Besides, a  feeling  of urgency  was

 pushing him. "I must do it today. I need your wife, Luthias."

      "What about the sleeping potion?" Luthias asked again.

      "I'll give  something to her before  I bring her home,"  the mage

 promised,  distracted. "I  must  make  that ring.  I  cannot allow  my

 daughter's husband to die!"

      He moved  to his  cabinet and  pulled a  lever. A  concealed door

 opened; Marcellon did not make access to his laboratory easy. From the

 cabinet he took a few of the  move mundane of his needs: oil, sulphur,

 and acacia.

      "I wonder,"  Luthias said behind  him, startling the mage  out of

 his preparations, "if having a sword like that would be unKnightly."

      Marcellon turned slowly.  "I don't think so,"  the mage answered,

 uncertain why Luthias  had asked. "I learned this  spell from watching

 the Old Enchanter  in my crystal. He enchanted a  King's scabbard with

 this spell, and the  King was a Knight and a  great leader of Knights.

 Why?"  Marcellon finally  confronted him,  remembering the  Wanderer's

 words. "Do you  want your sword enchanted? You don't  need it. I don't

 need to worry about you, Luthias."

      "Oh,  I'm  willing to  put  my  faith  in my  training,"  Luthias

 confessed, a little  of his normal confidence seeping  into his smile.

 "But if I  had a sword that  would keep me from  bleeding to death--or

 better yet the sword hilt, for  any blade can break--I bet Sable would

 feel much better."

      Marcellon smiled as he realized  the logic behind the suggestion.

 "Send your wife, my friend," he invited. "Have her bring the sword you

 will use in battle."

      The Countess of Connall entered,  and Marcellon ached to see her.

 She was a  beauty, normally, but the worry had  worn her out. Quelling

 sudden fury that  both Luthias and Myrande were being  forced into old

 age without  having reached  their twenty-second  year, the  High Mage

 smiled. "Welcome. Come in."

      Uncertainly,  Myrande  stepped  forward  and  offered  a  swathed

 burden. "Luthias said we would need this, but I have no idea for what.

 What's this all about, Marcellon?"

      Marcellon unwrapped the shroud and smiled at the sword within it.

 "Luthias intends to use this sword in battle?"

      The Countess  grinned. "Why  not? It  has excellent  balance, and

 Carrerra steel  is the best  in the world.  Beinison does know  how to

 make its swords."

      The High  Mage raised  his eyebrow.  "And when  did you  become a

 weapons' expert, Lady Sable?"

      In response, the Countess gave him an arch look. King Haralan had

 been right  when he  said that  Myrande would  have made  an excellent

 Queen.  "Being a  Knight's daughter--and  another Knight's  wife--I've

 manage to  glean a  few facts."  She paused  and relaxed  her imperial

 expression. "Even if this weren't the best sword that Luthias owns, he

1would  still use  it. It  isn't  every man  who wins  the respect  and

 tribute of an enemy, let alone a Knight of the Star."

      "It  was  quite  a  battle," Marcellon  agreed.  "Luthias  fought

 excellently."

      "I figured Sir Edward knighted him for a reason."

      Marcellon rolled  his eyes  in mock-agony. "You're  developing my

 own sense of  humor. Come," he commanded, offering her  hand. "We have

 much work to do."

      A knock on  the door halted the mage mid-step.  "Good God, who is

 it  this  time?" Marcellon  forced  between  clenched teeth.  Myrande,

 trained from  birth as seneschal  and hostess, turned back  and opened

 the door. King  Haralan stood behind it, attempting to  blink away his

 bewilderment.  "Your majesty,"  Marcellon  greeted him  icily, but  he

 supposed he must speak to the man. Haralan was, after all, the King.

      "Good day,  Countess," the  King spoke finally,  taking Myrande's

 hand to his cheek. He looked over  her head at the High Mage, who gave

 him a cold, furious stare. "Your  sevants did tell me not to interrupt

 you, Marcellon, but  there is something I must know.  Can we not speak

 privately?"

      Without taking  his glare  off the  King's eyes,  Marcellon said,

 "Lady Sable,  will you go into  my garden and pick  seven large valley

 lilies? We will need them."

      "As you wish," she answered, ducking out the room's sudden chill.

      "With all  due respect,  your majesty, speak  quickly," Marcellon

 ordered, turning  away. "I have much  work to do. There  are reasons I

 asked to not be interrupted."

      "I  am  sorry," Haralan  apologized  mildly,  and Marcellon  felt

 himself  relenting.  Still,  he  was  furious.  He  was  sick  of  the

 interruptions. "I only need one question answered, and I will leave. I

 quite understand the need to work uninterrupted."

      Suddenly Marcellon saw a collage  of images of Haralan, trying to

 see his sons or catch a nap, trying to write proclamations or pray for

 guidance. He was  interrupted each time. He hadn't seen  his two young

 sons in  a week.  He hadn't slept  for as long.  The High  Mage sighed

 heavily. Kings' burdens were heavy, too. "What is it, your majesty?"

      "Is my brother still alive and well?"

      Marcellon looked up quickly and saw  the pain in the King's eyes.

 "Of course. If  anything had happened to him, I  would have told you."

 Haralan's blue eyes  calmed like the sea after a  storm. The High Mage

 smiled at the King's relief. "The worst he's suffered since he left us

 is a few broken bones."

      Haralan managed a weak smile. "That  puts him ahead of you and I,

 my friend. Thank you."

      As he turned  to go, Marcellon said softly, "He  misses you, too,

 Haralan."

      The King  turned sorrowfully, nodded  once, then asked,  "When is

 the last time you saw him?"

