From: "Avid Reader - Fledgling Writer" <[email-masked]>
Date: Tue, 12 May 92 10:30:14 EDT

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   D    D  AAAA RRR  G GG O  O N N N   Z     I N N N E     || Issue 5
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 --   DargonZine Volume 2, Issue 5        10/13/89          Cir 824    --
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 --                            Contents                                --
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   DAG                        Dafydd                 Editorial
   Sons of Gateway 2: Magic   Jon "Grimjack" Evans   Naia 21-Ober 13, '13
   Dragon Hunt 4              Max Khaytsus           Yule 8-23, 1013
   Damsel in Distress         Wendy Hennequin        Sy 24-27, 1013
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                            Dafydd's Amber Glow
                  by Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor DargonZine
                        (b.c.k.a [email-masked])

        Today's editorial  is to  let all of  you readers  know that
     DargonZine  is  not  alone.  Two  other  magazines  of  Science
     Fiction/Fantasy have recently come to my attention - Quanta and
     Athene.  In a  spirit  of cooperation,  we  three editors  have
     gotten together  in the hopes  of increasing the  readership of
     each others'  'zines. Please note:  we three  are in no  way in
     competition. All three magazines are  free, and all three of us
     would be happy if each and  every one of our readers received a
     copy of all  the magazines currently available. See  the end of
     this issue (and future issues)  for more information about both
     Quanta and Athene.
        On  a related  note, if  any of  you readers  know of  other
     electronic magazines  about SF/Fantasy, either Fiction  or Fact
     'Zines,  please let  me know  about them,  and perhaps  let the
     editor (if  you know  him/her) know  about DargonZine.  I would
     love to have more reading material available to me and I'm sure
     that most of our readers would too.
        Thank you,

              Dafydd Cyhoeddwr, Editor DargonZine
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1                           Sons of Gateway
                             Part 2: Magic
                        by Jon "Grimjack" Evans
                       (b.c.k.a. v047kfz7@ubvms)

      The early morning sun sparkled off the sweat pouring down Ne'on's
 forehead,  red from  the  effort. Symbols  flashed  through his  mind,
 mimicked  by  interweaving  patterns  of  flying  fingers.  The  final
 incantation, and the command:
      "Burn!" Ne'on concentrated on his  target and a branch burst into
 flames.  He  smiled  as  he  imagined  skin  of  his  brother's  limbs
 blistering and burning like the twig. He was pleased with himself.
      Just then,  a pale ghost of  a human being "floated"  through the
 wall next to  him. It was Qord, astrally projecting  himself to summon
 Ne'on. 'It is time,' Ne'on thought.
      "It  is time,"  Qord said.  Turning  back toward  his room,  Qord
 "flew"  immediately back  to his  body,  walls and  tables proving  no
 obstacle for him.  Ne'on took a quick  drink of water from  a glass on
 the table  and poured the  rest on  the smoldering branch.  Wiping his
 brow, he answered his master's summons.
      "Ne'on Winston,  son of Kald,  Lord Gateway," called Qord  in the
 ritual of the test. "You are charged with a claim to the title of Bark
 - do you deny  this claim?" Qord was a little  uneasy. Ne'on had shown
 much improvement and discipline since  his return from Gateway, and he
 was proud of Ne'on. However, if he failed now, he would be Drained. If
 Ne'on believed he  needed more time for study, he  could always answer
 "Yes".
      "No," Ne'on replied, tensing for the test.
      "Mage," smiled Qord, "prove your mettle."
      With that, the  test began. Potions were  concocted and illusions
 shimmered. Energy  flew in all  forms as  every color of  the spectrum
 flared.  Spell  upon  spell  was uttered;  elixers  were  created  and
 destroyed. For hours, the chambers  of Qord, Leaf of the Nar-Enthruen,
 glowed, darkened, flared, and faded. And  with the setting of the sun,
 the final spell was uttered. Ne'on collapsed in a pool of sweat.
      "You made one mistake, my son," noted Qord, shuffling through his
 robes. "Well,  two, actually," he  continued, producing two  vials. He
 quaffed one of the elixers and extended the second to Ne'on, "First of
 all, you  have to work  a little more on  definition of the  images in
 your illusions.  Second, you  didn't save a  strength potion  for your
 recovery." Qord smiled. "Lucky for you, I always carry a spare!"
      Ne'on feebly reached  for the flask, fumbled with the  seal for a
 moment,  and quickly  inhaled  it. Breathing  in more  of  it than  he
 swallowed, he choked  as he felt the strength returning  to his bones.
 "Thank you, Qord," he finally managed  to say. A bit anxiously, "Well?
 How'd I do?"
      "If you had failed, Ne'on, you  would already be stripped of your
 power. As it happens," Qord's grin grew broader, "I am proud to bestow
 upon you the title of Bark!
      "In celebration of this indubitable  honor, I propose a vacation,
 of sorts.  A trip!  As you  know, the Melrin  festival begins  in nine
 days. Magnus  is renowned  for its holiday  extravaganza, and  is only
 four days  ride from here.  I haven't spent  Melrin in Magnus  in over
 five years. What say we go? We  can laugh, drink, celebrate . . . I've
 a few old friends I  would like to see . . . and  I'd be proud to have
 you with me."
      Qord was practically  bubbling over. He was  obviously very happy
 about Ne'on's success, and Ne'on wondered if that potion Qord had just
 taken didn't  have more  than just a  strengthening herb.  He supposed
 magicians would have knowledge of  such substances. Quite pleased with
1his own  success, his reply  was obvious. "Why  not? I could  use some
 rest. And, speaking  of rest . .  ." Grunting to stand up,  he bid his
 master  goodnight.  Potions  that  granted  unusual  strength  usually
 demanded a high price in sleep for their benefits.

