From: "Avid Reader - Fledgling Writer" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:29:37 EDT

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 --   DargonZine Volume 1, Issue 1        11/04/88          Cir 687    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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   DAG                        Dafydd                 Editorial
   Unlikely Partners, Pt 2    Max Khaytsus           12-16 Naia, 1013
   Runaway                    Michelle Brothers      29 Seber, 1012, and
                                                     16 Naia, 1013
   Steel Souls                John Sullivan          10-11 Yule, 1013
   Inquiries                  John Doucette          29 Yuli-7 Sy, 1013
   Trial by Fire, Prologue    M. Wendy Henniquin     6 Sy, 1013
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1                          Dafydd's Amber Glow

         Hello,  readers!  Here   it  is,  the  first   issue  of  the
     'replacement' - or  rather, continuation - of FSFNet.  As the new
     Editor,  I hope  that DargonZine  serves you  all as  well as  my
     predecesor's magazine did.
         DargonZine  is  not  really  a replacement  for  FSFNet,  but
     rather  a vehicle  for the  continuation of  the Dargon  Project,
     which  made up  a substantial  part  of the  material in  FSFNet.
     DargonZine  will not  be publishing  anything non-Dargon,  but R.
     Allen  Jervis  (C78KCK@IRISHMVS) has  consented  to  take up  the
     slack and  publish any non-Dargon  SF or Fantasy that  anyone out
     there would like to write and/or read.
         This first  issue contains  five stories, three  from authors
     new to the project. The first is from Max Khaytsus, and continues
     his  "Unlikely Partners"  story, Part  1 of which  was in  FSFNET
     Vol11N2.  The second story, "Runaway", is by our first new author
     Michelle  Brothers.   The first part of  the story provides  some
     background to the rest  of the story, and the  second part, which
     happens some  9 months later,  happens shortly after  Max's story
     ends - in fact, they cross to a minor extent.
         The third  story is from  another new author,  John Sullivan.
     "Steel Souls"  gives us  a little insight  into the  character of
     Ittosai.  It takes  place between  "Worthy of  the Title"  and "A
     Visit to Connall",  which appeared in FSFNet  Vol10N5 and Vol11N3
     respectively, before Ittosai has become the Castellan of Connall.
         The fourth story  is by John Doucette (our  third new author)
     and  is   titled  "Inquiries",  which  introduces   some  foreign
     intrigue.  And last  is the  beginning of  an exciting  new story
     line  by  M. Wendy  Henniquin  called  "Trial  by Fire".  A  well
     packed issue  for the initial issue  of DargonZine - I  hope that
     you readers will enjoy it.
               Dafydd, Editor DargonZine
                 (m.k.a. John L White)
                 (b.c.k.a. [email-masked])

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1                           Unlikely Partners
                                 Part 2
                             by Max Khaytsus
               (b.c.k.a [email-masked])

     Terell poured  together the  last of the  solutions. If  his books
 and  speculations were  right,  he would  be able  to  keep the  virus
 alive for  days. Finding  a cure  would be  profitable, but  how often
 would a  cure for lycanthropy be  needed in a civilized  land? To turn
 a profit he  would have to have  a disease to cure. If  only there was
 a  way to  make people  get the  disease...and of  course in  sight of
 profit, there is always a way!
     Deep in thought  Terell started his walk home. The  first thing he
 needed was a constant source of the virus, then a place to spread it.

     By the  time Kera came  downstairs to breakfast, Rien  was already
 up, waiting for her.  To her it seemed he invested  far too much trust
 into  a common  street  thief.  At least  more  than  she would.  Most
 people don't  just pick  up thieves  off the street  and hope  for the
 best. It's  not like  she had  any plans to  stab him  in the  back or
 anything, but he was still far too trusting.
     "I  didn't  grow  any  new  body  hair  last  night,"  Kera  said,
 slumping down in a chair across from Rien.
     "Good morning,"  he answered. "I  take it you're late  because you
 stopped to check?"
     "I'm used to  getting up late, since  I do most of my  work in the
 late afternoon and evening."
     "Warriors  get up  with the  chickens," Rien  said, motioning  for
 the innkeep to serve breakfast.
     "I was  wondering about your  sleeping habits," Kera  grinned. "So
 what do you want me to do first?"
     "After  breakfast we  need  to get  your equipment  and  I want  a
 wizard to check you over. Then we will worry about your training."
     "Sorry,  I don't  do wizards,"  Kera said,  looking over  what the
 bar maid placed before her.
     "If you want  to be apprenticed, you  will have to do  what I say,
 especially if it is to save your life."
     Kera's eyes narrowed. "Why?"
     "I  don't take  apprentices so  that they  foam at  the mouth  and
 howl at the moon," Rien answered calmly.
     "Why  didn't you  just leave  me? Or  kill me?  I stole  from you,
 hurt you! For God's sake, I wanted to kill you!"
     "That's not  my way," Rien continued  in his calm tone.  "I do not
 kill for pleasure  or sport. Life is  a right I can  neither grant to,
 nor revoke from an individual."
     "Even in defense of yourself?"
     "Defense is different. Yesterday and the day before were different."
     "Your eyes changed color yesterday!" Kera remembered.
     Rien's  voice became  even quieter.  "A  gypsy once  told me  that
 what you saw happened derives from another duality within me."
     "Like what?"  Kera leaned  forward, not  quite realizing  that she
 was also beginning to whisper.
     "It's nothing that  should concern you at the  moment," Rien said.
 The rest of the meal passed without a word.

     "Where is  she, old  bat?" Cril screamed,  throwing the  old woman
 to the ground.
     "I don't know. She never came back..." was the weak response.
     "You're lying!"
     This time there was no answer.
      "Put her in the blocks," Cril breathed his anger to the guards.
     Kera had  become very  important to Liriss two days ago,  when she
 made the  biggest theft  since she started.  Apparently that  was also
 enough  to have  two  of  Liriss' men  arrested  and  two more  beaten
 beyond  recognition. Whomever  that purse  belonged to,  was seemingly
 mad about the whole affair. For that matter, so was Liriss.
     Cril stepped  back to allow the  guards to drag out  the old maid.
 "Be  you  damned!"  she  hissed  as they  half  carried  her  out.  He
 restrained himself from the urge to break her neck.
     Cril  took  the  time  to  dress in  medium  armor  before  before
 presenting his  information to Liriss.  There was no reason  to expose
 one's self  to unnecessary  danger. His  boss has  been known  to kill
 people  for  as  little  as saying  "good  morning".  Naturally  those
 mornings were  in no way good.  This was another morning  that did not
 seem good  to Cril. All  he was  able to learn  was that the  girl was
 last  seen leaving  the alley  with a  tall, blond  man. Odds  are she
 never even  made it  inside the  building. That  was more  than reason
 enough to  believe the old  chamber maid and  believe her he  did, but
 she was  going to drown just  for a show  of force, for the  memory of
 all those  before her  and all  those yet to  come...and most  of all,
 for these who may  have known the answer to  his question and withheld
 information.
     Cril knocked on  a door and entered.  On the far side  of the room
 stood  Liriss, holding  a  nearly  full wine  glass,  staring out  the
 window in deep thought.
     "Sir!" Cril began, but was abruptly interrupted.
     "Spare me your excuses. I heard what you did."
     Cril took a single step back in fear.
     "The  maid is  too  old  to serve  properly,  but  should you  lay
 another hand  on any of  my staff, no  matter how decrepit,  you shall
 be joining them in their fate."
     Cril  drew  in a  breath  of  relief. Refraining  from  punishment
 would not be hard.
     Placing the  glass on the  window sill, Liriss turned  around. His
 harsh  features expressed  anger.  "If you  do not  locate  Kera in  a
 week, don't bother coming back."

     "Grandfather!"  yelled the young girl.  "Some big guy wants to see
 you!"
     Rien  smiled  in  spite  of  his serious  visit.  There  was  some
 innocent, naive quality in children that always produced this reaction.
     "Oh, I'm  coming!" he  heard the  wizard's voice.  "Doesn't anyone
 know I  work at this time?"  His soft expression changed  at the sight
 of Rien and  Kera. "I don't want  you here and I  certainly don't want
 her here. Go."
     Rien blocked  the closing door  with his  foot. "You have  to help
 me. You are the only expert on this in town."
     "No," the wizard  insisted. "What I know is only  history. I am no
 alchemist.  There are  plenty of  others  who are  better equipped  to
 help you. Please, go now."
     There was no arguing  with the man and Rien was  not about to try.
 He  could  always  challenge  a  fighter or  a  thief,  but  uninvited
 pesterance of  a mage could  be costly.  "Just one thing,"  he finally
 asked. "Tell me if she has the disease."
     Unwillingly Taishent  pulled out the  white orb and taking  a step
 towards   Kera,  uttered   the   incantation.  A   faint  green   glow
 illuminated his hand.
     Rien  looked  at the  glow  with  a  feeling of  helplessness.  No
 explanations  needed to  be  given, but  at least  now  the truth  was
 clearly available.  "Thank you,"  he said quietly  and taking  Kera by
 her arm, lead her away from the door.
     "Wait!" Taishent  called out. "If you  are unable to find  help in
 the  city, I  hear there  is an  old woman  living deep  in the  woods
 south of Dargon. She may be able to help."
     Rien wanted to  turn around to thank the man  again, but something
 inside of him urged him to keep going.

     In  the morning  of  the  following day,  Rien  returned to  visit
 Terell, who he had  not seen since the day of  his initial visit. Many
 changes had taken place in the alchemist's mind since then.
     "I can't have  you running around all the time!"  Terell yelled at
 Rien. "I  need you  to provide  me samples  when I  need them,  not at
 your leisure!"
     "I came  here to get a  cure, not to  be bled into a  glass. There
 is only so much blood I can provide for you."
     Terell  paced his  lab, glancing  at filled  and empty  glassware.
 "How can  you expect me  to find you a  cure if I  have no samples  to
 study?"
     Rien shrugged. "How can  I expect to be cured if  there is no life
 fluid in me?"
     Grabbing a  vial off the shelf,  Terell thrust it to  Rien. "Drink
 this. It will relieve your fatigue."
     And indeed  it did  so. With  a single sip  Rien collapsed  to the
 floor,  spilling  the potion  and  breaking  the  vial. The  sound  of
 breaking glass filled his ears even after darkness filled his eyes.