      The High Mage  smiled. "A few days ago." Marcellon  called up the

 memory,  then searched  for  the  vision. Ah,  there  was the  younger

 prince, in his usual place, with his two friends.

      "You see him now?"

      Marcellon nodded. "He is well and quite merry. He is singing."

      "That's like him,"  the King acknowledged. He turned  to go, then

 paused. "If a King may ask..."

      The mage rolled his eyes. "What now, your majesty?"

      "What is  of such importance  that you instruct your  servants to

 deter even the King?"

      Marcellon  closed his  eyes  and took  a  deep breath.  Haralan's

 occasionally pompous attitude always annoyed him. Still, the High Mage

 answered, "Preserving the life of your fleet admiral."

1     "Is  he  in  danger?"  Haralan's  eyes  were  wide  and  worried.

 Maracellon could feel  the cold terror that gripped  the King's heart.

 Good  and skilled--not  to mention  loyal--officers were  difficult to

 come by these days.

      "Be  easy,  sire," Marcellon  assured  him  softly, coming  close

 enough to touch the King's shoulder.  "I believe the Duke of Dargon to

 be in great  danger, yes, but as  long as I can  have an uninterrupted

 day's work,  I may be  able to prevent  his death." And  Lauren's too,

 Marcellon added. What about that battle?

      "Be assured I will do my part to get you that uninterrupted day,"

 the King promised, reassured. "Work well, Marcellon, and thank you."

      Myrande opened the door the instant the King touched the opposite

 one, but  she didn't  enter until  Haralan had  left. "Don't  worry. I

 didn't hear anything but the last bit.  I don't know, and I don't want

 to." Marcellon smiled tiredly and took  the lilies from her hand. "War

 isn't my talent."

      "No,  but making  potions  is," Marcellon  agreed, examining  the

 lilies closely.  Yes, they  would do  well. "That is  why I  asked you

 here."

      "What potions? What are we doing?"

      Marcellon led her  into his laboratory, put the  valley lilies on

 the  table,  and  began  pulling ingredients  from  shelves.  "We  are

 enchanting a  ring for Clifton and  your husband's sword hilt  so that

 they will never  lose enough blood to  die as long as  they wear them-

 -or wield or touch them."

      Without turning, Marcellon could feel the Countess' relief like a

 long-pined-for breeze. She took a step closer to the table and started

 scanning  the   bottles  and  boxes  which   Marcellon  had  selected.

 "Hematite,  coral,  beth  root,   acacia,  garlic,  thyme,  fox  tail,

 amaranth...We're  making a  clotting  salve and  an anti-  hemoragging

 potion?"

      "Triple batches,  and that is  only the first, longest,  and most

 tedious  step,"  Marcellon instructed  her,  fetching  the mortar  and

 pestle and  two glass cauldrons.  "After that  is done, I  must magick

 them so that they will be permanent.  I must cast other spells to make

 them both work  together and yet others to have  their effects work by

 touch and not absorption or digestion."

      Myrande started  shredding the valley lilies.  Marcellon was glad

 he did not  have to lesson her  on how to make the  potions he sought.

 "How do we get the sword and the ring to do these things, Marcellon?"

      "That  is the  most difficult  part," Marcellon  sighed, grinding

 hematite in the mortar. "The final spell, and the one that is the most

 exhausting and exacting--and  therefore the one that  I'll most likely

 have to cast  many times to make it work--transfers  the powers of the

 potions to the sword and the ring." In another mortar, Marcellon began

 crushing red coral. "And we have only until dusk."

      "If  we can't  make it  work  today, we'll  try again  tomorrow,"

 Myrande  promised, sprinkling  the valley  lily strings  into a  glass

 cauldron and adding the oil.

      "I'd rather  finish today,"  Marcellon grumbled.  "I do  not know

 when Clifton will be wounded, but I  know that if he doesn't have this

 ring, he will die."

      Myrande shuddered and reached for the cloves. "In that case," she

 agreed, grinding  them in the  mortar, slowly,  "we had better  get to

 work."

      Marcellon raised his  hands over the clotting salve  and began to

 chant softly. The words were old, soothing, like a long- known prayer.

 The mage felt heat in his fingers  and knew that his hands had started

 to glow. Between two fingers, he crushed a diamond.

1     There was a flash, and Marcellon opened his eyes. "Done."

      Myrande looked from  the High Mage to the caudron  of salve, then

 back. "How do you  do that? Can you teach me? If  I could make potions

 that would never spoil--"

      Marcellon chuckled gently at her  eagerness. "You may indeed have

 a talent for it, Lady Sable. According to Rish Vogel, we have a common

 ancestor ten  or twelve generations  back. However, we don't  have the

 time now for it. Perhaps after the war."

      Myrande studied both  cauldrons carefully. "How do  you know that

 the spells worked?"

      Marcellon blinked at the question.  He had never thought about it

 before. "I...just know. I can feel it." The mage wished he had time to

 show her  how to feel  such things,  but Marcellon felt  rushed still.

 "Come, we have much to do. Move the hemoraging potion toward me."

      Showing greater strength than  her size suggested, Myrande lifted

 the glass pot--with effort, the mage noted--and, grimacing, she set it

 beside him. The  High Mage stretched his hand over  the salve and then

 over the potion.  "Bring me a piece of coral  and another of hematite,

 each as big as  your thumbnail. When I hold my hands  open, put one in

 each." The Countess of Connall scurried toward the counter.

      Beginning in a  whisper and increasing toward  a shout, Marcellon

 chanted again,  the ancient words  in the ancient tongue,  praying for

 both mixtures  to work  together. He  turned his  hands over  and felt

 Myrande  place the  stones on  his palms.  The wizard  held them  out,

 offered them to God on High, raised his voice--

      And  gasped as  if struck.  Marcellon  dropped to  his knees  and

 covered his ears at  the force of the fear. There  was fury, too, from

 another source, just as criplling.