      On  the morning  of  the  twenty-fifth of  Naia,  Qord and  Ne'on
 departed  for Magnus.  With  some final  instructions  to Jordan,  the
 servant, they  moved their horses  onto the  brightly lit path  of the
 forest. In the  early morning light, the dew glistened  off the leaves
 of the underbrush, and the shadows of the trees mixed with the moss on
 the ground.
      Around midday,  they came across  a terrible sight! Lying  on the
 path in front of them was a man, half-conscious, and covered in blood.
 He was sprawled  out on his back  with his head against  a tree. "Help
 me..." he gasped weakly, "help...me..."
      Qord leapt  from the  saddle with  a speed  be-lying his  age and
 rushed to the man's side.  "Ne'on, bring the potions, quickly!" Easing
 the man's head down to the ground, he gently probed the man's body for
 the wound, or wounds, robbing the man of his life.
      Just  as Ne'on  arrived with  the potions,  the blood  soaked man
 raised his arm and pointed behind them. "There..." There was the sound
 of people  crashing through the  brush and a  dull THUNK! as  an arrow
 struck the  man in  his chest!  He twitched  once, and  stopped. Ne'on
 stood still, afraid to move.
      "Turn around  slowly, both of you.  And step away from  that man.
 Very good," he  added, as Ne'on and Qord obeyed.  "What have they got,
 Red?"
      "Very nice  purses, Mackie!" The man  they had stopped to  help -
 the one  with an  arrow in  his chest!  - stood  up and  walked toward
 "Mackie", presumably the  leader of the rogues. "Must be  on their way
 to  Magnus for  Melrin, by  the  look of  them. Well,  now, they  just
 ensured us a  very nice holiday!" The  band of men, seven  of them all
 told, laughed heartily  as Red withdrew the arrow from  a wooden board
 hidden under his leather jerkin. "Next time, Mackie, use a little less
 force on the bow, eh? The arrow tip nipped me a bit."
      Ne'on's mind  was racing. Qord's  life and his were  worthless to
 the thieves,  and they knew  it. If anything ws  to be done,  it would
 have to be  now; but, he didn't  know what to do!  His stomach knotted
 and his limbs grew unsteady. His pulse beat loudly in his ears, and he
 began to panic.
      "Hold, Ne'on." Once again, the  voice spoke to him. "These paltry
 ruffians cannot harm  you. With a single thought,  their crude weapons
 cannot touch  you. And with  a single  motion, your enemies  will flee
 before you."
      "Who  are  you?"  Ne'on  called  out,  no  longer  aware  of  his
 surroundings.
      The  voice was  not the  one who  answered, though.  "Just simple
 travellers on our way to Magnus!"  Red's answer brought out more jeers
 and laughter from the thieves. "Yeah! Collecting charity from the good
 people in  these parts for  our favourite cause:  us! Ha-ha-ha-ha-ha!"
 The band was quite pleased with itself  and the fun it was having, but
 Ne'on was oblivious to them all.
      'Who are you?' he thought, this time.
      "A  part of  you  that  wishes to  survive.  Now," it  continued,
 "protect yourself."
      Ne'on closed his eyes. Mystical symbols danced across his mind as
 the low hum of his voice summoned the magic within him.
      "Hey! What's  he doin'?"  Red called attention  to Ne'on  and the
 whole party sobered. "You idiots!"  he cried. "He's a freakin' wizard!
 He'll kill  us all! Shoot him!"  In less than two  seconds, six arrows
1were nocked and  loosed. Too late. Ne'on's spell was  finished and the
 arrows deflected off him.
      "Now, make them run."
      More  symbols  appeared  as  he  traced runes  in  the  air.  His
 incantation finished the  spell. Suddenly, a wall of  fire burst forth
 between the  rogues and the  mages! Smoke rose  in the air,  and twigs
 crackled as they burn.
      "Gods! He's  gonna burn us ta  death! Let's get out  a here!" The
 men dropped money,  weapons, and packs in their  desperate scramble to
 flee the  burning woods.  "There," spoke the  voice, and  a lightening
 bolt struck out of the clear blue sky.
      "And there."
      "And there." More than one of the thieves would be cleaning their
 britches this day  as the last bolt  struck Mackie and he  fell to the
 ground. It would be a long time before they returned to this area.
      The  wall  of fire  dispersed  as  quickly  as it  appeared.  The
 electrically charred ground of the  forest floor vanished, leaving the
 soil marred only by the panicked scamperings of frightened men. Mackie
 lay on the ground, unconscious.
      "Well done," praised Qord as he went to collect their belongings.
 "I almost believed  you cast those spells for real!  If it weren't for
 this scoundrel's  breathing I  might not  have been  able to  tell the
 difference. You amaze me more and more, Ne'on. You'll be a great mage,
 one day - you're already a respectable illusionist!"
      "Why is  Mackie unconscious?", he  thought aloud. He was  glad he
 didn't finish the thought verbally for he had meant to kill the rogue.
      "Well,  you couldn't  expect him  to stay  conscious, could  you?
 After all, the  mind believes the body has been  struck by lightening.
 It shuts itself  down in order to keep the  body from experiencing too
 much pain.
      "Now, before he wakes up, let  us be moving along." Qord repacked
 the rest of their belongings. "Oh, yes. I almost forgot." He removed a
 silver dagger from within his robes. "Here, I found it near Mackie."
      Ne'on took the  knife, admiring it's beauty. "It's  a fine blade.
 Very well crafted. Thank you, Qord."
      "Oh, no! Don't  thank me. After all, you were  the one who chased
 off those ruffians. No, no; you deserve it."
      And with that, they set forth once again for Magnus.

      The warm summer  evening settled heavily on  Ne'on's shoulders as
 he watched Qord exit  yet another of Magnus' inns. By  the look on his
 face, Ne'on knew  the answer to his question before  it was asked. "If
 we keep this up we'll be spending Melrin in a stable!"
      "Not very likely." Qord was tired. Four and a half days of travel
 took their  toll on the seventy  year old Leaf. "All  the merchants in
 town brought extra  horses to carry their wares. There's  less room in
 the stables than in the inns." He laid a reassuring hand on his horse,
 "But don't worry, Gal,  I know a place where all of  us can stay." His
 gaze returned to Ne'on, "A gentleman whom  I aided a few years back. A
 mystical  being from  another dimension  fell in  lust with  him, poor
 chap. She was an atrocious  sight. Didn't take rejection well, either,
 I'm afraid."