     Kera  searched out  the  scribe's  cart at  the  market place  and
 carefully approached,  searching the crowd for  familiar faces. Public
 appearances like this could be dangerous now.
     "Ellis, do  you have the  book I asked  for?" she inquired  of the
 shifty man watching the cart.
     He glanced  around and motioned her  to follow him to  the side of
 an  enclosed booth.  Shielded  by the  wall, he  produced  a book  and
 handed it to Kera.
     "The Realities of  Myths" read the silver lettering  on the cover.
 Kera flipped it open  to reveal the seal of Dargon  on the inside. The
 book immediately snapped shut.
     "You stole this from the Duke's library?" she almost exclaimed.
     "You said you only wanted to borrow it for a few days..."
     "And Rish Vogel just handed it to you?"
     "Well, no...it's kind of on a secretive loan."
     Hiding the  book in the  folds of  her cloak, Kera  thanked Ellis.
 "I'll have it back to you in a few days," she promised.
     "No hurry. No one knows what happened to it. Keep it."
     Kera smiled and turned to leave.
     "Wait," Ellis  stopped her. "There are  a lot of people  out there
 who want  to see you  dead. Be careful. I  heard some men  are looking
 for  you. I  am sure  if you  come  back now  and tell  them you  were
 detained, they won't punish you."
     Pulling  the hood  of  her  cloak up,  Kera  disappeared into  the
 crowd. The decision she was about to make would be very final.

     The  ringing  continued  in  Rien's  ears  even  after  his  sight
 returned. With great  effort he focused his eyes  on his surroundings.
 He was  sitting upright, in some  laboratory, with his back  against a
 wall. A heavy  wool blanket was draped over him.  Someone was spilling
 some liquid down his chin.
     "Stop dribbling  and drink it,"  he heard Kera's voice  and turned
 his head.   His detached thoughts registered a liquid splashing on the
 blanket.
     'The  potion!' he  thought, trying  to avoid  the glass,  but only
 succeeded in spilling some more of it.
     "It's only water," he heard Kera's voice again. "Drink it."
     He did.  A minute  passed as  Rien tried  to compose  himself. For
 some reason  his body still  did not  follow the instructions  he gave
 it. 'What was that damn potion?'
     "Terell..." Rien tried to voice his thoughts.
     "He's  not here,"  Kera's voice  sounded again  and he  again felt
 the glass at his mouth and swallowed.
     "My  clothes..." Rien  struggled,  realizing the  blanket was  the
 only thing he had on.
     "Bring me  his clothes!" Kera  ordered and Rien struggled  to look
 up. A  vague shape  and running  footsteps were  the only  evidence of
 another presence.
     "You didn't  have any when I  found you," Kera told  Rien and gave
 him another sip of the water.
     Rien's head  was beginning to  clear and  the ringing in  his ears
 subsided.  Again  he  looked  around  the  lab.  The  most  noticeable
 feature was a body in a pool of blood.
     "Who was that?" Rien asked.
     "An assistant, I  guess," Kera answered. "He tried to  stop me, so
 I jabbed him a few times."
     Rien tried not to look disapproving. "How long was I here?"
     "Today is the 15th of Naia; it's past sunset."
     "Almost two  days..." Rien murmured.  "What did that  damned idiot
 do to me?"
     "There  are a  lot  of scratches  on your  right  arm," Kera  said
 cautious not to  disclose that her examination had  been more thorough
 than that.
     Rien pulled his  arm from under the blanket.  It barely responded.
 On it were  three deep incisions that still produced  traces of blood.
 "He bled me. Damned idiot!"
     Running footsteps again  filled the room and a  young boy appeared
 with  a bundle  of  clothes.  He carefully  handed  them  to Kera  and
 backed off.
     "Are you strong enough to get up?" Kera asked Rien.
     He nodded and stood up, clutching the blanket.
     "I  assume you  want me  to  turn around,"  Kera grinned,  handing
 Rien his clothes.
     "Up to you," he answered and let the blanket drop.
     Kera instantly  spun about to  face the wall.  "I see you  have no
 problems with modesty."
     "Do you?" Rien asked, starting to dress.
     "I  might not  have had  a great  childhood, but  I did  have some
 social values implanted in me."
     "Oh,  those..." Rien  said.  "Modesty  was not  a  very big  thing
 where I grew up."
     "This  might come out  a bit foolish, but just  where did you grow
 up?"
     "East of here, a very long distance away."
     "Past the mountain range?" Kera insisted.
     "Past the  mountains," Rien agreed.  "In the  forest on the  other
 side."
     "I've never even been outside of Dargon," Kera sighed.
     "You  may get  your  chance soon.  I  just lost  all  my trust  of
 Terell. Tell me what happened in the last two days."
     Kera leaned  against a table,  still facing  the wall. "I  went to
 see a friend yesterday morning, asking about that book you wanted..."
     "Did you get it?" Rien interrupted her.
     "It should  be on that big  table with straps," Kera  answered and
 continued  her  story. "He  told  me  to come  back  in  a day,  so  I
 returned to the  inn to wait for  you. I began getting  worried by the
 time it  got dark, but decided  to wait until morning.  In the morning
 I picked  up your book  and went back  to the inn  to see if  you were
 back, but  only found that  my room  had been ransacked.  Yours wasn't
 touched, so I  had all of our  stuff moved to an inn  down the street.
 I don't think anything was taken.
     "It was late afternoon  by the time I decided to  go look for you.
 You mentioned  Terell before you  left yesterday, so this  shop seemed
 like a good  start. Terell wasn't here, but his  apprentices were. The
 big  one  didn't  want  to  let  me see  the  work  area,  so  I  grew
 suspicious and  started a fight  with him.  I guess all  bookworms are
 weak by nature."
     Kera  paused, having  finished  her story.  She  waited a  moment,
 then asked. "Are you done yet?"
     "One way to find out," Rien answered.
     Kera  cautiously turned  around. Rien  sat on  the large  table in
 the middle  of the room,  legs crossed  under him, examining  the book
 she had brought. He was dressed.
     "This book belongs to the Duke of Dargon," Rien accused.
     "Uh-huh," Kera  said carefully. "You  said it was  very important,
 so I spared no effort."
     "Doesn't matter  either way,"  Rien said.  "We'll be  dead, should
 we  fail. Liriss  is after  you, Terell  has it  in for  me, the  town
 guard  is probably  after  us  both and  with  lycanthropy  on top  of
 this...seems pretty grim, doesn't it?"
     Kera simply nodded.
     "Let's go  get our stuff.  We'll meet  Terell here in  the morning
 and be out of town by night fall."

     Kera  moved about  the room  in the  bulky field  plate. "This  is
 very heavy,"  she complained to Rien.  "How do you expect  me to fight
 in it?"
     "You'll get  used to it," he  said, checking to make  sure nothing
 was  left  behind.  "A  horse  saddled for  the  first  time  is  also
 uncomfortable, but it gets used to carrying both gear and rider."
     "A saddle is probably more comfortable than this," Kera continued.
     "This is  only for your  protection," Rien said. "You'll  get used
 to wearing  it and fighting  in it or you  won't live very  long. Grab
 your pack and let's go."
     The innkeeper  was the  only one up  downstairs. He  lazily looked
 at  Rien and  Kera  clanking their  way  down the  stairs.  A look  of
 surprise spread on his face.  "Leaving so early, sir?"  he inquired of
 Rien.
     "One has to get up early to go hunting," Rien responded.
     "Looks like you're ready to hunt a dragon," the innkeep laughed.
     "A small  one," Rien said  and placed  some money on  the counter.
 "A deposit for the room," he said. "We will return."
     "Do  you  require  assistance   with  your  horses?"  the  innkeep
 hurried to ask, placing the coins in his pocket.
     "Thank you, but no," Rien answered.
     "Then good luck on your hunt!"
     "You intend to come back?" Kera asked Rien once outside the inn.
     "No, but if  we are traced this far, the  innkeep's belief that we
 will return may  delay pursuit," Rien answered. "I  believe in dealing
 with only one problem at a time."
     "Do you think Liriss will follow us?"
     "Might.  I'd  rather expect  the  worst  and  be faced  with  only
 pleasant surprises." He stopped near Kera's horse. "Get on."
     "How!?"
     "Place your left leg in..."
     "In armor?" Kera interrupted him.
     "Unless you have other means of protection, yes."
     "It looks  like it's going to rain," Kera  said.  "The armor might
 rust."
     "Well  maintained armor  will  not rust  from  getting wet,"  Rien
 answered. "Get on."
     Kera looked at  the horse apprehensively, then  grabbing the sides
 of  the saddle  and placing  her left  foot in  the stirrup,  tried to
 pull herself up. The horse shifted uncomfortably.
     "Don't pull," Rien  instructed. "Jump up and swing  your leg over,
 just like you do without armor."
     "Yeah, right!"  Kera exclaimed and  after a moment  of preparation
 did so, landing in the saddle with a grunt. "That hurts!"
     "Be glad it  wasn't full plate," Rien answered,  swinging into the
 saddle of his own horse.
     "Does that hurt men too?" Kera asked mockingly.
     "Only if they don't know what they are doing," Rien answered.
     The  two made  it  down to  Terell's  laboratory-shop by  sunrise.
 Using  the key  they took  from  the store  a few  hours before,  they
 unlocked  the  door and  walked  in.  The  boy,  who they  locked  in,
 hurried to the back of the room in fear.
     "Give him  some food and  have him stay  in the other  room," Rien
 instructed Kera, relocking the door behind them.
     After  Kera left,  he started  looking over  the vials  located on
 the shelves. Things  useful on quests were often found  in places like
 this and  while not having a  lot of experience with  magic, Rien felt
 he  could lay  a little  claim to  knowledge of  herb lore  and simple
 alchemy...especially  if  labels  were  available. By  the  time  Kera
 returned, four of the vials stood separately on the table.
     "What's this?" she asked, taking a seat across from the door.
     "Three of them  save lives, the other takes  them," Rien continued
 rummaging through  the shelves. "It's going  to be a long  journey. We
 may need them all."
     Kera nodded slightly. "What are you going to do about Terell?"
     "Listen to him. He may have a good reason for what he did."
     "What if he does?"
     "Let him continue his work."
     "And if he doesn't?"
     Rien faced  Kera. "A reason that  I do not find  satisfactory does
 not necessarily  have to  be bad.  When he  provides his  reason, I'll
 make my judgement."
     "And the boy?" Kera asked.
     "The child  is only an apprentice.  He did only what  he was told;
 I can't blame him for that."
     "Sometimes I wish things were simpler," Kera sighed.
     "The  simpler your  life, the  harder you  would have  to work  to
 keep it  that way," Rien  answered, finally giving  up on the  rest of
 Terell's potions. He sat down, looking at Kera, who turned to face him.
     "A maid in Liriss'  chambers told me to be careful  of what I wish
 for. Someday someone may grant it..."
     "And  you  won't  like  the results,"  Rien  finished  the  famous
 proverb. "I don't believe that's true."
     "What  do you  mean  not  true?   Do you  think it's  not true for
 everything?"
     "I don't  think any of  it is true. It  depends on who  hears your
 wishes, not what the wishes are."
     Kera opened  her mouth to  speak, but the  sound of a  key turning
 in the  door lock forced  both her and Rien  to take cover  behind the
 furniture in the shop.
     A moment later the door opened and someone walked in.
     "Kapatil? Baska?" Terell's voice sounded as the door slammed shut.
     Rien permitted the  footsteps to get past him,  before getting out
 from behind his  cover. Terell spun around and tried  to back out, but
 the door to the laboratory was locked.
     "I will give you  one chance only to explain  your actions,"  Rien
 stated.
     Terell's  response  was  drawing  a dagger.  "Damn  half-breed!  I
 should have killed you two days ago."
     Rien's eyes flared as he drew his sword.
     "Damn  bastard half-breed!"  Terell muttered  again, swinging  his
 dagger. It impacted  against Rien's chest plate, doing  no more damage
 than a light scratch.
     Rien  thrust   his  sword  forward,  flawlessly   penetrating  the
 alchemist's upper chest.  He looked on as his victim  slid down to the
 ground,  letting out  his  final  breath. With  it  the  truth of  the
 events of the last two days fled forever.
     Kera's hand clamped down on Rien's shoulder. "Half-breed?"
     He shook his head. "An old, evil man."
     Kera looked  at the slain body  against the wall for  a moment. "I
 guess we're finished here. Let's leave before the town guard finds us."
     "We're not  leaving just yet," Rien  walked over to the  main door
 and relocked it. "Right now we need to get some rest."
     "We can't stay  here!" Kera protested. "We'll  be discovered! With
 him!"  She thrust  her hand  out,  pointing to  Terell's body,  grimly
 staring at the arguing pair.
     "I  will put  up  a sign  that  will announce  the  shop as  being
 closed for the day  and at nightfall we will leave  town. One day will
 not steer anyone's suspicion and we need the rest. At least you do."
     "I have  been up  for almost  two days  now," Kera  admitted. "But
 being in your shoes does not seem like an appealing alternative."
     Rien smiled. "Be ready to leave at dusk."