      The power left him, and he  could feel Myrande's arms around him.

 "What is it? Are you well?"

      The High  Mage took deep  breaths. "Something is very  wrong," he

 gasped.  "Call for  dinner. We  may  as well  eat now.  Sir Edward  is

 coming."

      Although  Sir  Edward  Sothos,  Knight  Commander  of  the  Royal

 Baranurian Armies,  hid his emotions almost  professionally, Marcellon

 could sense  the fright--he might have  named it panic had  it been in

 any other man--clanging like tuneless bell. "What happened?" Marcellon

 demanded as he motioned Sir Edward to a chair.

      The  Knight Commander  sat  heavily after  greeting the  Countess

 formally but tiredly. "Your excellency--" he adressed her.

      Marcellon dismissed  his fear of  her overhearing with a  jerk of

 the hand. "You know as well as I that Lady Myrande can be trusted," he

 snapped. "What is it? Say it, Edward."

      The  Galician Knight  took  a  deep breath.  "The  King has  gone

 mad--or Sir Luthias has. I'm not sure."

      Cold, steel bands  snapped around Marcellon's heart  like a trap.

 That  was all  they needed!  "What happened?"  the High  Mage demanded

 again. If Edward didn't spit it out, and quickly, Marcellon decided to

 read his mind. This avoiding the question--

      "The  King,"  Sir  Edward  revealed finally,  but  slowly,  "said

 something to  me about..." The  Knight Commander paused to  search for

 words. "About bringing  back his brother to be Captain  General of the

 Archers."

      Marcellon's jaw  dropped. He  stood and clapped  his hand  to his

 forehead.  He should  have known  when Haralan  had asked,  he berated

 himself silently. "Steward!" the High Mage bellowed. The cowed servant

 stuck his  head timidly  through the  door. "Summon  the King  and the

 Count of Connall to my presence *immediately!*"

      As  the servant  whisked  himself from  the  house, the  magician

1turned to his  friend. "Don't worry, Edward. The King  isn't mad. What

 exactly did he say?"

      Sir Edward  frowned mightily.  "I don't  remember exactly,  but I

 thought  it sounded  like a  wish, especially  as both  King Haralan's

 brothers are dead."

      Marcellon nodded  grimly. "As is  well known," he  concurred, but

 the  falsehood  tickled  his  heart unpleasantly.  His  hasty,  mental

 accusation of  Haralan also  bothered the High  Mage; he  knew Haralan

 better  than to  think the  King foolish  enough to  try to  bring his

 brother home.

      Next to  the Knight Commander,  the Countess of  Connall frowned.

 The High Mage raised an eyebrow. "What is it, Myrande?"

      She sighed. "I can't believe he--the young prince--is dead."

      "Believe it,"  Marcellon confirmed with  a nod, though  he smiled

 internally at Myrande's  calling a man more than ten  years her senior

 "the young prince." Where the hell was Haralan? "Who did he tell this,

 Edward? It is imperative."

      Sir  Edward took  a  moment to  remember.  "Myself, Sir  Luthias,

 Ittosai Michiya and Ito, Sarah Verde, and Coury."

      Marcellon breathed his relief. Those few could be trusted to keep

 quiet. "Good.  Luthias will need  no such instruction, but  the others

 must be  made to hold their  tongues. And as  soon as he and  the King

 arrive, I hope there  will be no need for him to speak  of it any more

 at all."

      "I have already  spoken to Captain Verde and to  Coury. Answer me

 this,  old man:  if  Haralan's brother  is dead,  why  is Sir  Luthias

 upset?"

      "I'd  like  an answer  to  that  myself," Marcellon  interrupted,

 glaring at the unopened door. Where was Luthias? Where was the King?

      "Luthias doesn't think Prince  Richard is dead," Myrande supplied

 easily. She  stared out the  window at  the near-setting sun.  After a

 moment, she  turned back to  the High  Mage and the  Knight Commander.

 "When my father came to Uncle  Fionn with the news that Prince Richard

 had been declared dead, we were all appalled. Luthias finally asked my

 father how  he had  died. Then  Uncle Fionn laughed  and told  us that

 Prince Richard probably was still alive, and that he was only declared

 dead so that King Haralan could take the throne."

      Marcellon fought  cringing. That  was too  near the  truth. Well,

 leave it to  Fionn Connall not to  miss a trick. And  damn Myrande for

 her excellent memory.  She couldn't have been more than  eight or nine

 at the time of Richard's "death."

      "I see," the Knight Commander said slowly. Then his eyes widened,

 and  this time  Marcellon saw  the  fear plainly.  "Nehru's blood,  no

 wonder Luthias exploded! If Haralan could bring his brother back--"

      The High Mage  raised his hand, and Sir Edward  ceased. "I'm sure

 Sir Luthias merely misunderstood him."

      "What did my husband do to  the King?" Myrande asked quietly, her

 voice testy.  Marcellon smiled  at her  willingness to  defend Luthias

 even if he had done treason. Marcellon's own wife had been like that.

      Sir Edward patted  her hand. "Nothing of great  insult or injury,

 my lady. He  merely roared, 'Why don't you just  *give* the country to

 Beinison?' and marched off with his castellan."

      Marcellon pictured  the entire  situation without benefit  of his

 powers:  Haralan's  announcement,  Luthias' explosion  and  departure,

 Edward's  cautioning the  ladies to  keep  this quiet,  and his  quick

 journey to the High Mage's house. "Well, that's like our Sir Luthias."