      There were  fewer street lamps  on this  side of Magnus,  but the
 light from the shops, houses, and taverns kept the street well lit. Up
 ahead, Ne'on noticed, was an inn  with the standard of two unicorns in
 battle. The sign read: "The Fighting Unicorns", and Qord assured Ne'on
 they would be able to stay here.
      Before they  could reach  the inn,  there was  a loud  crash, the
 sound of  breaking glass, and  a heavy thud!  as the door  swung open.
1Silhouetted  against the  bright light  from  within was  a large  man
 swinging another  through the air, releasing  him at the hight  of the
 swing. The smaller man flew through the air, landing in a wagon on the
 other side  of the street.  The larger  man's voice bellowed  over the
 noise from  within, "Next time  you touch one  of my girls  like that,
 it'll be more  than a bottle I  break over your head! Now,  get out of
 here before I lose my temper - and you lose your neck!"
      "I hope you don't treat all  your customers like that, Sir Hawk,"
 Qord spurred  up to  the light  of the  inn, removing  his cowl  as he
 spoke. "I do not think I could survive such a toss, at my age."
      "I treat 'em the way they deserve,  old ma- Well! By my sword and
 shield!" Sir  Hawk's visage  turned from  one of  annoyance to  one of
 great joy. "Qord, you old son of a she-wolf, how are you? And what are
 you doing in such a common part of the city?"
      Qord dismounted  and grasped his  friend's arm firmly.  "I'm here
 for Melrin, of  course! And, other than  lack of a place  to stay, I'm
 fine. Very well, in fact."
      Sir Hawk smiled.  He had guessed the reason Qord  had ventured so
 far  from  the  nicer  districts   of  Magnus.  Thankfully,  he  could
 accommodate him. "Say no more, my friend! I have just the room for you
 and  your companion.  Come in!  I'll have  the boy  take care  of your
 steeds."
      A servant came at Sir Hawk's  behest and took their mounts to the
 stables. Sir Hawk ordered a meal for his guests and cleared a table in
 the well-crowded tavern. The room was  loud with song and revelry, and
 Sir Hawk almost  had to yell to  be heard above the din.  "So tell me,
 Lord Winston: why is it you do not spend Melrin in the Royal District?
 I thought it was a matter of  etiquette to stay with your family while
 you are visiting Magnus."
      "A matter of honor, sir," Ne'on  replied. "My father and my uncle
 were  never on  good terms.  Rather than  inconvenience my  uncle, and
 embarrass  my father,  I declined  to stay  there." It  wasn't unknown
 among the  nobles of Magnus that  Lord Keeper Winston of  Gateway Keep
 and his  brother, Lord Winston,  a minor land holder,  associated with
 each other as little as possible. Ne'on sipped his wine.
      Hawk looked confused. "No, not  your uncle. I meant your brother,
 Lord Goren."
      Ne'on choked  on his wine,  spitting a little, and  drooling some
 onto his napkin.  "My apologies, sir! But Goren is  here? In Magnus?!"
 Ne'on instantly  became nervous and  defensive. What's he  doing here?
 Does he know I'm  here? Does he know WHY I'm here?  What does he want?
 He almost  betrayed his emotions to  the others; but, once  again, the
 voice, like rolling  thunder, spoke to him: "Do not  fear, Ne'on. Your
 brother could  not possibly be aware  of your presence here.  You need
 not worry."
      Then Hawk spoke. "No need to  apologize, my lord. Had I known how
 you would react, I would not have asked. It is I who should apologize.
 Let us have some more wine." Sir  Hawk called one of his serving girls
 and ordered more wine.
      "I thank  you, Sir  Hawk, but  I must be  getting to  bed." Ne'on
 stood up. "I have never been  in Magnus during Melrin before, although
 my father  often told  me of  it, and I  wish to  make an  early start
 tomorrow morn."  Ne'on made his leave  of the mage and  the innkeeper,
 and found a servant to lead him to his room.

      'I'll have  to go to  the Fifth Quarter,' thought  Ne'on, sipping
 his mead. It was the second day of Melrin and most of the populace was
 at  the  festival, leaving  the  Fighting  Unicorns  all but  bare  of
 customers. Ne'on  had not been  having a good  time in Magnus.  He had
 spent all of the previous day trying to enjoy the festival, but he was
1troubled with  the knowledge of  his brother's presence in  Magnus. It
 was an  added worry which he  didn't need. Last night,  however, Ne'on
 had  found his  solution:  whoever he  found to  replace  Luke as  his
 Captain would have a test - find  his brother and make him leave town.
 Finding him wouldn't be the hard part, but making him leave town would
 be; Goren isn't one to take  threats idly, and he is fairly proficient
 with a sword.
      Just then, Ne'on noticed an  argument growing louder in the room.
 It  was coming  from behind  one of  the curtained  booths to  Ne'on's
 right.  The curtain  drew apart,  and  a large  hulk of  a man  walked
 through.  A smaller  man,  with  a black  cloak  about his  shoulders,
 remained seated.
      "You still owe me fifty gold coins," stated the smaller man as he
 rose from his seat, "and I'll get it  from you whether you give it . .
 . or I take it."
      The  larger man  stopped. He  smiled an  amused smile  and turned
 around. "Well, I don't think you'll be takin' too much from me, Bart."
 The large  man had an almost  equally large sword sheathed  across his
 back. He  drew it. "So  I think  I'll give it  to you." A  faint smile
 could be seen on Bart's face as the lummox swung his sword through the
 air. Like  lightning, Bart drew his  own sword with his  left hand, to
 parry  the attack,  while  a dagger  flew out  of  his right,  solidly
 lodging itself in the man's chest. The giant fell loudly to the floor.
      Bart sheathed his sword and walked over to the corpse. Wiping his
 dagger on the  dead man's clothes, he sheathed it  and removed a purse
 from within the man's pockets. He tossed a gold coin to the man at the
 bar. "It was self-defense. You don't remember me."
      Bart looked around once, stared at  Ne'on for a moment, and left.
 Ne'on  hastily  finished  his  drink   and  rose  to  make  his  exit.
 'Apparently', he  smiled, 'I  won't need  to go  to the  Fifth Quarter
 after all!'

      The sound of Goren's footsteps echoed off the walls and buildings
 of the  street around him. The  light of the street  lamps were blurry
 and bright, so he raised his hand to block it out. Unfortunately, this
 was the hand which held his wine bottle, and its meeting with his head
 caused him to  stumble about the sidewalk, narrowly  side stepping the
 sludge-filled drainage gutters between the  street and the walkway. He
 was drunk. He  was not happy. And  what he saw next made  him think he
 was dead.
      In the street ahead  of him was a man. The man  wore a long black
 cloak about his  shoulders, disguising much of his body,  but his face
 was unhidden.  His face was long  and thin and well  cleaned, his eyes
 were a piercing blue-grey,  and his hair . . . His  hair was what most
 struck Goren for  it was long, as  if it hadn't been cut  in years. It
 was dirty  blond in  color, and  thin, and it  fell lightly  about the
 man's shoulders. In  the man's left hand was a  long, sharp sword, and
 he was  pointing it at  Goren. Then the man  spoke, and his  voice was
 deep and deadly.
      "Certain people don't want you in Magnus, Lord Winston." His thin
 lips barely parted when he spoke, and  a slight smile broke out on his
 face. "I've been instructed to tell you to leave. By tomorrow noon, on
 the  third of  Melrin,  you should  be  out of  Magnus.  This is  your
 warning."  With deadly  grace, the  man jumped  forward and  lunged at
 Goren. Goren  was too drunk  to react, and  his only thought  was 'I'm
 dead' as  the sword drove  toward his  skull. However, the  blade only
 just cut him  above the eyes, causing  a lot of bleeding  but doing no
 serious harm. Goren could not see  with all the blood pouring down his
 face, and he tensed as he anticipated the killing blow.
      It never  came. "This is  to remember me  by," the man  said, and
1Goren heard  soft footsteps  striding away.  Blackness settled  on his
 skull.