     Cril and  three of  his men stepped  out of the  latest inn  to be
 checked. Doing  the work himself made  him feel better, since  a found
 trail  was  quickly  lost  the  day before,  due  to  a  subordinate's
 negligence. This last  visit uncovered a lot more than  Cril had hoped
 to learn. Kera  and her new companion  left early in the  morning on a
 hunting trip.
     There were two  clear alternatives--follow them or  wait. The wait
 could be extremely  long. Their rooms were paid for  a week in advance
 and Cril  had now  well under that  for a deadline.  He looked  up and
 down the  street in deep  thought. There was  no need to  test Liriss'
 threat by  waiting around.  To follow  would give  a better  chance of
 success. That was the only thing he had left to do.
     "Spread out,"  Cril told his  men. "Two armored  individuals can't
 be hard to find. Ask everyone!"
     The guards proceeded in different directions.

     Shortly  before  dusk  Rien  sat   down  to  speak  with  Terell's
 remaining  assistant. The  boy sat  quietly  in a  corner, fearing  to
 even bring his eyes up to look at Rien.
     "You are afraid of me. Why?"
     The boy  did his best  to regain his posture.  "You killed  Master
 Terell..."
     "And you are afraid of my companion as well?"
     "I saw her kill Kapatil..." the boy whispered.
     "Do you think we will kill you?" Rien inquired.
     "Yes," came the barely audible response.
     "If you  promise to  do something  for us, I  promise we  will let
 you go..."
     "You do?" the boy looked up.
     Rien nodded.  "You must promise not  to tell anybody that  we were
 here or what we did and you will be free to go."
     "Really?" the youngster's eyes looked hopeful.
     "But you  must promise!  And keep that  promise...or we  will come
 back and  find you." Rien's  expression was  hard. "You will  say that
 some  men came  and killed everyone and  that you were scared  and ran
 away."
     The boy nodded silently, dropping to his knees. "I swear it, Sir!"
     Rien  waited  patiently to  stress  the  moment. "You  will  leave
 after we do." He quickly got up and exited the laboratory.
     "What happened?" Kera asked him in the other room.
     "I wish  I didn't have  to scare him  like I did,"  Rien admitted.
 "He looks no older than ten years."
     "Did he agree to keep quiet?"
     "I  said we'll  come back  and find  him is  he tells  anyone... I
 haven't seen anyone that scared in along time."
     "Will we?"
     "If  anyone learns  of what  we've done  here tonight,  I fear  we
 will no  longer have to  worry about that  issue," Rien said.  "Do you
 need help with your armor?" he tried to change the topic.
     "Just a little," Kera said. "My arms don't bend backwards."
     At dusk they  unlocked all of the  doors and set on  their way out
 of Dargon in a strong downpour.

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

1                               Runaway
                                Part  1
                          by Michelle Brothers
                     (b.c.k.a. [email-masked])

     "What the  hell do  you mean  she's disappeared?"  bellowed Teran,
 slamming his  flagon onto  the table, slopping  liquid over  the brim.
 "Damn it,  Apollo, you  were supposed  to be keeping  an eye  on her!"
 Blue eyes flashed dangerously in the man's fair face.
     Apollo  toyed  with the  idea  of  beating  a hasty  retreat,  but
 decided against  it. The fact  that Teran  would probably beat  him to
 the door was  almost as daunting as  what would happen to  him when he
 was caught.
     "I followed her  into the market, just like you  told me to," said
 Apollo, keeping  his voice steady.  "She shopped around a  bit, bought
 a few things, then the next thing I knew, she was gone."
     Teran's  glare  darkened.  Apollo  forced himself  not  to  cringe
 under the man's penetrating gaze.
     "You're  one of  the  best  people I've  got  and  you lost  her."
 Teran's voice  was quieter than  his glare  and sounding all  the more
 dangerous for it.  His fingers drummed rhythmically on  the table top,
 near his double edged eating dagger. He stood up slowly.
     "I have the twins looking for her..." Apollo said desperately.
     "That doesn't excuse-"
     The  door to  the  room slammed  open,  effectively cutting  Teran
 OFF.  A  PAIR OF  IDENTICAL BROWN  HAIRED  BOYS  STOOD, FRAMED  IN THE
 doorway.
     Apollo  whirled at  the  sound. "Well?"  he  snapped, masking  his
 relief at the interruption in anger.
     "She's not in  the city anymore," said one of  the pair, fingering
 the  cheap  copper medallion  around  his  neck.  "She wasn't  in  the
 market or the area around it."
     "I checked  the docks," said  the other  twin. He looked  from one
 glaring man  to the other.  "According to...someone I know  there, she
 got passage on  the Dolphin's Anchor. It's headed for  the mainland. A
 city by the name of Foroni."
     Apollo paled  and Teran let  loose an explosive string  of curses.
 The  twins looked  at  each other,  then slipped  back  out the  door.
 Their  hastily retreating  footsteps  could be  heard  over the  blond
 man's muttering. Apollo turned back to Teran, who had sat down again.
     "Have to  get her back  here," he murmured, oblivious  to Apollo's
 presence. "Can't make a damn move without her."
     "Why?"
     "What?" Teran's  head snapped  up, realizing  that he  hadn't been
 left alone by  the twins exit. He smoothed the  obvious anger from his
 face and forced himself to relax back into the chair.
     "Why  can't  we  make  a  move  without  Eliowy?  Why  is  she  so
 important?"  Apollo  leaned against  the  wall  and folded  his  arms,
 looking  more  confident than  he  actually  felt. Steady  black  eyes
 studied Teran from across the room.
     "She  has  to  lead  the  attack  from  the  castle,"  said  Teran
 frankly. "You know that."
     "There are  other people  far more capable  to lead  that attack,"
 snapped  Apollo, pushing  himself  off the  wall.  Black hair  flopped
 into his eyes. "Why her? Why not you or Vargis or even me?"
     Teran was silent.
     "Does it  have something to do  with that little trip  she went on
 last year?"  pressed Apollo, advancing  a little closer to  the table.
 "Something  she  found  along the  way to  make her  more  formidable,
 perhaps?"
     Teran was still silent, but his bright blue eyes glittered.
     "A  new power,  perhaps?"  Apollo advanced  another step.  "Magic,
 maybe? IS THERE magic involved?"
     "No!"  Teran didn't  specify which  question the  violent negative
 was appended to.
     "Then what the hell is it? Why is Eliowy so gods-damned important?"
     Teran  rose  slowly  to  his  full,  nearly  seven  foot,  height,
 glaring down  at his  black haired companion.  Apollo held  his ground
 stubbornly.   "That  is   quite   enough,"   said  Teran,   expression
 completely neutral. "I  want you to find the  Anchor's destination and
 make  arrangements for  me to  follow.  Don't argue!"  he snapped,  as
 Apollo opened  his mouth. "You  will go now and  do as I've  told you.
 I'll have the bribe money ready as soon as you find me a ship."
     There  was  a  brief  stare-off then  Apollo  nodded  sharply  and
 headed for  the door. He  looked back.  "I'll find out,  Teran. Sooner
 OR LATER."  HE LOCKED GAZES WITH  TERAN, THEN  LEFT, LEAVING  THE DOOR
 open.
     Teran  sat down  once  more. "Hopefully  later,"  he said  softly.
 "Hopefully much later."