      "And  he's right,"  Sir Edward  concluded.  "Or he  would be,  if

 Prince Richard were still alive.  As I understand the inheritance laws

 of this country,  the chosen child becomes heir.  If Haralan's brother

 were alive, then Haralan's right to rule would be uncertain."

1     "True," Marcellon agreed.  "But we needn't worry."  The High Mage

 took a deep breath. "I may never  get that ring done," he muttered. He

 faced  the Knight  Commander again.  "I'll clear  the matter,  Edward.

 Don't worry, but keep quiet."

      "Thank  you," a  relieved  Sir  Edward exhaled  as  he rose  with

 dignity.  "Good afternoon."  He moved  toward the  door, then  turned.

 "Lady Countess, you have an  excellent memory." The Knight Commander's

 scar danced as he smiled. "Do you perhaps remember when we first met?"

      The Countess of Connall gave him  a smug grin. "It was the Melrin

 six years ago.  You had come to  judge the tournament and  to visit my

 father."

      Sir  Edward  bowed,  and  Marcellon saw  the  Knight  Commander's

 pleasure in his face. "I don't recall who won that tournament."

      "My father did," Myrande reminded him, tilting her chin proudly.

      "He was a good Knight," Sir  Edward declared. There was no higher

 praise from  the Knight  Commander, as  Marcellon knew  well. Edward's

 smile  wrinkled near  his eyes.  "I  do remember,  however, that  that

 particular  tourney  was Luthias'  first.  I  turned to  Sir  Lucan--"

 Myrande warmed  at the mention of  her father. "--and said,  'I do not

 want to meet your squire when  he reaches twenty-one.' It is still not

 a pleasant  thought." Sir  Edward paused and  squinted. "As  I recall,

 Luthias took third place in that tournament."

      "That's because there were no  bloody Bichanese!" Myrande rose as

 if she had been shot from  a bow. Luthias, obviously in pain, stumbled

 through the  door, supported on  one side  by his chief  aide, Ittosai

 Michiya, and  on the other by  Michya's older brother, Ito.  All three

 wore armor,  but Luthias'  breastplate hung  in three  pieces. Derrio,

 nervous and anxious, followed behind.

      Myrande rushed to  help. "Lay him down,"  she instructed quickly.

 "No, on the floor," she corrected  as Michiya and Ito moved toward the

 couch.

      "Your excellency, do you think you should attend him?" Sir Edward

 protested, horrified.

      The Countess  laughed. "This  isn't the first  time I've  put him

 back together."

      Marcellon entered the fray. "What  have you done to yourself this

 time, manling?"  He clucked mildly when  the Count gave him  an acidic

 stare. Luthias  would not still  be in a  temper if he  were seriously

 hurt.

      "Broken rib, I  think," the young Count groaned  as the Bichanese

 gently rested  him on the floor.  Myrande dropped to the  floor at his

 side. "I was sparring with Ito."

      "And I thought you were  saving yourself for Beinison," Marcellon

 quipped, moving to  the Count's left and kneeling on  the floor beside

 him. He reached out his hand and probed Luthias' chest gently.

      "They've  had their  chance  already,"  Myrande snapped,  looking

 coldly at the wizard.

      "My armor exploded," Luthias told them, glancing from his wife on

 one side  to Marcellon on  the other. "And Ito  hit me again.  It's on

 Sable's side, Marcellon."

      "I did not see it until after I struck the blow," Ito apologized,

 his Baranurian still somewhat halting.

      "It's no wonder," Luthias agreed,  groaning as his wife found the

 injured bone. "Stevene, you Bichanese move like lightning."

      Myrande  snatched  a knife  from  her  belt and  sliced  Luthias'

 undershirt  open. Ugly  purple-brown  bruises  decorated the  Knight's

 strong chest.  The High Mage  quickly whispered a spell,  and Luthias'

 armor fell off.  Marcellon tossed the plates to  the Knight Commander,

 who shook his head grimly as he inspected it.

      "I'm  glad  you're on  our  side,  sir,"  Edward told  Ito  quite

1sincerely. The Knight  Commander touched the crushed  plate in wonder.

 "I would not like to be your enemy." The samurai bowed, and Sir Edward

 looked at his officer. "I doubt it can be repaired, Sir Luthias."

      "That's all right. It was pretty  old." The Count tried to take a

 deep breath but found he couldn't.  "Stevene, what I wouldn't give for

 Bichanese armor. You can move like the wind in that stuff."

      "And it does not...explode, as you say," Ito added.

      "So you will  have your birthday present  early," Michiya dropped

 casually. "It will be ready in two days' time, anyway."

      Despite the pain,  Luthias grinned at the prospect  of new armor.

 Marcellon chuckled at the boyish expression  then laid his hand on the

 broken ribs and whispered a  spell. Luthias sat up almost immediately.

 "I like you, Marcellon. Last time a  broke a rib, I couldn't fight for

 two months."

      "You broke more than one this time," Marcellon informed him, "but

 I certainly  couldn't keep you off  the battlefield for two  months in

 times  like these."  The Royal  Physician  and High  Mage ignored  the

 Countess' glare and continued his prescription. "Two days, Luthias. No

 fighting." The young Count nodded, and his lady wife helped him to his

 feet. "You may, however, be fitted for your birthday gift and dance at

 the Melrin Ball."

      Luthias grinned and turned to Ito. "Rematch, next week."

      The Bichanese  turned to  his brother,  who translated  the first

 word. Ito bowed. "Very well."

      "What  were  you  doing  fighting with  the  Bichanese,  anyway?"

 Myrande wondered as her husband put an arm around her.

      Marcellon smiled  at them, wistfully remembering  such times with

 his wife. He quickly supressed the ache.