      Darkness faded  in and out  as Goren  dreamed. He dreamed  of his
 brother, Ne'on,  and the man  who attacked him.  Ne'on gave the  man a
 purse of coins  and a letter, and  told the man to go  to Gateway. The
 man left, darkness faded in and out, and Goren awoke, the dream fading
 in his memory.
      "He'll be alright,  Lord Winston." The robed  healer was hovering
 over Goren and  speaking to someone elsewhere in the  room. "More than
 likely, it  was the wine which  made him unconscious, not  the wound -
 that was just bleeding  a lot - it is nothing  serious." Goren saw the
 healer's head  and shoulders pull  out of his tunnel-visioned  line of
 sight. "The bleeding  has stopped and the tissue has  begun to heal. I
 can heal it completely, if you wish."
      "No, no; let it scar." The second voice was deeper and older than
 the healer's. And  familiar. "It will teach him not  to walk unguarded
 and inebriated  through the streets  of Magnus. Besides,  it shouldn't
 take  more  than  a week  to  heal,  and  there  are others  who  more
 desperately  require your  services." Now  Goren recognized  the other
 voice: it belonged to Lord Cameron Winston, his uncle.
      "In that case," spoke the  healer, as Goren's vision expanded, "I
 shall take my leave." The healer  bowed, "Good morning, my Lords," and
 left.
      After a  short while, Goren spoke.  "Whe- AHEM! Where am  I?" His
 voice was  gravely from little sleep  and much alcohol, and  his mouth
 was filled with paste. When he cleared his throat he became aware of a
 pressure in his skull,  and when he moved his head  the room seemed to
 have  to catch  up with  him  before he  could focus.  "Ugh! And  what
 have . . . I done to myself?"
      Cameron Winston laughed  loudly at his nephew's state,  and in so
 doing  caused even  greater  suffering to  Goren.  This effected  even
 greater laughter  from Lord  Winston, and Goren  decided he  hated his
 uncle. "I apologize, young Goren," Lord Winston began, "but if you saw
 yourself,  you would  laugh,  too." Lord  Winston  calmed himself  and
 waited for Goren to reply.
      "Oh . . . I don't know,"  spoke Goren, softly, "I might find pity
 on myself  . . . and  kill me . .  ." At any other  time, Lord Winston
 might have found this humorous; now, however, he was serious.
      "It seems someone  already tried that for you,  my nephew." Goren
 looked up and saw only concern in his uncle's eyes.
      "No . .  . this was just a  warning . . . Whoever  did this could
 have killed me . . . Gods! I was  sure he would! . . . but he just did
 this, and told me to leave Magnus." Lord Winston's confusion now added
 to Goren's. "And you still haven't told me where I am."
      "Oh! My sincerest apologies, young  lord. I had forgotten you and
 your brother have never stayed in  my home." Lord Winston extended his
 hand. "If you feel  well enough, allow me to give you  a tour of House
 Winston." Goren took his uncle's hand and allowed himself to be helped
 to his feet.
      In the next  hour and a half,  Goren was given the  grand tour of
 House  Winston. From  the  master  bedroom to  the  wine cellar,  Lord
 Winston instructed Goren on the history of the house and their family.
 Goren was pleased with being able  to hear the history, for his father
 never discussed it. It was a large house, bigger than Winston Manor in
 Gateway Keep, yet it was one of  the smallest in the Royal District of
 Magnus. Goren's  ancestor's, it was  explained to him, were  not rich.
 However, during  the Great  Houses War  in 97  BY, the  Winston family
 sided with House Tallihran, King Haralan's ancestors, and became Lords
 as a result of their fealty.
1     Lord Winston  seemed eager  to answer  any questions  Goren asked
 about  the family  history;  however, when  he  asked about  Cameron's
 feelings toward  his father,  Lord Winston replied,  "I leave  that to
 your father to  explain, if he will.  It is between he  and I, mostly,
 and I  would not want that  to interfere in future  generations of the
 Winston family."
      Finally,  Goren  asked  his  uncle what  he  thought  of  Goren's
 encounter the  night before. "Well,  Goren," began Winston,  "you have
 assured me it  is not some young lady's father  trying to frighten off
 suitors, so it can only mean one thing."
      "And what is that?"
      "Someone in Magnus believes you pose a threat to him or her. Now,
 you  have two  rational  courses of  action. First,  you  can stay  in
 Magnus; I'll give you five of the  House guards to protect you for the
 rest  of your  stay. Second,  you can  leave Magnus,  in which  case I
 should still give you those guards to protect your journey." They were
 in  the Main  Hall,  again, and  Goren  looked at  two  of the  guards
 protecting the outside entrance.
      "No,  that won't  be  necessary. I-"  Goren  stopped. His  vision
 wavered,  and he  felt  weak  for a  moment.  He  grasped his  uncle's
 shoulder to steady himself, and then it was past. "No doubt I've still
 to recover  from last night's activities.  But, as I was  saying, I do
 not think the guards will be necessary." Goren raised his hand to stop
 the protests he saw  building in his uncle. "Do not  worry, my Lord, I
 have no  intention of staying in  Magnus. While I'd love  to meet that
 man while  I am sober,  I have no doubts  about his having  friends. I
 shall leave within the hour."
      "Well thought, Goren."  Lord Winston was surprised.  He had heard
 of Goren's usually-rash behavior from  Marcus, and his reaction toward
 this matter was unexpected. "I thought you would have wanted to form a
 search party and hunt the man down. It seems I was mistaken."
      "Not really."  Goren looked  down for a  moment, then  raised his
 head. "My first thought,  when I awoke, was to grab  my sword and find
 this man. But I  was in no shape to go anywhere -  and I don't believe
 you would  have let  me -  so I had  the opportunity  to think,  for a
 while. It seems some problems cannot be solved with a sword."
      Lord Winston smiled,  and Goren felt proud of that  smile. It was
 meant for him. Already,  he began to feel closer to  his uncle than he
 did to his  father. "I see you've heard my  brother's favorite motto,"
 said Winston.
      "Heard!" Goren exclaimed, "I lived it for 23 years!"

      The sun  had just fallen. The  lamps of Magnus were  being lit by
 men and women  on carts, travelling the streets with  fire and oil. It
 was night  time. A man  huddled on one side  of an alleyway,  his form
 barely visible  in the darkness.  Another man  stood a foot  away from
 him, speaking softly.
      "And how will he know who I am?" spoke the second.
      "Give him this letter," replied the first, producing a letter and
 a small sack of coins from within his robes. "And here is a retainer -
 I'll be there in a few more months."
      "Thank you, my Lord. Everything will be ready when you arrive."