     By the time  Eliowy arrived in the town of  Dargon, it was pouring
 rain. Water  dripped down her hood,  into her eyes and  down her neck,
 chilling  her. Her  well worn  boots were  covered with  mud and  they
 squished with each  step. Her small pack, which  contained little more
 than a change  of clothes, a few personal belongings  and a hand harp,
 had become  almost unbearably heavy  during the last hour  of walking.
 The sword banging at her hip was like a dead weight, dragging her down.
     Eliowy stared  down the road leading  into the center of  town. It
 was  deserted except  for a  few heavily  cloaked figures  hurrying to
 their various  destinations amid the  clusters of houses. None  of the
 people  seemed  like  the  type  to  give  directions.  Eliowy  sighed
 deeply,  pulled  her  hood  further down  over  her  head,  scattering
 droplets against  the rain  and resumed  her trek  into the  city, her
 way dimly lit by an occasional heavy shielded street lantern.
     A few of  the buildings along the  way were lit, but  none of them
 were  an  inn;  not  that  she  had the  money  to  pay  for  a  room.
 Three...no,  four  coppers would  barely  get  her an  indecent  meal,
 never mind alone a dry place to sleep.
     "Damn," mumbled  Eliowy. "Maybe  I can play  for my  supper. Maybe
 they'll let  me spend  the night  too. Maybe  they'll like  my playing
 enough  to  hire me."  Lightning  flashed  directly overhead,  closely
 followed  by thunder.  The rain  abruptly increased.  "Maybe I  should
 worry about  finding an inn  first.," decided Eliowy  glumly. "Nothing
 like a dose of cold, wet reality to ruin a perfectly good fantasy."
     She resumed  walking, keeping  her head lowered  to keep  the rain
 out of her  eyes. She had walked  about a block when a  glimmer in the
 mud  caught her  eye. A  silver  piece lay  in the  road, rain  having
 washed the  mud from  it. Lightning  constantly flickering  from cloud
 to cloud,  caused the coin to  flash dimly. Eliowy waited  for another
 burst of  lightning before bending down  to pick it up.  What a stroke
 of luck!
     "What have you found, youngster?" someone asked.
     Eliowy jerked  back in surprise,  tripping over her cloak,  as she
 tried to  stand. She  found herself  staring up at  a trio  of hooded,
 armored men.  A lantern made  it impossible for  her to get much  more
 detailed.
     The  foremost  figure  moved  a  step  closer  and  lantern  light
 glinted off the long wood and metal sheath at his side.

     Lieutenant Kalen  Darklen stared down  at the young  woman sitting
 on  the  ground  before  him.  Rain ran  down  her  face  like  tears,
 plastering  her hair  to the  cheeks  and soaking  her tunic.  Lantern
 light glinted  off cloak clasp  and weapon hilt  and gave her  eyes an
 odd amber shine.
     "You all  right, miss?"  Kalen asked, taking  a step  forward when
 the  girl didn't  get  up. Her  fall  hadn't been  hard  enough to  do
 damage, so  there was  no reason  for her to  continue sitting  in the
 mud. He reached down to give a hand up.

     Eliowy scrambled back  as the foremost figure  reached out towards
 her, not  hearing the  man's concerned question.  She stumbled  to her
 feet, putting muddy  foot prints on the hem of  her cloak and tangling
 her scabbard  in its folds.  She stared at Kalen  as he drew  his hand
 back.  The  pair eyed  one  another  for  a  few moments.  Kalen  with
 curiosity. Eliowy with rapidly growing panic.
     "They  must have  heard,"  she thought  wildly.  "Town guards  are
 always talking with each other..." She stepped back.
     A puzzled  frown crossed  Kalen's face. "What  is the  matter with
 you?" he  stepped forward decisively, to  get the girl's face  back in
 to the light.
     THAT  SETTLED THE  MATTER FOR  ELIOWY, WHO  PROMPTLY  PANICKED AND
 BOLTED.
     With  a started  shout Kalen  and  company chased  after her,  the
 bouncing lantern  making the  shadows dance  crazily along  the walls.
 People  were not  in the  habit  of running  from the  guard, even  in
 Dargon and Kalen's curiosity, not to mention his concern, was aroused.
     Eliowy dodged  down the  first side street  she could  find, cloak
 flapping behind her.  "They know!" the thought pounded  through her at
 the same  speed as  the racing  of her  heart and  the pumping  of her
 feet.  "They must  have  heard bout  Tench!"  Another junction  loomed
 ahead of her and she skidded into a right turn.
     Eliowy had  arrived in Tench  after several long months  of travel
 and all  she had cared about  was finding an inexpensive  inn and some
 food. Instead  of this, she  ran across  three men who  took exception
 to her  having a weapon much  finer than their own.  Eliowy's fight to
 keep  her most  valued possession  ended  with one  man dead,  another
 injured and the third running for his life.
     Terrified that the  last man would call the town  guard after her,
 Eliowy fled  the city,  not realizing  that he  and his  fellows would
 not admit to having been beaten by a lone girl.
     The  footsteps grew  closer  and she  slipped  into another  alley
 filled  with crates,  trying to  use her  size to  her advantage.  The
 fading  sounds of  cursing behind  her was  testament to  her success.
 She paused, took several deep breaths, then resumed running.
     Eliowy  rounded  yet another  corner  and  was  back on  the  main
 street  into  and out  of  the  city.  Without thinking,  she  started
 across the  street towards the waiting  shadows of a nearby  alley and
 was almost trampled by two armored figures on horseback.
     In her  mad scramble  to get  out of the  way, Eliowy  slipped and
 once again landed full length in the mud.
     "Are you  all right?"  demanded one of  the riders,  swinging down
 from his mount.
     "Leave  her,  Rien. We  haven't  the  time,"  the other  rider,  a
 female, shifted uneasily.
     "We have  enough time to  be certain  she's all right,"  said Rien
 calmly. He  reached down and  helped Eliowy  to her feet.  "Be careful
 where you're going next time. You might have gotten hurt."
     "Sorry," gulped  Eliowy. Her  eyes scanned  the area  behind Rien.
 "I've got to go now!" She turned, shook off Rien's helping hand and ran.
     Rien returned  to his  horse. "Hey!"  he heard  and turned  to see
 the  lieutenant of  the guard  charging towards  him. "Did  you see  a
 young girl come  this way?" panted Kalen. Rien pointed  in the general
 direction Eliowy had run in. "Thanks!"
     Rien remounted  his horse  as Kalen trotted  away. "Let's  go. And
 you don't have to tell me that was the city guard."
     His partner simply smiled and looked smug.

     Eliowy leaned against  the wall of a  building, breathing heavily.
 It looked  like she had finally  shaken her pursuers. Now  all she had
 to do was find her way back out of the city and she'd be home free.
     Shouldering  her pack  with  a  sigh, Eliowy  moved  out into  the
 street again, right into the arms of Kalen Darklen.

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

1                              Steel Souls
                            by John Sullivan
                        (b.c.k.a. JSULLIV@VTVM1)

     From  the seawall  I watch  as the  sun flows  down to  the ocean,
 bleeding  red into  the  water. The  wind  from the  sea  is cool  and
 vigorous. It blows my  hair in a black cloud around  my head and whips
 the heavy fabric of  my clothing until it snaps like  the sails on the
 ship that brought  me here. I come here whenever  I can, and sometimes
 I work  my way down the  rocks to the  water's edge to dip  my fingers
 in the  sea. It is  my friend,  the sea. I  am stranded on  this alien
 soil, but I can touch the sea. And the sea touches Bichu.
     The wind turns  colder as the evening deepens. The  sun has almost
 completely set  now and the  dockmen slowly  filter away to  homes, to
 taverns,  to wherever  they go.  Some look  at me  as they  walk away,
 noticing   my  different   clothes,  my   face.  They   are  peasants,
 uneducated and  of no status, but  they belong here, and  they can see
 that I do  not. They look at me  with distaste as they pass  and I try
 to ignore them and  look at the remaining spot of  the sun. Sages have
 told me  that when  the sun sets  on Dargon, it  rises over  Bichu. If
 that is  true, then my  father is waking  now, and remembering  that I
 am gone.  It has been  a year  since I left  Bichu in disgrace.  For a
 year my  family has  been shamed,  my father without  an heir.  I fled
 from  honor, and  my life  becomes  more intertwined  with this  place
 every day.  So my  father awakes  and begins a  second year  of sorrow
 and shame. His shame  feeds on my own and feeds it in  turn. How can I
 ever go home?

     The tavern is  called Grey Talka's. It is an  ugly place, near the
 warehouses and the  docks, noisy and full of smoke,  smelling of vomit
 and  cheap ale.  I sit  alone  at a  table  in the  corner, my  swords
 beside me  for the people  here are not to  be trusted. A  maid brings
 me a  tankard of  ale and  I examine it  for a  moment, then  dump the
 contents on  the floor, carefully clean  it with my sleeve  and return
 it  to  her. "Another,"  I  say,  "this  mug."  She says  nothing  but
 returns with  it to  the long table  where the keeper  has set  up his
 barrels.  In  Bichu  a  hosteler  so  insulted  would  either  seek  a
 champion to defend  his reputation or close his tavern.  Here, so long
 as I pay for the slop, I may pour it wherever I wish.
     The barmaid  returns with my  ale and collects her  copper, saying
 nothing.  The ale  is bitter  and  poor. I  drink it  in large  gulps,
 shaking my head to fight it, and order another. Time passes.
     "Mo iti do itte!"
     The  barmaid does  not  come,  and the  men  at  the other  tables
 glance  at me,  their eyes  nervous behind  their dullness.  I realize
 that I have  spoken in Bichanese. "Bring me another!"  I lean forward,
 resting my elbows  on the table; my head  is heavy so I rest  it in my
 hands. I'm  weary of this  land, its coarseness and  barbarism. Decent
 men  are so  rare here  that when  they discover  one they  murder him
 from a  place of concealment with  crossbows. Their honor is  blood in
 the table linens.
     The  barmaid must  be frightened  of  me, for  the keeper  himself
 brings  my ale.  He doesn't  set it  down, but  demands three  coppers
 instead of  one, hoping I will  leave. Several men have  gathered in a
 nervous  group near  the  kegs,  waiting. His  ale  isn't worth  three
 coppers,  but neither  is it  worth one,  and I  have no  intention of
 being intimidated  by these  peasants. I take  a Bichanese  crown from
 my pouch and let it glitter on the table.
     "You'll bring  me as much as I ask  for and leave me alone,  won't
 you?"
     He looks at the  flash of gold for a moment, then  snaps it up and
 sets down  the tankard with  a muttered  "Of course, milord."  He goes
 back to his kegs and argues quietly with the others.
     After  that word  circulates  that I'm  not  the street  character
 they took me for;  I have money. A few even consider  taking me. I see
 them sizing me  up, trying to appear dangerous. Meeting  their gaze is
 enough to send them slinking back to their tables like rats.
     Crude beasts in  a land of animals!  I stand on the  seawall to be
 upwind of them.