      "I  have a  lot to  learn  from them,  Sable," Luthias  explained

 easily. "Besides, I needed some way to work that frustration off." The

 young Count scowled. "God, King Haralan's crazy. How can he even think

 of bringing Prince Richard back?"

      "Luthias,  wouldn't  you  bring   back  Roisart  if  you  could?"

 Marcellon  asked gently,  and the  Count looked  away, his  expression

 amguished. Marcellon hated to bring  up a painful subject--it had been

 a year,  less a day,  that Roisart had  been murdered--but he  knew no

 better way to  make the young Knight understand his  King. "That's all

 the King meant."

      "Why is it  that you do not want this  Prince to return?" Ittosai

 Michiya, confused, asked Luthias. "Is he an evil man?"

      "No, he's  great," Luthias  told him,  grinning. Marcellon  had a

 quick vision  of young Richard  playing with Luthias and  Roisart, and

 smiled too. "He used to teach me strategy by playing toy soldiers with

 me." Funny,  that's how  I taught  Richard, Marcellon  remembered. "He

 used to  climb trees with  us and  everything. But," the  Count darkly

 concluded, "he was supposed to be King."

      "He didn't want to be King any more than you wanted to be Baron,"

 Marcellon admonished Luthias sternly.

      "Yet King  Arneth chose him  as heir over King  Haralan," Luthias

 reminded the Mage.

      "Why?" Ittosai Michiya asked. "Is not Haralan a good King?"

      "Certainly, and  a better one  than Richard would have  been, but

 Richard  was his  father's  favorite," Marcellon  said, pacing.  Where

 *was*  Haralan? God,  if he  didn't get  here and  allow Marcellon  to

 dismiss these people, he'd never get that ring done!

      "You  are saying  that there  would  be problems  if this  prince

 returns?" Ito said, his face stern with concentration.

      "There  will be  no problems.  The  Prince is  dead," Sir  Edward

 stated.

      "You wished  to see me, Marcellon?"  the King asked mildly  as he

1walked blythely into the  nest of the Wasp King. The  High Mage took a

 step forward,  but Luthias,  holding Myrande with  one arm,  beat him.

 "I'm glad to see you, Sir Luthias. I wished to speak with you."

      "I bet," Luthias spat angrily. Sir Edward sent his Knight a stern

 look, which Marcellon  knew the Count ignored  deliberately. "How soon

 are you starting the civil war, your majesty?"

      The King looked from his Cavalry General to the High Mage. "Is he

 well?"

      "I believe  Sir Luthias has  misunderstood a remark  your majesty

 made about  bringing back  your brother  Richard," Marcellon  told him

 slowly, his blue-green eyes steadily holding the King's.

      Suddenly  white-lipped,  King   Haralan  inspected  Sir  Luthias'

 furious face. "I  merely wished I could bring him  back. I would think

 you would  understand me,  Sir Luthias,  as you  have lost  a brother,

 too."

      Luthias'  anger evaporated  into shock  and confusion.  "You mean

 he's really dead?" he gasped.

      Haralan glanced at Marcellon, who  returned the gaze steadily and

 nodded.  Shifting his  eyes  back  to Sir  Luthias,  the King  laughed

 hollowly, and Marcellon saw the King's jaw shake. "Marcellon swore it.

 Are you calling him a liar?"

      "No, of course not," Luthias  reassured him quickly. "But sire, I

 thought--"

      "Yes,"  Marcellon interrupted,  then  he caught  the King's  eye.

 "Baron Fionn Connall thought perhaps  our declaring Richard dead was a

 political ploy to put you on the throne."

      Haralan groaned and put his head in his hands. Marcellon felt his

 despair--and the fear, too. If Fionn Connall had seen, how many others

 had? "Luthias, I can no more bring  my brother back than you can bring

 back yours!"  the King cried.  He seized his tall  Knight's shoulders.

 "Can't you believe that?"

      Luthias lowered his eyes. Marcellon sensed the young man's shame.

 "Forgive me, your majesty."

      "Sir Luthias," Haralan said slowly, breathing deeply, "if somehow

 I could bring my  brother back and I was planning on  doing it, I hope

 you would explode  and prevent me. I realize what  would happen if..."

 The King looked toward Marcellon. "We all know what would happen."

      "I certainly  hope that you would  not be so rude  about it," Sir

 Edward  scolded his  Knight  harshly.  "Courtesy is  the  virtue of  a

 Knight, Sir Luthias."

      "And advising  the King is  the duty  of a Knight,"  King Haralan

 added softly. "Don't  be so hard on him, Sir  Edward. I understand the

 anger he  feels." The King  watched Sir Luthias sorrowfully.  "I, too,

 have  lost much  of my  family  and would  not sit  still for  someone

 increasing the danger.  Besides, Sir Luthias has  realized his mistake

 and  apologized, and  I accept  that." With  effort, the  King smiled.

 "Come, Edward, and you, too, Sir Luthias. We have much to do." Haralan

 scanned the room. "And no one is to speak of this."

      "Understood, your majesty," Ittosai Michiya said, then he quickly

 translated for his brother, who nodded. Derrio covered his mouth.

      "I'll  see you  later, Sable."  Luthias  kissed his  wife on  the

 mouth. "How are the sword and ring coming?" the younger Knight asked.

      "The ring!" Marcellon breathed.  "Shoo!" he commanded, waving his

 hands  nervously at  the  King,  the Knight  Commander,  the Count  of

 Connall, his squire, and the two,  dignified samurais. "I have much to

 do. And Haralan, issue a proclamation if you have to, but I can't deal

 with any more interruptions, unless you want you Fleet Admiral dead!"

      The King smiled and turned toward the door. "Good day, Countess."