      Fire  licked the  edge of  the  stone platform,  and molten  lava
 boiled  for miles  about it.  Phos laughed.  All was  proceeding well.
 Control  was almost  effortless, and  his  puppet was  unaware of  his
 danger.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                        Dragon Hunt, part 4
                           by Max Khaytsus
              (b.c.k.a [email-masked])

      The egg  Rien held in his  hands was much larger  and harder than
 that of a  chicken, but it in no  way revealed itself to be  that of a
 dragon. He carefully turned it over, hoping that somewhere there would
 be an indication or marking that would brand the egg uncommon, but not
 finding anything he looked at the wizard.
      Gerim smiled. "How will she know? Trust me, this is just what she
 needs."
      "What do you want for your 'advice'?"
      "Ah, it may  have come across as  advice, but for me  it was just
 another adventure."
      "Sir," Rien sounded vexed, "I  do not like carrying debts. Before
 I accept this, what is your price?"
      "No price," Gerim said. "Let it be my good deed to you."
      "You don't  even know me,"  Rien pointed  out. "We only  met last
 morning."
      "I  saw you  in  the  tavern two  nights  ago," Gerim  corrected.
 Actually there was also that time in the forest two weeks before...
      Rien still looked at him, unsure of what to do.
      Gerim waited, thinking what he could offer as collateral, in this
 unstable and lopsided business deal. "When I was your age," the wizard
 spoke, unconsciously  bringing his hand  to his ear and  making Rien's
 gaze jerk  up, "I  had a  friend who  was poisoned  by a  snake bite."
 Rounded ear --  no evidence of elf  blood. "They told me  there was no
 cure and I watched that boy waste  away in a matter of hours." Boy. In
 the elven tongues there is no  distinction of age, just gender. "I see
 a similarity here and perhaps this time I can do something to help..."
 Gerim  spread  his arms  out  as  an  offering  of peace.  "Please,  I
 travelled half the world in one night."
      "Very well," Rien  finally nodded. The wizard  seemed sincere. "I
 wish I  could express  my thanks.  You're saving  two lives,  not just
 one."

      In a  week and a half  Rien and Kera  made their way to  the path
 where the  hidden trail to  Maari's house  lay. Their rushed  pace had
 taken its  toll and they  made camp a  half day's distance  from their
 destination, to rest and regain their strength.
      "I'm a  little worried," Kera  mentioned to Rien, over  the early
 evening fire.
      "I'm anxious too," he answered. "I want to get this over with."
      "I keep thinking that she won't help us," Kera continued, staring
 into the fire. "What if she tries something?"
      "That's a possibility," Rien said. "Something to be aware of, but
 at times it's best to hope for the better."
      "How are we going to pay her?"
      Rien shook his  head. "I don't know. I refuse  to sentence anyone
 to death."
      "What if that means our death?"
      "I can make that choice for myself, but not for you."
      Kera moved herself to sit next  to Rien. "I remember a while back
 you told  me you saw nothing  wrong with killing someone  if your well
 being was threatened."
      "Nothing wrong with  killing an individual who  threatens my well
 being," Rien corrected.
      "I am sure we can find one," Kera smirked.
      "I couldn't condemn an individual to the kind of death that Maari
 has in mind," Rien sighed.
1     "Can you condemn yourself to lycanthropy?"
      "At this point I am not desperate enough to say 'no'."
      Kera leaned  back into the  grass, looking up into  the darkening
 sky, with the first stars beginning  to appear above the forest. "What
 day were you born on?" she asked abruptly.
      "A cold one," Rien smiled.
      "Don't be silly," Kera laughed. "When?"
      "Under  the  great  oak...a   green  one,  in  unseasonably  cold
 weather."
      "In Yule?"
      "Naia 27," Rien said.
      "Why didn't you tell me?" Kera sounded hurt.
      "Wasn't important," Rien said. "There  were too many other things
 to worry about, particularly Maari's request."
      "Melrin wasn't much of a holiday either," Kera agreed. "I'll just
 have to surprise you sometime."
      Rien put his arm around Kera's  shoulder and pulled her close, in
 an attempt to comfort her.
      "You remember the weather you were born in?" she asked.
      "Not really. My mother  told me it was a little  too cold for the
 event."
      "She should have had the windows closed," Kera laughed.
      "It was outdoors," said Rien.
      "Doesn't sound  very private," Kera  said, "but then you  did say
 morals weren't much where you came from."
      "It's traditional," Rien explained.
      "Well,  there's  your  Oak,"  Kera   said,  pointing  up  to  the
 constellation of Valonus, materializing slowly in the almost dark sky.
      "When were  you born?" Rien  asked, sitting up and  throwing some
 dirt on the fire.
      "Eighth of  Janis," Kera said, sitting  up as well. "I'm  sure it
 was seasonably cold."
      The fire  went out,  leaving the clearing  covered by  the bright
 light of the almost full moon.
      "What happened to your parents?" Rien asked.
      "When I was  young, Liriss told me that I  was found abandoned. I
 stopped believing him  after a while...after seeing how  he deals with
 people. I guess my  parents got in his way and he  had them killed and
 took me."  She again leaned  back into  the grass, admiring  the moon.
 "Not having known them I really can't say I that miss them."
      Rien leaned  back in the grass  next to her, also  looking at the
 moon. "Aren't you even curious..?"
      "I'm  curious who  they were,  but...if they  are still  alive, I
 don't think I'd want to meet them."
      Rien  lay  quietly, staring  up  at  the  sky. "What  about  your
 parents?" Kera suddenly asked.
      Rien  remained  quiet   for  some  time.  "My   mother  lives  in
 Charnelwood," he finally said.
      "What about your father?"
      Rien shifted  uncomfortably on  the ground. "He  was killed  by a
 Dopkalfar  hunting party  before I  was born...before  he found  out I
 would be born."
      "I'm sorry," Kera whispered.
      "There's nothing  to be sorry  for," Rien answered. "In  spite of
 how  we feel,  life comes  and  goes. We're  not all  friends on  this
 planet. Some of us simply don't belong."
      Now it was  Kera's turn to fall  quiet. The two lay  next to each
 other in  the dark for a  long time, then Rien  heard Kera's breathing
 become more even. Exaustion had  taken its toll. Carefully pulling his
 arm from under his companion, Rien relocated himself to the other side
1of the clearing.