     When  I can  stand the  tavern  smell no  longer I  flee into  the
 darkness of  the streets, but  the streets  stink as well.  The entire
 filthy  city  stinks,  like  the  unwashed  people,  their  disgusting
 rotted meat,  their uncivilized habits.  Even the ones who  attempt to
 be  civil  cannot  overlook  their delusions  of  superiority.  "We'll
 teach you  to dance in our  fashion, Lord Ichiya," with  the slightest
 nuance of mockery  on the honorific. "I've learned  your language from
 reading  your  poets,"  he  says,   speaking  like  an  addled  child,
 disappointed  when I  do not  fall at  his feet  in gratitude.  I hate
 Dargon.
     I've  admitted it  and the  hatred  flows through  that crack  and
 washes over  me like a  flood. Even  drunkenness here is  low. Instead
 of  freeing  the spirit,  it  drags  me down  into  the  filth in  the
 gutters.  I walk  rapidly  through streets  unfamiliar  in the  night,
 trying to  find some clean  place but there is  none here, not  in the
 street, or in  the dishonor of the people. "Bastard  dogs!" I shout at
 the  dark,  crumbling  buildings   in  Bichanese,  then  "Zyatai  an!"
 lapsing  into  Bichoi,  the  lower   class  dialect  of  peasants  and
 beggars. Perhaps they will understand this.
     "Koshaddan!  Tokodoshi esuna  ko!" The  hoarse cry  echoes in  the
 abandoned street  and I  laugh. I  can imagine  my mother  hearing me,
 learning that I  know such language. I  can see the look  on her face,
 as if I had greeted guests by pissing in their teacups.
     It has been a  year since I saw my mother  and thieves prowl these
 streets.  I  had  scarcely  left  the ship  when  they  began  hurling
 themselves at  me clumsily  from the dark.  With Roissart  and Luthias
 they came and  countless other times, as if this  land itself feels my
 alienness  and reacts  with  all the  violence it  spawns.  But I  can
 resist Dargon for there is violence within me as well.
     Around me,  in the darkest  corners of the alleys,  furtive shapes
 move  when they  think  I don't  notice. No  one  moves through  these
 reaches of the  city unobserved at night. But these  see my swords and
 move with  caution. I realize that  I have ceased my  shouting and the
 fire  moves  in  my blood  with  more  than  the  ale. I  sense  their
 brutality, ebbing and  flowing like the tides and I  find some part of
 me that needs it.
     I  begin to  call to  the inky  shapes like  a lover.  I sing  old
 Bichanese drinking  songs, anything  at all.  I weave  in my  steps as
 the drunkenness  crests within  me. For  a block  they shadow  me, and
 more.  "Why are  you waiting?"  I cry  in Bichoi,  "I am  foolish with
 drink and my purse is heavy." Come to me now, now.
     They come,  two figures,  weaving toward  me, running  from behind
 me,  one at  each  quarter.  They hold  their  swords reversed,  their
 bodies  curled around  them. From  that  grip they  will slash  upward
 from their  left then  thrust down.  I step, step,  one more  then one
 leg wavers  under my weight  and I stagger.  Then, as my  katana feels
 the  fire as  well and  leaps into  my hand  with a  metallic singing,
 time expands  into the montage  of battle. There  is the sharp  cry of
 the duellist and  the right foot planted behind for  the spin. The tip
 of a  sword nicks my clothing  as I spin away  from it and I  can feel
 my blade moving  like a part of  myself. The clatter of a  parry and I
 continue my spin. Even drunk I can take these fools apart.
     I luxuriate  in the  force of my  body's motion,  the kinesthetics
 of the  sword. A dark  form before  me as I  complete the turn  and my
 left  hand completes  its following  arc and  slaps against  the lower
 menuki,  fingers  wrapping around  the  base  of  the hilt.  The  hand
 shifts the  balance of  the sword  and I hold  my breath,  feeling the
 descent.  And then  the bite  of  the steel.  The ecstasy  of it!  The
 bite, oh, the bite.

     Dim light  brings the morning  and the wind  is chilling. I  am on
 the floor  of my rooms,  drenched in  sweat. I have  committed murder.
 The watchmen  who came soon  after, drawn  by the commotion,  saw dead
 thieves and an  acquaintance of Lord Dargon, and did  not hold me. But
 I  know the  truth.  There is  no  honor in  inviting  attack from  an
 inferior  fighter  to   justify  a  killing.  There   is  only  shame,
 cowardice, weakness.
     It's strange  how little a  moment of  shame leaves of  life. Once
 there was  family, honor. Now  there are only disjoint  snippings from
 time, not  unlike the way of  a battle. The trunk  with my belongings,
 opened  less frequently  every  day. The  remaining  length of  unused
 rice paper tucked  under one arm, flashes of street  life around me as
 I walk  toward the harbor. Fishsellers,  marketwomen, apprenticed boys
 running on  the errands of their  masters as if nothing  has happened.
 Near  the docks  I  discover a  bowl  of  fish stew  in  my hand,  the
 stewmonger expecting payment. I give him my purse.
     Then there  is only myself,  the sun  rising behind me,  the wind,
 the seawall  and the  nervous tossing  of the sea.  There is  only one
 way to  remove a  stain such as  this. I wonder  if my  parents across
 the ocean will feel the sting of the blade.
     I  kneel on  the  seawall, the  end of  the  ricepaper beneath  my
 knees to  keep it  from blowing  away in the  wind. My  katana weights
 the other  end. I watch my  hands wrap a  length of cloth cut  from my
 sleeve around the  blade of the shorter wakizashi,  once, twice, three
 and then  four times. Then  I hold the blade,  one hand ginger  on the
 cloth wrapping,  the other butted  against the  hilt. When I  was born
 my father expected  only that I would  carry the name of  our family a
 step  or two  forward and  not  do it  dishonor. I  have done  nothing
 else.  I  have fled  from  a  challenge to  the  family  name to  this
 forsaken place,  and I cannot  even uphold  the basic tenets  of honor
 here, in  a place  without honor.  Oh father, how  I have  shamed you,
 how I've shamed myself!
     There is  only one  way to undo  the violence I  have done  to the
 reputation of  clan Ichiya. Enough  stalling, enough wallowing  in the
 magnitude of my  shame. A flash of courage to  cleanse it. A stillness
 comes over  me. Honor welcomes the  intention to restore it  and helps
 quiet the  fear. The  sounds of  the town  around me  fade away  and I
 breathe  shallowly,  in  time  with  the rhythmic  beat  of  the  surf
 against  the  seawall. With  the  next  wave,  the surge  of  strength
 through my arms,  and then peace. It comes. The  water climbs, foaming
 white, the pitch  of it rising, and then it  crashes with a tremendous
 booming sound  against the seawall.  The muscles of my  arms tense and
 move.
     And in  the next  instant I  fall sideways,  knocked over  by some
 impact. There  is pain, and  grating of  flesh against stone.  For the
 briefest  moment I  am confused,  like one  just waking  from a  vivid
 dream. Then  I see  a body, on  hands and knees  over my  legs, having
 dived into  me from the  right. Rage  floods through me  instantly, as
 if  it has  always been  there. The  ignorant brutes  can't even  keep
 from interfering  in my most  private moments!  I kick his  chest with
 both legs,  knocking him  away so  that he  rolls back  until he  is a
 pace away  from me and  seated in a clumsy  sprawl. As quickly  I roll
 forward  to my  knees and  move  after him.  The wakizashi's  wrapping
 begins to unwind and  trail behind the blade like the  tail of a comet
 as I raise  it sideways, holding it  over my head for  the quick slash
 downward.  As  I  loom  over  the man  he  moves  forward,  pride  and
 ferocity in  his bearing. He snaps  his head back to  expose the vital
 areas of the throat and barks "Ko choro an!"
     "Do what you must."
     The  ritual  words stop  me  as  if  paralyzed, frozen  in  attack
 posture, the  wakizashi still held  overhead. The cloth  still hanging
 from  the  blade waves  in  the  wind. I  recognize  the  face of  the
 stewmonger, eyes  locked into my  own. He  is frightened, but  he does
 not move.  There is  an instant  to wonder  how he  comes to  know our
 customs so well.  Then he says the words again,  softly this time and,
 unlike that  damned fool of a  chronicler perfectly, with no  trace of
 accent. "Do what you must."
     He is  right. I have murdered;  I cannot expunge their  blood with
 my own.  In death there is  escape, but the situation  remains behind.
 It is only  an escape, the apotheosis of self-pity.  There is no honor
 in  death  to  avoid   responsibility.  The  realization  is  painful.
 Something  I have  been  taught  since childhood  is  a  lie, but  the
 stewseller  is right!  Honor  requires the  facing of  responsibility,
 living with it, dealing with it. I will do what I must. I will go on.
     There is  a clatter as  the wakizashi  falls from limp  fingers to
 the stone.  I fall forward,  sobbing like a child  and he draws  me in
 and holds me  silently. It's a hard thing; nothing  has seemed to take
 on such scope before. Life had always seemed so brief a thing.
     When we  rise to  our feet  there is  blood, soaking  my clothing,
 dripping  into the  crumpled length  of rice  paper. The  blade of  my
 wakizashi has slashed  my side during the aborted thrust  and my fall.
 Working quickly and  efficiently the stew seller bandages  it with the
 cloth from  the blade.  He is  a man  of many  talents, my  rescuer. I
 wonder why he contents himself selling fish stew on the docks.
     From a  pocket he takes  my coin pouch and  returns it to  me. "If
 my  stew is  so bad,  I  shouldn't charge  so  much for  it." A  light
 comment, denying  the seriousness  of the incident.  He is  telling me
 that the matter is  closed. I bow deeply and he  returns the bow, then
 turns and walks back toward his cart.
     I  retrieve my  swords and  return them  to their  place. Suddenly
 freed, the bloody length  of rice paper whips away in  the wind. It is
 carried  over the  harbor  for perhaps  the length  of  a ship  before
 fluttering down to  float on the surface of the  water. My blood soaks
 into the water, and the outgoing tide carries it toward distant Bichu.