 Haralan motioned to her husband. "Attend me, General."

      "As you wish, your majesty," Luthias agreed soberly.

1     Marcellon  heard them  no more,  and  he didn't  notice when  his

 assistant  fairly shoved  the Knight  Commander  out of  the room  and

 slammed and bolted to door. There  wasn't time to waste. The sun would

 be setting in an hour.

      Such an  hour. Marcellon had  to cast  the spell binding  the two

 mixtures thrice  before it took. Then  he boiled the mixed  potion and

 salve over a heavy fire, too hot for this day, but necessary. Plunging

 his hands into the scalding compound, the High Mage cried the spell in

 a  loud,  pained  voice.  The  enchantment  sealed  over  the  mixture

 immediately, God  be praised, for  Marcellon couldn't cast  that spell

 more  than once  a day.  The damage  to his  hands couldn't  heal more

 quickly.

      The High Mage  cast a quick look  out the window. A  half hour to

 sunset,  perhaps, and  the most  difficult spell  left to  do. Myrande

 stood patiently, awaiting his orders  like a dutiful seneschal. "Bring

 the burning yellow sand and oil,"  Marcellon requested as gently as he

 could. He hands burned, and he whispered a spell to speed the healing.

      Myrande  retrieved the  two substances  from a  nearby worktable.

 Marcellon nodded toward the combined potions. When the Countess placed

 the two beakers near the cauldron,  Marcellon reached out and dipped a

 hand in  each. Almost absently, he  sprinkled the sulphur and  the oil

 over the potion.

      "How  does   it  work?"   Myrande  asked,  watching   with  avid,

 unconcealed curiousity.

      The High Mage chuckled despite  his scalded hands. "It would take

 years of training for you to be able to understand, Lady Sable."

      Myrande considered his  words, then inquired, "How do  we make it

 work, then?"

      "Lay Luthias' sword and the  silver ring on the table," Marcellon

 commanded. While she did so, he explained, "When the mixture cools, we

 will dip the sword hilt and the  ring in it, then set them afire. When

 I say  the spell, the  fire and the potions  will be absorbed,  and we

 will be done." Marcellon grimaced  at the difficulty of this seemingly

 simple process and added, "If it takes."

      "Why wouldn't it?"

      "It's a very difficult spell,  Lady Myrande," the wizard tried to

 enlighten her.  "Spells are...fixed, and  if one syllable is  off, one

 bit  of  rhythm  a  fraction  late, the  spell  won't  work.  Like..."

 Marcellon's mind  searched for something she  could easily understand.

 "Like leaving a potion to boil overlong, or underlong."

      Myrande nodded thoughtfully and looked  out the window. "Not much

 time,"  she  commented.  Turning   back  to  Marcellon,  the  Countess

 wondered, "If necessary, could we finish tomorrow?"

      "We'll have to begin at the beginning again," Marcellon told her,

 finishing the delicate mixing. "Give me the ring and the sword."

      Myrande handed both objects to him and watched the High Mage with

 blatant  curiosity.  Carefully,  for   his  hands  still  burned  most

 wretchedly, Marcellon dipped  the silver ring and the  sword hilt into

 the  mixture  of  the  clotting salve,  the  hemoragging  potion,  the

 sulphur, and the  oil. After one last glance to  make certain that the

 objects were well covered, Marcellon  uttered a single word. Both ring

 and hilt erupted in flames.

      "So far,  we do well,"  sighed the mage.  He raised his  arms and

 closed  his eyes.  When he  began murmering,  Marcellon felt  his body

 shiver, as it should.  He felt power flow down his  arms, and the hot,

 white light  burned his hands.  Marcellon felt the great  release when

 the light  left his  fingers like harnessed  lightning and  struck the

 ring and the sword.

      Marcellon  opened his  eyes and  watched them  burn. If  all went

 well, the fire at any moment would be sucked into the silver.

1     The ring and sword hilt burned.

      "Damn,"  Marcellon whispered.  He scrutinized  the worktable.  "I

 said the  spell rightly..." When  his eyes  fell on the  cauldron, the

 High Mage  reached out and touched  the side. Too warm.  He hadn't let

 the mixture  cool enough.  Then Marcellon laughed  at himself.  In his

 anxiety, he hadn't let the mixture cool at all.

      The  magician turned  to his  assistant and  smiled ruefully.  "I

 suppose patience is not one of my virtues today," he sighed. Marcellon

 marched toward the window and yanked the curtain back. Twenty minutes,

 perhaps, until the sun set for the day.

      "How much does it need  cool?" Lady Myrande wondered, placing her

 hand cautiously on the side of the cauldron. "We haven't much time."

      "We'll wait a few minutes, then try again," the High Mage decided

 as he wearily fell into a chair. "I have no wish to repeat this on the

 morrow, Lady Sable. Although,"  Marcellon continued, his eyes dancing,

 "I doubt  we could have  more...ah...interesting problems than  we had

 today."

      Myrande chuckled. "Don't tempt fate."  She handed him a goblet of

 wine. "What if we don't get it done?"

      "We'll do it again tomorrow," Marcellon promised her. She sounded

 so worried, as if Luthias would be killed before her eyes if he didn't

 have the sword by this evening.  The High Mage could hardly blame her.

 Roisart  had  been  murdered  in  a peaceful  ballroom,  a  year  from

 tomorrow.

      Still, Marcellon didn't want to wait until tomorrow any more than

 the Countess did. Clifton's life was  in danger; he, too, could die at

 any time. And Lauren--

      The High Mage grimaced as  he thought of his daughter. Marcellon,

 now that he knew of its  existence, felt the danger surrounding Lauren

 like a stench-filled fog. Lauren, if  she goes to battle...what if she

 goes to battle?