      Kera woke  up in the morning  to the smell of  a roasting rabbit.
 She looked around the clearing to  see Rien managing a small camp fire
 with a  rotisserie set up  over it. "Why didn't  you wake me  up?" she
 asked.
      "You needed the rest," Rien answered without turning around.
      Kera  shuffled around  on the  ground, then  got up.  "Let me  do
 that," she indicated the rabbit. "I already smell it burning."
      Rien moved away from the camp fire.
      "How did you  ever survive in the wilderness  alone?" Kera asked,
 taking his place.
      "I  don't discriminate  against raw  meat," Rien  said, "even  if
 cooked is better. Besides, I know that it's fresh if it's raw."
      "Gross," Kera mumbled. "I'd rather eat it burned."
      "I know," Rien smiled. "I thought the smell of burned flesh would
 get you up."
      Kera laughed  and continued preparing  the food. "It will  all be
 over  today, won't  it?" she  asked a  bit later.  Her voice  suddenly
 somber and serious.
      "I hope  so," Rien said. "One  way or another." He  moved to face
 Kera  and continued.  "Listen,  I've  been thinking.  When  we get  to
 Maari's home, I don't want you to dismount. Just stay on the horse and
 if  anything goes  wrong,  leave."  Kera tried  to  protest, but  Rien
 continued. "Don't argue. Like you said, this gets resolved today and I
 don't want you to get hurt. If a fight starts, if a spell is cast, go.
 Don't worry about me."
      "I'll agree to  this now," Kera said,  "but I may not  do it when
 the time comes. My  best chances are with you and in  the end I'm sure
 you agree that it's purely my decision  what to do in a situation like
 that and you certainly won't be in  a position to argue if it comes to
 that."
      Rien nodded approvingly  after a moment. "Well  said. You've been
 paying attention."
      Kera smiled back.  "I was hoping you'd like it."  But in some way
 it appeared to Rien that the smile  was false and there would be a lot
 more to do before all would be resolved.
      After breakfast  they mounted  their horses  and in  the building
 heat of the  afternoon summer sun made their way  to Maari's dwelling.
 They rode their horses onto  the hidden path, cautiously guiding their
 animals through  the thick  grass until  the roof  of the  witch's hut
 appeared in the  distance. Rien stopped his horse and  checked the egg
 one more  time; a final inspection  in the unlikely event  that he had
 missed something previously.
      Kera  stopped next  to him,  shifting restlessly  in the  saddle.
 "Maybe we should spend some more time preparing..." she said.
      Rien looked  up in  mid turn  of the  egg. His  companion's voice
 sounded shaky. "Are you alright?" his concerned eyes focused on her.
      "Just a little nervous," Kera smiled awkwardly.
      "You look  downright scared," Rien  said. He replaced the  egg in
 its pouch and  moved his horse closer to Kera's.  "Get down before you
 shake yourself from the saddle," he said, dismounting to help her.
      Kera half slid, half fell from  the saddle and Rien helped her to
 a shaded  patch of  grass beneath  a tree.  "What's wrong?"  he asked,
 gently pushing her down.
      Kera leaned  back against  the tree trunk,  trying to  regain her
 composure.
      "Relax," Rien took Kera's hands in his own. "I won't let Maari do
 anything to  you..." He was  beginning to understand what  her problem
 was.
1     Kera violently shook her head in response.
      "Nothing  will happen,"  he insisted  again, taking  Kera in  his
 arms.  It  did not  help.  "All  right,"  Rien  said after  a  minute,
 releasing Kera and  rising. "We're not going to see  her. Mount up. If
 we push the horses, we can make it to Magnus in little over a month."
      Kera looked up  at him, her shaking not as  strong as before. She
 tried to smile.  "I'm alright," but it didn't  look convincing. "Let's
 talk to her," she managed to say.
      "Are you certain?" Rien knelt before her. She still seemed on the
 verge of a breakdown.
      Kera nodded  and started to get  up. Rien hurried to  help her to
 her horse,  but as  Kera grabbed  the saddle,  she looked  towards the
 barely visible hut among the trees and again broke into a shaking fit.
 "I can't," her voice shook with fear. "She'll kill me!"
      Rien recognised himself as part of  the problem. To Maari, he was
 worthless, but Kera could provide exactly what the old witch wanted; a
 soul to experiment  with. He took Kera in his  arms again, holding her
 up against the horse. He permitted himself to realize just how much he
 feared and  hated humans who  practiced magic. He turned  Kera around,
 his now  grey eyes searching for  an answer in hers.  Kera held still,
 not understanding what the changes in  her companion were. Her fear of
 Maari  lessened, replaced  by that  of Rien,  who suddenly  thrust her
 away, tore the  saddle bag with the egg off  his horse and disappeared
 in the direction of Maari's hut.
      Kera stood  still, holding onto  her horse, watching  Rien leave,
 then, her curiosity and concern winning over her fear for herself, she
 advanced forward, with her mount obediantly following her lead.
      Making his way to the clearing,  Rien looked around. "I have your
 egg, witch!"  he shouted.  A moment later  Maari appeared  from around
 back.  She seemed  completely unprepared  for his  visit. "I  have the
 egg!"  he yelled  again, triumphantly  holding up  the saddle  bag. He
 patiently waited  for her to approach  before dropping the bag  to the
 ground and drawing his sword.
      "Bitch!" he stammered, ready to swing.
      Maari answered something  in anger, making an  unseen force throw
 Rien backwards to the ground. She  fell on her knees before the saddle
 bag, tearing it open,  to get to the precious egg.  It was whole. With
 triumph  in her  eyes, Maari  got up,  egg in  her hands.  "Fool," she
 looked at Rien's  unmoving body. "There never was and  never will be a
 cure!"
      She turned to leave, when the egg in her hands disloved to a glob
 of slime. It covered her hands and spread slowly to her body, in spite
 of her loud protests,  as Kera watched from a cluster  of trees at the
 edge of the clearing. As the  witch transformed into a puddle of slime
 on the  ground, Kera advanced from  the trees, for a  better view. Her
 fear was completely dominated by curiosity and when she spotted Rien's
 motionless body,  she ran towards him,  in spite of what  she had just
 seen.
      "Don't  touch him,  girl,"  a pleasantly  accented voice  sounded
 above her, as  Kera reached Rien's body. She  looked around, startled,
 seeing Gerim not ten feet away. How did he get there?
      "Don't touch  him," the wizard  repeated. "I can only  change the
 chain of events if you do what I say."
      Kera  took two  steps back,  looking  at Gerim  in disbelief,  to
 shocked and surprised by the turn of events to ask any questions.
      "He was  an innocent  victim of  poor planning  on my  part," the
 wizard continued. "Hurry,  bring me the large black book  Maari has in
 her house."
      Kera bolted before the instructions  were complete. She tore into
 the dark  two room hut,  tripping over a chair  and winding up  on the
1floor. A  large black cat  hissed at her  from the corner  and quickly
 disappeared into  the darkness  of the  second room.  Kera got  up and
 looked around. Her heart beat faster,  now that she realized where she
 was. She  held onto  a chair  for support.  Dark blinds  and furniture
 decorated  the spartan  main room  of the  witch's dwelling.  A heavy,
 murky smell hung  in the air, making Kera think  of the blocks beneath
 Liriss' private pier. She slowly scanned  the room, fearing to walk in
 any further, when she came to face  a human skull -- she assumed it to
 be human,  anyway, -- which  lay on the  table behind which  stood the
 chair she  used for support. She  jerked back in surprise,  looking at
 the empty  sockets that  somehow seemed  to look back.  The lack  of a
 bottom jaw made it appear as  if this horrid creature had something to
 say.
      Barely forcing herself to look  away from the skull's empty gaze,
 Kera realized  that beneath it  lay a  thick book, covered  with black
 leather. She  cautiously stepped  forward, then  dashed for  the book,
 pulling it  out from under  the skull, causing  the relic to  fall and
 roll on the floor and ran out as quickly as she ran in.
      Outside Gerim looked  up from the puddle of what  was left of the
 witch. "Ah, the book," he said, taking it from Kera.
      Kera  watched restlessly  as Gerim  opened the  book and  started
 flipping  through it.  After  a  while he  found  what  he needed  and
 pronounced an incantation. Kera felt her  back grow cold, as the spell
 grew to  its climax.  A low  rumble sounded in  the cloudless  sky and
 Rien's hand twitched.
      Gerim closed  the book and  let it  fall to the  ground, kneeling
 before Rien.
      Kera cautiously  approached, fearing that the  wizard would still
 forbid her to come near. Noticing  that, Gerim called her over, saying
 that it was all right.
      "How is he?" Kera asked with a shaky voice.
      "He's fine,"  the wizard answered.  "He's lucky not to  be human.
 Elves pay for their  long lives by not having a  soul. Maari could not
 kill him. She was no more than a necromancer."
      Kera took Rien's twitching hand into her own.
      "Give him some time," Gerim  suggested. "His system will overcome
 the shock." He got up to leave,  but turned to look back at Kera. "You
 two did me a great service, but I'm afraid I have nothing to repay you
 with. I wish you luck with your quest. May you find what you need."
      With those words  the wizard retired into the  woods. Rien's hand
 grasped tightly around Kera's.