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

1                             Inquiries
                          by John Doucette
                      (b.c.k.a JDOUCETTE@UPEI)

     The  guards  at  the  end  of  the  hall  immediately  snapped  to
 attention upon  noticing the black-robed figure  approaching. Although
 the robes  the individual  wore hid  all distinguishing  features, the
 guards recognized  who it was without  so much as a  second glance. It
 was fear,  and a little common  sense, that dictated their  gesture of
 respect.  Unpleasant  things happened  to  those  who displeased  this
 man. The  fact that their  lord held  this dark figure's  abilities in
 high regard also warranted some display.
     He stopped  at the  doors to  Lord Myros'  study and  waited, arms
 clasped within  the sleeves of  his velvet-soft  robes, as one  of the
 guards  entered  the  study  to  inform  his  master  of  his  guest's
 arrival. A  moment later, the guard  exited the study. "My  Lord Myros
 will see you  now," he announced in  a deep voice. Without  so much as
 a gesture of acknowledgement, the visitor entered.
     It was  a moderately  sized study,  but it more  than made  up for
 its lack  of space with  the quality of  the collection of  books Lord
 Myros had acquired  over the years. There were first  editions of some
 of the finest books  dealing with the art of war,  and second or third
 editions  of  books dealing  with  such  varied topics  as  governing,
 economics, and literature.
     In the  center of  the room sat  a round oak  table of  the finest
 quality  and  around  this  were  placed  five  exquisite  high-backed
 chairs  upholstered in  dark purple  velvet.  A fireplace  set in  the
 wall opposite  the entrance  to the  study was  happily alight  with a
 fire that  was just  now beginning  to burn down.  The candles  in the
 candelabras  were extinguished,  thus  casting the  room into  dancing
 shadows made by the firelight.
     Lord Myros sat  in a sixth finely crafted chair  by the fireplace,
 sipping  brandy. He  made  sure that  he and  his  visitor were  alone
 before  speaking.   "Well,  Celeste,"   he  said,  staring   into  the
 fireplace, "are the rumors true?"
     Celeste  regarded Myros  for  a moment  before  answering. In  his
 early  forties, Myros  looked like  a man  ten years  his junior.  His
 trim,  fit body  bore the  scars of  a lifetime  of battle.  Myros had
 long since lost  count of the skirmishes and petty  wars he had fought
 in.  His blond  hair was  cut close  in the  military style.  His blue
 eyes could be  alive with emotion one  moment, and as cold  as ice the
 next. He was  known for his ruthlessness towards his  enemies, and his
 generosity towards his  friends. A valuable ally,  Celeste thought. Or
 a dangerous enemy.
     "I don't have all night," he said sharply.
     "Yes, my lord,"  she replied. "I was merely  sorting out pertinent
 facts. To answer  thy question, my lord, Baranur is  rife with talk of
 an  impending  Bichanese invasion.  The  general  consensus among  the
 king's  advisors is  that  Baranur should  attack  Bichu first  before
 Bichu's forces  are concentrated. King  Haralan hath been  giving this
 line of reasoning serious thought--"
     Myros  laughed uproariously.  "The  fool! The  Bichanese will  cut
 him to pieces!"
     "If I  may continue,  my lord,"  she said  icily. Celeste  was not
 fond of  interruptions. "There are  two in Baranur who  advise against
 attacking  Bichu.  The  first  is   Duke  Clifton  Dargon.  His  Grace
 believeth most strongly  that Bichu would never attack  Baranur in the
 face of  that nation's powerful navy.  He also hath an  earnest desire
 to avoid  war. The  second is Haralan's  Knight Commander,  Sir Edward
 Sothos.  Sir Edward  thinks it  ludicrous to  attack Bichu  for purely
 military reasons,  not the least  of which  is the unenviable  task of
 supplying an army so far from home."
     "The  combined efforts  of both  of these  powerful and  respected
 men, particularly Duke Dargon, hath thus far prevented any conflict."
     "So Edward  is Haralan's Knight Commander, eh?"  Myros muttered to
 himself.
     "You said something, my lord?"
     "Nothing of  importance. What of  Bichu? What are  they planning?"
 he asked.
     "Regretfully, my lord,  my scrying powers cannot reach  such a far
 off land. Only the Bichanese know what they are planning."
     Myros  rose  and  began  pacing,  pondering  possible  courses  of
 action. After several  minutes of this, he set his  brandy down on the
 table and turned to  face Celeste. "I think it's time  we paid a visit
 to Baranur. I'd like  to see how my dear friend  Edward is faring. You
 will come as well, of course."
     "Of course, my  lord," she said. Both knew that  the price Celeste
 would ask would be high.

     Baroness Elaine  Myros strolled the  battlements in the  warm Yuli
 breeze. She  paused in  her wanderings  to take in  the beauty  of the
 sunset. The cloudless  sky was crimson red. Elaine had  never seen the
 sky this color. What does it portend? she thought.
     "There you are, my dear," Baron Myros said.
     She whirled  around, a startled  look on her  face. "Corneilious!"
 she said. "You frightened me!"
     "I apologize,  Elaine. I didn't mean  to. I didn't realize  you so
 deeply in thought. What's troubling you?"
     "Nothing, Corneilious."
     "Are you sure?" he asked dubiously.
     "Yes," she  replied. "Really  darling, there  is nothing  wrong. I
 was just enjoying the beauty of the sunset."
     "Ah. Well now that that's cleared up, I have a surprise for you."
     "Oh? What is it?" she asked expectantly.
     "We're going on a trip to Baranur."
     "Baranur? I've never heard of it."
     "Not many  in the Empire have.  It's a country about  three months
 journey away.  I have friends  there, and I'd  like to visit  them. We
 haven't seen each other in almost six years."
     "When are we leaving?"
     "In about a week. It will take that long to organize things."
     "That should give  me plenty of time to get  ready," she said. "Do
 you know much about Baranur?" she asked her husband.
     "Some," he said. "Why  don't we go to the study and  I'll see if I
 have any books dealing with it?"
     "You should,"  she said  with a  smile. "You have  a book  on just
 about everything."
     Myros  laughed.   "Shall  we?"  As   the  sun  dipped   below  the
 mountains, Myros  and his  wife descended the  steps to  the courtyard
 arm in arm.

     Others were  discussing Myros' planned  visit to Baranur.  An hour
 previously, Celeste  had finished  gathering the spell  components she
 needed. Now she  stood in front of a body  length mirror. The mirror's
 surface  was  a  swirling,  impenetrable  grey  mist.   Celeste waited
 patiently.
     After several minutes,  the mist gradually began to  calm and then
 faded entirely.  The figure  reflected in the  mirror could  have been
 Celeste  but for  the fact  that  it was  a man.  "Cho dakh,  Primus,"
 Celeste said in greeting.
     "Cho dakh, Celeste,"  he replied in a voice that  was barely above
 a whisper. "You have something to report?"
     "Yes, Primus,"  she answered.  "Myros plans  to journey  to Magnus
 on the seventh of Sy."
     "Magnus?" he said,  a faintly surprised look on his  face. "A long
 journey. What dost Baron Myros wish to accomplish there?" he inquired.
     "He claims  he wishes  to visit a  friend residing  there, Primus.
 From his  tone, this friend  is more likely  an enemy. I  suspect that
 Myros has  other motives  than simple revenge,  Primus. Unfortunately,
 I know'st not what they are."
     The  man  in  the  mirror  paused,  considering  options.  Celeste
 waited   in  respectful   silence.  Finally   after  ten   minutes  of
 pondering, he  spoke. "There is only  one reason that I  can determine
 that would be  sufficient to cause Myros to undertake  such an arduous
 trip. He  is undoubtedly  scheming some method  of turning  the strife
 between  Baranur  and  Bichu  to   his  advantage.  Perhaps  he  seeks
 allies." He nodded  his head as if agreeing with  himself. "Our Master
 must know of this. Thee hath done well, Celeste."
     "I  thank  thee for  thy  praise,  Primus," Celeste  said  humbly.
 "What are your instructions?"
     A ghost of a  smile crossed his lips. "Thee will  go with Myros as
 thee hath  no doubt  already agreed.  Thee may  even keep  his money."
 His smile disappeared. "Remember where thy loyalties lie, Celeste."
     The  mist reappeared  and quickly  faded. Celeste  now gazed  upon
 her own reflection.  Icy fingers of fear gripped her  heart. He knows!
 she thought.  How could  I have  been so  careless? She  began shaking
 violently at  the thought of  what the Primus would  do to her  if she
 transgressed again.
     I must  remain calm. "Control,"  she repeated to herself  over and
 over again. Within  a few minutes, to all  outward appearances Celeste
 radiated  complete control  and  competence. Inwardly,  she was  still
 terrified. She  went to the table  and mixed a potion  that would help
 her sleep,  and more importantly,  would cause  her not to  dream. She
 drank her concoction and was asleep in moments.