      "I'm glad to  know Prince Richard is still  alive," Myrande began

 calmly.

      Marcellon started out of his thoughts and stared at the Countess,

 who was gazing at the setting sun. After a moment's consideration, the

 High Mage answered, "After all that, you think him still alive?"

      The Countess turned  slowly and smiled regally. "Why  not? He is.

 He must be."

      Marcellon stared at her sharply and quickly reached for Myrande's

 thoughts.  'If Prince  Richard were  dead,  you would  have said  so,'

 Marcellon caught.

      "I did  say so,"  Marcellon protested, although  he knew  she was

 right.

      "Sir *Edward* said so," Myrande  corrected him smoothly, "but you

 didn't,  and  neither   did  the  King.  Besides,   there's  no  other

 explanation for your anger and the King's fear."

      She  read people  too well,  that one,  Marcellon concluded.  The

 winter in court  had taught her much; Myrande had  learned how to read

 eyes and  faces and tones when  words could not be  trusted--too often

 the case  at court.  Still, the High  Mage realized  acknowledging her

 assessment was too dangerous.

      "Myrande," the  High Mage  sighed heavily, for  he hated  to lie,

 "Prince Richard  is dead. He  has been  dead nearly fourteen  years. I

 swore it on the Word of God. Would I be forsworn?"

      She  doubted then;  Marcellon  felt it.  Myrande  knew well  that

 Marcellon never lied--almost never, the Mage reminded himself.

      But  she  only doubted--and  only  for  a moment.  Myrande  still

 believed Richard lived. By not pronouncing him dead at the very first,

 the  High Mage  realized that  he  had convinced  stubborn Sable  that

 Richard  still  lived. Oh,  Myrande  would  say nothing  more--in  her

1thoughts, Marcellon gleaned the  Myrande's realization of the futility

 of fighting the  High Mage--but still she believed. Damn  her, she was

 as stubborn as Lauren when Lauren magically knew something.

      Lauren--What would happen to Lauren?

      The mage sprung  from the chair impatiently. As soon  as this was

 done, he  would search his  crystal, day  and night if  necessary, and

 send a warning to his daughter when  he sent her husband the ring. But

 the ring must be finished. As for Lady Sable, let her believe what she

 wishes, so  long as  she remains  silent. There was  no time  to worry

 about it  now. Marcellon  knew without looking  that barely  a quarter

 hour of sunlight remained.

      "Come,"  Marcellon  half-invited,   half-ordered  his  assistant,

 "Bring the ring and the sword to me, Myrande."

      Marcellon  took  them from  her  and  dipped them  carefully.  He

 immersed the objects in the  carefully concocted mixture a second time

 to  be sure  of  their coating.  Once  again, he  placed  them on  the

 worktable and set them on fire with a word. Marcellon lifted his hands

 in spell and prayer and closed his eyes.

      Marcellon's body quaked gently as the  power of the earth and the

 air flowed through his body and  gathered at his hands into hot, white

 lighting, pure  and powerful. The  power began to  elongate, lightning

 waiting to strike--

      Lightning in a  dark forest, covered with  clouds--great wind and

 fire--blood on the  ground--Lauren stood within in,  calling out words

 of horror and magic.

      And  the lightning  coursed through  Lauren, fell  on her  from a

 stormy sky and fled from her in many directions to sear as many trees.

 Lauren screamed with the pain of  a banshee, but she didn't release or

 banish the  lightning as  Marcellon had taught  her. Seven  trees were

 sinking into the earth that spawned them, and more were burning.

      The lightning  grew brighter, and  Lauren glowed with  its power.

 One  more levin-strike,  and  it split  a great  oak  in half.  Lauren

 screamed--Marcellon heard  himself scream  her name--and  his daughter

 collapsed on a high cliff amidst the cries of children.

      "Is  Lauren  all  right?"  Lady  Myrande  was  asking  anxiously.

 Marcellon sensed her  arms around him, but the Countess  seemed so far

 away.  The High  Mage  tried to  open  his eyes,  but  the room  swung

 dizzily. "Marcellon? Are you all right?"

      "Lauren," the  High Mage murmered, clutching  his head miserably.

 "Oh, my baby."

      "Marcellon,  the  spell,"  Myrande  reminded him.  The  mage  was

 beginning to feel cold stone beneath him. "It didn't work."

      "Lauren," Marcellon groaned. She had  to stay out of the battles.

 He had to warn her. Without opening  his eyes to the swaying room, the

 High Mage  climbed to  a standing position.  "Lauren," he  croaked. "I

 have to warn Lauren."

      "Marcellon, the spell!" Myrande insisted. "There's no time!"

      "I can't let her die," Marcellon mumbled, stumbling blindly in no

 coherent  direction. The  mage suddenly  felt someone  supporting him.

 "Myrande, my daughter....the lightning..."

      "We'll warn her," she promised. "I  tell you, we'll warn her. But

 Clifton and Luthias--Marcellon, cast the spell!"

      That's  right--Clifton  and  Luthias--but  Lauren--and  Marcellon

 feared to call the lightning again, lest it kill his daughter. Lauren!

 Lauren!

      "The sun is setting!" he heard Lady Sable scream. "Marcellon! The

 spell! Clifton will die! You told me Clifton will die!"

      Clifton--yes--Clifton, too,  must be  saved, for Lauren,  for the

 King. But the lightning--

      No, Marcellon  knew his  spell did  not--would not--hurt  his own

1daughter.  Not his  spell, no.  But  I must  warn her!  the High  Mage

 thought, but  even as he  did so, he raised  his arms and  created the

 spark that set the  sword and ring afire. I must  dip them, he thought

 dazedly, but they burned as if  newly immersed in the potions. Slowly,

 breathlessly, the High  Mage murmered the words that set  the magic in

 motion, that  called power from  the earth and  from the air,  and the

 lightning gathered at his hands.