                      Epilogue

      Liriss stared coldly  at Tilden, who stood before  him. This fool
 had the gall to fail and return to tell of his losses. That took guts,
 but certainly no brains. Then again, most of his men had no where else
 to turn  and knew  no more than  mercanary work. "I  sent four  men to
 bring back two people and what do I see before me?" Liriss asked after
 considering the trapper's story. "I  see a bedraggled fighter who lost
 his companions,  weapons and mount. I've  got half a mind  to send you
 off to the blocks."
      Liriss walked  a wide circle  around Tilden, waiting for  fear to
 set  in.  The  man  remained motionless,  but  became  noticably  more
 nervous. Liriss made a second  circle, smiling when behind Tilden. The
 feeling of power can at times be  intoxicating and an offer of mercy a
 god-like act. "I  should send you to the blocks,"  Liriss came to face
 Tilden again, "but I won't. I'll assign  a real man to do your job and
 in the mean time you can get some simple guard work done."
      Tilden released his breath, which Liriss imagined he had held for
1quite some time. "Thank you, sir."
      The  crime leader  walked  over  to the  window  and looked  into
 Dargon. "Return  to your quarters.  I will  have your new  orders sent
 down."
      Tilden left the room with  another sigh of relief, permitting his
 master's female  attendant to  come back inside.  The girl  closed the
 door and waited patiently for Liriss to notice her. He finally turned,
 looking at her thoughtfully. "Rene, find  me Kendall and have him come
 here."
      "The assassin?" she  asked. "You said you didn't want  to see his
 face again."
      "I don't," Liriss nodded solomnly, "but at least he's reliable."

      Gerim's loud  footsteps sounded  in the great  hall of  the keep.
 "Nagje'," his  voice boomed above  the loud echos. "Prepare  to vacate
 your chair."
      As he  approached the  large table  at the far  end of  the great
 hall, three gazes met his.
      "I told you," Gerim looked at  the man in the center, "once Maari
 is dead, I'll be seeking a council position."
      "Explain to us one thing," the  wizard on the left said. "The elf
 was dead. Why did you interfear?"
      "He was caught in the struggle through my intervention."
      "He would have gone to the witch anyway."
      "He would not have gone to her in anger with a dragon egg!"
      "Dragon egg my ass, Gerim! You brought life to a dead man!"
      "I reunited an elf with his spirit, a much easier task than a man
 with  his soul!"  Gerim stopped,  realizing  he was  now shouting.  "I
 tricked him  into helping me  and repaid him as  best I could  for the
 services he offered, risks he took and damages he suffered."
      "You broke the rules," Elaff insisted.
      "Whose rules?" Gerim  snapped. "Rules of three  hypocrites who do
 not  follow the  advice they  give others?  There is  nothing more  to
 discuss. Prepare for the challenge."
      With those words he left the keep.

      Rien and  Kera sat by a  creek, looking through the  leather book
 that once  belonged to  Maari. "It's  a very  old script,"  Rien said,
 explaining the  writing. "I've  seen this on  old calendars,  the ones
 used before the current one was introduced."
      "I wish I could read it," Kera said.
      "So do  I," Rien answered.  "I never had  the time to  learn when
 there was an opportunity.
      "So if  we can't  read the  book, then why  are we  trying?" Kera
 asked.
      "I was hoping there'd be pictures," Rien smiled. "Just curious of
 what's in  it, I guess."  He flipped a few  more pages. "You  may have
 heard  that those  who use  magic keep  notes on  their knowledge  and
 experiences, not just a list of  spells. Look here," he pointed to the
 open page. "See how messy this is?  I'd gamble this isn't a spell, but
 a memo  or a  description. And  over here..." he  flipped a  few pages
 back. "See how neat  and evenly spaced the text here  is? This I can't
 say  is a  spell,  but I'd  guess  it requires  care  when reading  or
 performing."
      "But if you can't read it, why bother with it?" Kera asked.
      "It's worth something to someone," Rien  said. "It may be good to
 us."
      "How?"
      "You  probably didn't  have  much experience  with  this sort  of
 thing, but information can at times be more precious than money."
1     "Like blackmail?" Kera asked.
      "It's an example," Rien nodded. "There are other types. It's like
 an old book, valuble beyond the price of money and sometimes life." He
 closed the volume with a smile. "This maybe such a book."
      "And you're hoping to find someone in Dargon who has use for it?"
 Kera asked, going back to the conversation they had before arriving at
 the creek.
      "It would do us little good  in Tench," Rien said, "and Magnus is
 too far  away at this  point. Dargon should give  us a safe  margin of
 time to apply what we learned...may learn."
      "I heard Maari say that there was no cure," Kera said.
      "I guess I was  out by then," Rien said. "That  was foolish of me
 to charge out  after her like that.  She could have killed  me just as
 easily."
      "Does your head still hurt?" Kera asked.
      "It's not  as bad as  it was,"  Rien smiled awkwardly,  "but I'll
 remember it for quite some time."
      Kera put her arm around him sympathetically. "What if there is no
 cure?"
      "I don't believe that," he answered. "If there is a way to induce
 a condition, then there is a way to reverse it. There are two faces to
 every coin. We'll  find something. Tomorrow. It's getting  too late to
 go any further tonight. Let's make camp here."
      "Good, I wanted  to take a swim," Kera said.  "Why don't you join
 me?"