     The  day dawned  bright  and  clear. Myros  stood  on the  balcony
 overlooking the  courtyard. Preparations were almost  complete. Myros'
 bodyguard of  fifty men were  mounted and  ready to move  out. Celeste
 had arrived two  hours ago. Myros and his advisors  had been ready one
 hour  ago.  Elaine said  she  would  be  ready soon.  "Elaine,"  Myros
 called. "We're ready to leave. Would you care to join us?"
     "Just a few more minutes, Corneilious."
     Myros was  ready to  scream. He  was just  about to  pack Elaine's
 things  for  her  when  he  was  distracted  by  a  commotion  in  the
 courtyard  below. A  messenger had  just ridden  through the  gate and
 was demanding to  see Baron Myros immediately. Myros'  aide was trying
 to explain  that he could see  the baron when His  Lordship was ready.
 Myros let the  argument continue until it came to  the point when blow
 were about to be exchanged.
     "Jordaan," he called, "what is the problem?"
     "A messenger to  see you, my lord. He seems  most anxious to speak
 with you."
     "So  I  gathered.   Who have you  come from?"  he inquired  of the
 messenger.
     "I have  come from  His Imperial Majesty.  I have  instructions to
 deliver this message to you personally, Your Lordship."
     "Jordaan, show our guest to my study. I shall be there shortly."
     "Yes, my  lord. This way,  please." Myros entered his  quarters as
 the messenger was being shown to the study.
     "A messenger has arrived from the Emperor," he told Elaine.
     "The Emperor? What could His Majesty want?"
     "I have  no idea.  I'd best  go and see  him. Keep  packing, dear.
 This shouldn't  take long." Myros  did have  an idea of  the message's
 content. He hoped he was wrong.
     He entered  the study, his  manner brisk. The messenger  came over
 to  greet him,  but Myros  dispensed  with pleasantries.  "Let me  see
 it."  The messenger  handed him  the message  without comment.  Myros'
 worst  fears were  true.  The  Emperor had  learned  of his  impending
 departure for Baranur  and had decided to appoint  Myros as Ambassador
 to Baranur.  His Imperial Majesty  commanded Myros to  determine which
 country should be supported in the upcoming war: Bichu or Baranur.
     "I  was instructed  to wait  for your  reply, Your  Lordship," the
 messenger said.
     "Inform the Emperor  I most humbly accept."  The messenger nodded,
 then left Myros alone with his thoughts.
     How did he  find out? No one  but my advisors and  Celeste knew of
 this.  She  would not  betray  me;  she has  no  reason  to. The  cold
 realization hit  him that  one of  those in his  inner circle  of most
 trusted advisors had to have betrayed him.
     He quickly  ruled out Jordaan. He  is absolutely loyal to  me. But
 so are  the others. Who  is it? Celeste. She  can find out.  I'll have
 her  use her  magic.  I have  three  months before  I  get to  Magnus.
 Plenty of time. Slowly, he turned from the table and exited the room.
     When  Myros  entered  the  courtyard,  Jordaan  noticed  something
 different  about his  liege. His  eyes were  like ice  and his  face a
 stone mask. The  only time I have  seen him this way was  when we were
 in battle, he thought. What was in that dispatch?
     Jordaan  rode over  to where  Myros  was mounting  his horse.  "Is
 everything all right, my lord?"
     "Fine, Jordaan. Fine. Why do you ask?"
     "No reason, my lord," he replied carefully.
     "Then let us be off."
     "Yes, my  lord." He turned  in his  saddle and ordered  the column
 to move  out. Flanked by  the escort, Myros'  party rode out  the gate
 and began the long journey to Baranur.

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

1                           Trial by Fire
                              Prologue
                        by M. Wendy Henniquin
                   (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU)

     Roisart Connall watched  silently as his cousin,  Clifton, Duke of
 Dargon,  donned elaborate  Bichanese armor  with the  adept assistance
 of  Ittosai Michiya.  The Castellan  of Connall  already was  prepared
 for  the impending  battle. Roisart's  twin brother,  Luthias, armored
 like  a hero  of old,  stood nearby,  his sword  already in  his hand.
 Coolly, Roisart  cast an appraising  eye on his cousin's  armor. "It's
 really beautifully-made," Roisart concluded.
     "It is  Bichu's finest,"  Castellan Ittosai announced  proudly. He
 finished armoring  the Duke,  then put  on his own  stout helm.  "I am
 ready for whatever comes," the castellan said.
     Luthias  nodded  respectfully  to  his  castellan,  warned,  "We'd
 better go,"  and cast a  nervous look over  his shoulder at  the white
 wall.  Despite   the  concern   flooding  his  face,   Luthias  looked
 brilliant, brave,  like a  knight in  a legend.  He wore  his father's
 battle-scarred  armor  and  bore  his family's  crest  into  war.  His
 weapon, a fine steel  sword, was worthy of a king.  He gripped it more
 firmly, ready for whatever fighting would come.
     "You  are right,  Luthias-san," Ittosai  concurred. He  hefted his
 katana. "This will not be an easy battle."
     Nodding,  Clifton reached  out to  his young  cousin, Roisart  and
 grasped his  shoulder. "Get  the defenses ready.  You'll be  safe here
 in  Dargon Keep,  but  they may  attack  the  city any  day  now ."  A
 sorrowful look swept Clifton's features. "And take care of Lauren."
     I  didn't   know  Roisart  knew  Lauren,   Luthias  thought,  then
 wondered at  his own idea.  How could  Roisart not know  Lauren, their
 cousin's wife, the  Duchess of Dargon? Roisart was at  the wedding. He
 must have been.
     Roisart  gripped Clifton's  arm.  "Be  careful, Clifton."  Roisart
 released the Duke, then turned to his brother, his twin.
     "Luthias..."  Roisart  paused  awkwardly. Of  the  twins,  Roisart
 usually  had an  easier  time with  words,  with expressing  feelings.
 Finally, he  said, "Don't worry,  twin. Everything will be  well. I'll
 take care  of the Duchy, and  Sable's quite capable of  taking care of
 our  barony--and herself."  Again  Roisart paused,  but  this time  he
 shook  his head  sadly. "You  should have  married her.  The Baron  of
 Shipbrook wants  to marry her  to Oleran  now. You shouldn't  have let
 him have the chance; you should have married Sable yourself."
     Upset that Roisart  should throw this in his face,  and angry that
 there  was nothing  he could  do about  the situation  anyway, Luthias
 closed his  eyes briefly. The  sword trembled  in his grip.  "She's in
 love with someone else."  Fury tainted Luthias' words.  "And she won't
 say--"
     "Come on,  manling," Clifton  ordered suddenly. Luthias  knew that
 Clifton was trying  to sound light-hearted, but the  words were rough,
 impatient,  angry.  Luthias  let  the 'manling'  go,  nodded  a  final
 farewell  to  his  twin  and  joined his  cousin  and  his  castellan.
 Together, the three threw open the gates of Dargon Keep.
     Surrounding the walls were a hundred thousand men--the King's army.
     Ittosai vanished,  as if he had  been merely a figure  in a dream.
 A knife  suddenly flashed  past Luthias' eyes  and embedded  itself in
 Clifton's  gut.  The  Duke  of Dargon  fled  desperately,  pursued  by
 countless,  faceless   soldiers.  For  a  moment,   Luthias  froze  so
 completely  that he  knew  it  couldn't be  natural;  in that  moment,
 strong,  bodiless  arms secured  his  limbs,  threw  him to  the  hard
 ground, and  held him  fast. He  watched them;  they were  ripping his
 chest  plate with  knives.  Soon,  blood covered  his  armor, and  his
 kinsman Clifton sprinted past, his belly wound belching blood.
     Luthias  tried to  move  to  help his  cousin,  but  the hold  was
 iron-strong.  And there  was  a  pain, an  annoyance,  a torture.  The
 butchers were hacking at his chest.
     "Luthias, help me!" Clifton yelled, frantic.
     Luthias could see  him bleeding, his life soaking  into the earth.
 Anguished, Luthias cried, "I can't!"
     "Help me! HELP ME!"
     Luthias almost  wept; he  couldn't move, he  couldn't help  as the
 King's  guards caught  his cousin  and threw  him to  the ground.  But
 Clifton rose again and sprinted.
     And  there was  pain again,  horrid  pain. Luthias  looked at  his
 chest.  It was  open,  and the  butchers no  longer  used knives,  but
 their own,  dirty hands.  With bloodied, muddy  fingers, they  tore at
 his ribs.
     And there was no one to help but--
     "Roisart!" Luthias called. "Help me! I need you!"
     Somewhere  above  him,  in  the castle  window,  Luthias  saw  his
 brother,  no   longer  a   healthy  young  man,   but  a   specter  of
 death--gray-faced, two black  bolts sticking from his  side and chest.
 The specter  shook his head sadly.  "I can't help you  anymore, twin,"
 Luthias  heard his  brother say  regretfully, and  then, Roisart,  too
 was gone.
     "Roisart!" Luthias  cried out  in horror.  The apparition  did not
 return. His  physical pain increased  when his anguish did;  both were
 now  sharp.  Luthias saw  chunks  of  red fly  past  his  eyes as  the
 butchers clawed at him.
     And  Clifton  went  past  Luthias again,  running  for  his  life.
 Desperately,  Luthias   struggled,  but  the  grip   was  too  strong.
 "Clifton, run!"
     "Luthias, help me HELP ME!"
     "I can't reach you!" Luthias almost sobbed. "Run!"
     A wave of  pain claimed Luthias then, strong as  thunder, sharp as
 lightning. For  a moment,  the world before  his eyes  blackened. From
 above,  Luthias  saw  himself,  his  chest  opened  like  a  poisonous
 flower, and the  butchers' hands were tugging on his  aorta. The veins
 around his heart were stretching--THE PAIN!
     The pain returned  him to his body. Blood, his  own blood, spurted
 in his eyes. He could scarcely breathe.
     "Luthias, where  are you?"  his cousin  called from  somewhere. "I
 need you!"
     Luthias tried to scream.  The pain was  incredible.   He  couldn't
 breathe.
     "Help me!"
     "THEY'RE TEARING MY HEART OUT!"
     Then the  pain vanished,  and the butchers  faded as  Ittosai had.
 Luthias found  himself looking at Sable.  Her hands held his  heart in
 place. Luthias closed his eyes, tried to regain his strength.
     "You're  mine  now,  woman!"  and  the  pain  returned  with  that
 declaration,  made by  a vaguely  familiar voice.  Luthias opened  his
 eyes.  Baron Oleran--that  son  of a  --was  holding Sable,  viciously
 ripping  her gown  off, hitting  her.  She cried  out. Blood  geysered
 from  her temple,  spilled  into her  hair: on  a  field sable,  blood
 gules. Oleran hit her again and laughed at her pain.
     "Luthias!" she cried, trying to reach him.
     Luthias tried  to move, tried to  help her, but the  butchers were
 back,  playing  catch  with   his  disembodied  heart.  They  laughed,
 throwing it to  each other, as it pumped Luthias'  life blood onto the
 dusty ground.
     And then  he saw  Clifton, dead, his  body being  dissected before
 the King  of Baranur.  Someone was binding  Ittosai's arms  behind his
 back. Marcellon  tried to cast  a spell, tried  to help them  all, but
 the  magic was  gone; nothing  happened.  Not far  from Luthias'  own,
 stone body,  Oleran beat and raped  Sable. Oleran held a  sword, moved
 to kill her--
     "Sable!" Luthias screamed, bolting to a sitting position. "SABLE!"