      Marcellon knew  when the  lightning struck, and  as the  fire was

 pulled into the sword hilt and the ring, the High Mage collapsed.

      Marcellon  did not  raise his  head from  the table  when Luthias

 entered  the sitting  room  well  after dark.  Marcellon  knew it  was

 Luthias; he had had plenty of  time to aquaint himself with the rhythm

 and sound of Luthias'  walk on the ships bound to  and from Magnus and

 in the  long winter months in  Pyridain. Marcellon even knew  when the

 young  Knight bent  to  kiss his  wife,  fast asleep  as  a kitten  on

 Marcellon's plush couch.  The High Mage sighed; he  had often bestowed

 such a caress on his own,  sleeping wife when the King's business kept

 him late.

      Ah, Eliza, my sweet Eliza...

      Marcellon heard  the young Count  pause before a side  table, and

 the High Mage  would have smiled if  he had the energy.  "You may take

 it. It is finished." With effort, Marcellon opened his eyes to see the

 Knight, satisfied,  slip the sword  into its scabbard. "It  will serve

 you well."

      "Clifton's ring?"

      "It  is on  his  hand as  we  speak." That  spell,  the one  that

 transported  the  little  ring  and  the  warning,  finally  exhausted

 Marcellon so that even lifting his  head from the table where he wrote

 his daughter was nigh impossible. "I could not wait for a messenger. I

 saw Lauren's death."

      "Lauren's?"  Luthias questioned.  "Maybe  you should  make her  a

 ring."

      "It would not help. She will not die of wounds. I have warned her

 to stay away from battle..."

      "Marcellon."

      And the High Mage  knew the time had come. He  had known that for

 some time  the questions that  plagued Luthias Connall,  and Marcellon

 had known that  sooner or later, the young Knight  would confront him.

 Without waiting for  the question to be asked,  Marcellon answered it.

 "I did foresee your  father's death. I knew he would  be thrown from a

 horse,  and I  did  warn  him, Luthias.  To  his  credit, your  father

 believed  me.  Still,  there  was  no way...the  drug  Manus  used  on

 Dragonfire worked through  the poor horse's food. There was  no way to

 detect  its administration  until it  struck,  and when  it was  over,

 well..."

      "And my brother? You were at the ball, Marcellon. Didn't you--"

      "My  visions are  imperfect,  son. Some  are  plain, others  like

 dreams...and they only function if there is no change. I never foresaw

 your brother's death." Marcellon grasped a breath with tired lungs. "I

 saw yours."

      "Mine?" The Count sounded surprised. "But I didn't die."

      "I tell you,  I see things that will happen  if nothing changes,"

 Marcellon repeated. "I saw, as if in a dream, your brother invested as

 Duke of Dargon, and  he asked me what he should  do now. But something

 happened--he saw the assassins, I guess--and he died, not you."

      "Why didn't you  save him?" Luthias demanded,  his voice grieved.

 "Marcellon--"

      "I could not have saved him," Marcellon admitted heavily. "I have

 great skill in  medicine and magic--but not even I  can bring back the

1dead. The poison  they used on Roisart was  immediate, like ardonatus.

 Roisart was dead before he fell to the floor at your feet. He was dead

 when you reached him, Luthias. I was farther away. There was nothing I

 could have done."

      "Nothing," Luthias  whispered. After  a long silence,  the Knight

 said, "It is past midnight, and it's a year he's been dead." Marcellon

 heard the  young man shift toward  him. "Do you ever  stop missing the

 dead, Marcellon?"

      "No." Tired grief flooded Marcellon's consciousness. "It has been

 six  years since  my wife  died, and  there are  still nights  I wake,

 expecting her beside me and  grieving to remember her gone." Marcellon

 wearily turned  his head and looked  at the Count of  Connall. "Do you

 not miss  Sir Lucan still and  your uncle Clifton?" The  Knight nodded

 glumly.  "And your  brother  and father...thank  God  your wife  lives

 still, Luthias, son."

      "She won't be hurt in the war, will she?"

      The thought startled Marcellon; he  had never even considered it.

 "I don't  know. Now take your  wife home, and drink  a sleeping potion

 that you  both might sleep  uninterrupted. And if  I can do  the same,

 I'll tell you tomorrow."

      Marcellon listened as the Count  of Connall took two steps toward

 his wife; again, the young man  paused. "I hate to ask, Marcellon, but

 what about me?"

      The High Mage managed a coughing chuckle. "Sir Luthias, they have

 sent assassins for  you. They have imprisoned you.  They have tortured

 you and drugged  you. They sent a  Knight of the Star  against you- -a

 high-ranking one at that--and you defeated him. I don't think Beinison

 possesses  anything that  can  kill  you. You  seem  to  be under  the

 protection of God Himself."

      "Well, I'm grateful," the  young Knight admitted, chuckling also.

 In a more serious tone, Luthias continued, "And I am grateful for what

 you have given  me, Marcellon. You saved my life  once, and now you're

 preserving--"

      Before the words were finished,  the mage's eyes slid closed, and

 he snored  softly. Smiling,  the Knight silently  lifted the  mage and

 carried him to his bed in  the next room. "Rest well, Marcellon." Then

 Luthias took his sleeping wife, who cuddled  to him as if she were one

 of their newly born daughters, home.

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    (C)   Copyright    November,   1990,   DargonZine,    Editor   Dafydd

 <White@DUVM.BitNet>. All rights revert to the authors. These stories may

 not be reproduced  or redistributed (save in the case of reproducing the

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