     And  Luthias  awoke, sitting,  gasping  in  reality. Frantic,  his
 hand felt  at his chest;  it was smooth,  intact, and the  heart still
 within it beat wildly.
     It was  a dream, he realized,  only a dream. There  was no battle;
 he was in the  bedroom of his keep. Clifton was alive  and well in his
 own keep,  two hours' ride away.  Sable slept unharmed not  forty feet
 down the corridor.  Ittosai, free and safe, dreamed  peacefully in the
 castellan's  rooms downstairs.  And Roisart--Roisart  lay dead  in the
 crypts far below.
     Only a dream,  and nothing had changed. Roisart  was dead, Luthias
 was Baron of Connall, and he was alone.
     No,  not alone.  The  door  to his  bedchamber  slammed open,  and
 someone  bearing  a  pole  weapon was  standing,  battle-ready,in  the
 doorway.  Behind the intruder were  two others, equally alert, bearing
 swords.
     Automatically, Luthias  tensed with  the reactions of  a long-time
 warrior. As  his eyes  adjusted, his  hand began  to creep  toward the
 blade kept beside his bed.
     Then he recognized the closer visitor: Sable.
     Luthias  tried vainly  to slow  his breathing.  To the  guards, he
 said,  "I'm all  right,  men. Bad  dream. Return  to  your posts,  and
 thank  you." The  guards  exchanged a  shrug,  nodded respectfully  to
 their lord, and left.
     Still panting,  Luthias tried to  laugh at the armed  woman before
 him. "Here you are, taking care of the Baron again."
     The Baron  of Connall  again tried  to slow  his breathing  as his
 seneschal came forward  and sat on the  bed. She looked as  if she had
 been on her  way to bed; her  hair was partially unbound,  and she was
 clad in  nothing but a  gauzy nightdress made to  be worn in  the kind
 of raging  heat that  had been  eclipsing Dargon of  late. As  she set
 her weapon against  the bedpost, Luthias looked intently  at her face.
 She glanced around the room, as if confused.
     "I thought  you  were  being attacked,"  Sable  said.   "You  were
 screaming--"
     Luthias  scowled: pole  weapon! It  was  a naginata,  a weapon  of
 Bichanese  origin, a  gift from  Ittosai Michiya  to Myrande,  and the
 castellan had been  instructing the seneschal in its  use. Michiya had
 told Luthias  just yesterday that  she was becoming quite  a she-demon
 with it.  Oh, he understood,  and it angered  him. Sable had  not come
 only  to take  care of  him, but  to defend  him, with  her life.  The
 Baron  scowled again.  What  the  hell did  she  think  they paid  the
 guards for?
     Finally,   Luthias   sighed,  half-amused,   half-despairing.   He
 touched her hair, almost laughed. "Are you my bodyguard now, too?"
     "I was  closer than the  guards," Myrande explained.  "You sounded
 like you were in trouble."
     "Quit  babying  me,"  Luthias  snapped  defensively.  "I'm  strong
 enough to defend myself; I don't need a woman to do it for me."
     "I am  your friend," Myrande  returned angrily. "You would  do the
 same  for me.  And  don't give  me  that stupidity  about  my being  a
 woman.  Macdougalls says  I'm a  better shot  than half  your archers,
 and with this--"  she indicated the naginata-- "I  could destroy seven
 men together before they even got a shot at me."
     Unfortunately,   she  was   right:   Macdougalls,  the   assistant
 castellan,  had praised  Myrande's  archery, and  Ittosai Michiya  had
 told  him already  about her  skill with  the naginata.  He shook  his
 head and  looked at her in  the moonlight: a dark,  disheveled, fierce
 woman,  clothed in  an almost  indecent nightgown  that clung  in some
 places  to her  sweaty  skin...Luthias  felt his  body  tense, but  he
 smiled,  wondering if  there were  any woman  more attractive  in  the
 Kingdom--
     And then the  dream returned, and the young Baron  groaned and put
 his head  in his hands. Sable  put her hand  on his hair; it  was damp
 with sweat  from the horrid  heat of reality,  from the hot  horror of
 the dream.  Gently, she stroked his  head. "Do you want  to talk about
 it?" she asked softly.
     Censoring  selected episodes,  such  as Roisart's  advice and  the
 later rape, he related what he could remember of the nightmare.
     "Those  letters  really bothered  you,  didn't  they?" she  asked,
 concerned. "More than you wanted to admit."
     Luthias attempted to smile.  "Sable, you could  always see through
 me."
     "That isn't  true," Sable  claimed, moving back  a little  to look
 at him. "And it isn't an answer, either."
     The  young   Baron's  expression   changed  from  one   of  bitter
 amusement to one  of grim anger. "You're damn right  they bothered me.
 First, I'm  informed by the  Justices that  I am now  Duke's Advocate.
 Now,  I've  got  to  be  in Dargon  City  half  my  time,  prosecuting
 criminals  before  the Tribunal--and  I'm  not  skilled at  law.  Now,
 besides court time  and traveling, I've got to do  more reading. As if
 I didn't have enough to do!"
     "Don't  yell  at   me,"  Sable  protested.  "I'm   on  your  side,
 remember? If anyone knows how hard you work, I do, Luthias."
     Luthias  smiled.  She  worked  as hard--harder--than  he  did.  "I
 know,  Sable, and  I'm sorry.  But I'm  overloaded as  it is,  and now
 this aggravation--"
     "Speaking  of  which,"  Sable  prompted, thinking  of  the  second
 missive that  had arrived that day,  "no one is better  at aggravation
 than my uncle."
     "Yes, your stupid  uncle, who never showed  the slightest interest
 in  you   now  wants  to   arrange  your  marriage."   Luthias'  mouth
 tightened.  "That's bad  in  itself--I  don't trust  a  man who  would
 throw his brother out of his barony for no reason."
     "There was a  reason," Myrande corrected. "He threw  my father out
 because he  married my  mother before  my uncle  got the  chance." She
 shrugged. "Doesn't matter.  My father was happier  being Castellan for
 your father and knight to the late Duke."
     "Well,  he threw  your father  out, pretended  he and  your mother
 and you  never existed,  and now,  he wants  to want  to marry  you to
 Oleran--do you know what kind of man he is?"
     Myrande  nodded.   "I've  heard  the  rumors."   There  were  many
 rumors--nothing  concrete--about   Oleran,  an  older  Baron   from  a
 neighboring  Duchy. It  was  said  almost universally  that  he was  a
 brute,  a killer,  that  he  enjoyed others'  pain,  and tortured  his
 first  wife until  she died.  Sable  shuddered. "You  know I  wouldn't
 marry him to save my life."
     "Yes, I know,"  Luthias confirmed, and his voice left  no room for
 argument. "I forbid it."
     Sable chuckled. "You forbid, Luthias?"
     "I'm your  guardian until you  become twenty-one in Deber,  and by
 law and  by God,  I forbid  it!" Luthias  snapped. "I'd  rather murder
 Oleran and  be imprisoned  in the Keep  for the rest  of my  life than
 have you marry that monster."
     "Don't  worry," Sable  advised him.  She reached  out and  stroked
 his  forearm.  "I  won't  marry  Oleran,  or  anyone  else,  for  that
 matter--" She stopped, pulled her hand away.
     "I really should  arrange a marriage for you,"  Luthias sighed, as
 if  he regretted  the situation.  "Your  uncle is  right about  that."
 Impulsively,  he grasped  her small  hands. "Sable,  tell me  who this
 man is that you  love. You might as well marry  someone you care for."
 He squeezed her  hands imploringly and peered at her  dark face in the
 dimness. "Please...your  uncle threatened  to wrest  your guardianship
 from me."
     Sable shook  her head.  "No. If  he comes around  on his  own, all
 will be well, but  I won't beg him to love me or  be forced on him, as
 you seem to want, or sold to him like a horse, as my uncle prefers."
     "You're  too  proud  for  your  own  good,"  Luthias  accused  her
 angrily. "You should just tell him--"
     "And  gain  his  pity?  No," Myrande  answered  firmly,  her  chin
 stubborn. "I don't  want your pity." She paused, as  if finished, then
 added, "Or--his."
     "He'd be crazy  if he pitied you," Luthias  returned hotly. "Crazy
 if he didn't accept you and marry you--"
     For a  wild, brief moment, it  seemed like Roisart was  there, and
 Luthias heard  his words  of the nightmare:  "You should  have married
 her  yourself."  Luthias sighed.  The  thought  had crossed  his  mind
 before. He  cared for  Sable, and  she for him;  they got  along well,
 and  she would  be an  excellent Baroness.  Looking at  her again,  in
 that  sheer nightgown,  Luthias found  the idea  appealing beyond  its
 practical aspects.
     But she would  never accept him. Sable had always  been proud, and
 Luthias  knew she  would never  accept his  proposal, which  she would
 think was made  out of pity. Luthias grimaced. He  didn't pity her; he
 loved  her--she was  his best  friend--and he  only wanted  her to  be
 happy. And so would the man she loved. Or else.
     If he could ever find out who he was!
     Oh,  she was  impossible! Luthias  sighed and  decided to  end the
 argument. Not  tonight, his head ached  to much to argue  with someone
 as iron-headed  as Sable. He forced  himself to laugh, then  he hugged
 his seneschal. "Sable, what am I ever going to do with you?"
     Sable withdrew  a little  from his  impulsive embrace.  "I'll stay
 here and be your seneschal, Luthias, same as always."
     "You deserve better  than to be toiling like a  slave for the rest
 of your life."
     "So do  you," Sable  countered, "but it  seems the  Tribunal won't
 to let you get  away with it." She drew a deep  breath. "You should be
 going back to sleep, Baron."
     "Back  to sleep?"  Luthias  echoed incredulously.  "In this  heat?
 After that dream?"  The Baron of Connall shook his  head. "No, thanks,
 Sable." He swung his legs over the side of the bed.
     "Going to read in the study?"
     "No, that would probably put me back to sleep," Luthias quipped.
 He stretched his arms above his head. He looked at her and decided
 not to look at her again until morning. He needed to move. "I'm
 going to go out and beat up the pell--can't do it during the day in
 this heat." He stood, looked back at Myrande's dark eyes; yes, that
 was safe enough. "And tomorrow, we'll go see Clifton."

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