      "That's all  there is," Alicia  said. She  and Mija stood  over a
 dark  green patch  of ground,  after unsuccessfully  searching Maari's
 house.
      Mija sat down on the grass next  to the dead patch and poked with
 a branch at  what looked like a  piece of an egg shell.  He watched it
 crack and break under the pressure before tossing the branch away.
      "What are you doing?" Alicia asked.
      "Thinking," he  shrugged. "Can  you figure  out what  got spilled
 here?"
      Alicia sat down next to Mija, with a thoughtful look on her face.
 "Ever feel helpless without your notes?" she smiled.
      Mija  shifted  uncomfortably,  pushing himself  back,  as  Alicia
 started on a semi-familiar spell.
      "Certainly wasn't  a normal potion,"  Alicia said a  while later,
 finishing with her spell. "I never saw anything like this."
      Mija stood up  behind her and helped her  up. "Something's wrong.
 Maari knew we were coming. Let's inform the coven."
      The pair quickly disappeared in the woods.
 ------------------------------------------------------------------------
1                            Trial by Fire
                                Part III
                           Damsel in Distress
                          by M. Wendy Hennequin
                    (b.c.k.a. HENNEQUI_WEM@CTSTATEU)

      Myrande sat in her hot, little office and stared at the stones in
 the wall. She put her hand to her lips, remembering Luthias' kiss.
      "Are you  all right about  what happened between you  and Luthias
 last night?" Lauren had asked her that morning, almost a week ago when
 Clifton and Luthias had left for  Magnus, when neither the Duchess nor
 the seneschal could eat breakfast.
      Suprise had jolted  Sable, then some slight  resentment crept in.
 She could  never manage  to keep  anything she  felt strongly  about a
 secret from Lauren--and this time it bothered her. "What do you mean?"
 Myrande hedged.
      "You know what I mean," Lauren replied calmly.
      "Nothing  happened. He  was drunk.  He  didn't know  what he  was
 doing," Myrande replied sullenly, toying with a sausage.
      Lauren smiled. "What makes you think that?"
      "He  was drunk,"  she repeated.  "He  doesn't want  me when  he's
 sober. If only--" Myrande tried to  finish, but there was nothing left
 to say.  "He was  so hurt,"  she confided to  the Duchess,  who leaned
 forward sympathetically. "I  haven't seen him like  that since Roisart
 died..." Sable could feel Luthias' pain, a hard, cold, burning lump of
 stone in her heart. "But he was  drunk, and I pushed him away. I don't
 know how, I don't know if I should  have, I don't even know why, but I
 pushed him away."
      Despair washed  over her then,  as it  had consumed the  Baron of
 Connall the night  before. "Perhaps you shouldn't  have rejected him,"
 the Duchess  said coldly.  Myrande stared at  her, confused  and hurt.
 "Perhaps you should  have let him continue. Luthias is  a man of great
 honor, young as he is. He would have married you--"
      Furious, Myrande leapt to her feet, and her chair flew toward the
 stone wall  of the keep,  crashed, and  tumbled noisily onto  the cool
 floor. "I would  never do such a thing!" she  cried, enraged. "I would
 never compromise Luthias' honor to--"  The Duchess of Dargon looked at
 her  calmly and  compassionately. Sable  compressed her  lips angrily,
 reached  behind her  for the  chair, righted  it, and  sat. "You  knew
 better," she accused tightly. "You know better. Why did you say that?"
      "So *you* would  know why you pushed him  away," Lauren explained
 gently.
      And Myrande did  understand. She had wondered whether  or not she
 had scornfully  rejected the only  opportunity she would ever  have to
 feel Luthias' touch,  to be anything like  a wife to him,  to have his
 love. Tired, sorrowful, her head lowered.
      The  Duchess touched  Myrande's hand.  "It will  be all  right. I
 know."
      Myrande  didn't question  her; there  were some  things that  the
 Duchess  of Dargon,  daughter of  the High  Mage, just  knew. She  was
 magical, the Duchess of Dargon was.
      "Do  you  know  what  this trial  will  bring?"  Myrande  finally
 inquired.
      "Only that Luthias  will gain great honor by  it," Lauren sighed.
 "Perhaps when he returns, he'll make you Duchess of Dargon."
      "Don't  say that;  it's ill  luck," Myrande  hushed her  swiftly.
 "Luthias doesn't want  to convict Clifton or Michiya. No  more does he
 want to be a  Duke. I don't wish to be Duchess. The  only thing I want
 is  Luthias' love."  Which I  shall never  have, she  reminded herself
 sternly. "What does your father think of all this?"
1     "He's  consulted  his crystal  for  days,"  Lauren revealed.  The
 Duchess stared at the wall. "And he sees war and blood."
      War and blood. Sir Edward Sothos had told Luthias that he thought
 war was coming. And so the seneschal  this day, a week after the Baron
 of  Connall  left  her  to  try  his  cousin  for  treason,  sent  for
 Macdougalls, who sauntered into her office and her reverie.
      "Hi,"  said the  assistant  Castellan  casually, seating  himself
 without permission.  He had  know Myrande  all her  life and  had been
 assistant Castellan  under her father;  he saw  no reason to  stand on
 ceremony, and Myrande knew it. "What can I do for ye, lassie?"
      Myrande smiled slightly at Macdougalls. He was a short, dark man,
 perpetually wearing a quiver of arrows and a saucy grin. "You can send
 to Dargon for masons and carpenters, since you won't let me out of the
 castle without a  guard," she bantered, only  half-playfully. The fact
 that Macdougalls  did not  permit her to  go anywhere  alone irritated
 her, as did the fact that Luthias had ordered it so. "In case there is
 a  war,  I  want  this  castle  ready.  Besides,  we're  due  for  the
 maintenance."
      "Aye, lassie," Macdougalls agreed.  His grin expanded. "These yer
 orders, or the lad's?"
      "Both, I  think." But she didn't  want to think of  Luthias. "And
 when they  arrive, I  want you  to oversee the  repairs. I'm  sure you
 know, as well as I, what needs attention."
      "Aye," Macdougalls  agreed, "and I would  say ye're on top  of my
 list."  Myrande rolled  her eyes  in  dismissal, but  the archer  only
 laughed. "Ye've  been workin' too hard,  lassie. Why don't ye  just go
 shootin'?"
      "Will you let me go alone?"
      "Nay. Lad's orders," he reminded her.
      "Then I'm  not going," Myrande decided.  "I refuse to give  up my
 privacy. If I'm going  to be surrounded, I might as  well stay where I
 am." She paused. "Were  you telling me the truth when  you said that I
 shoot better than half the archers of the Barony?"
      "Aye, of course, lass," he confirmed confidently. "I wouldn't lie
 to ye."
      Myrande  grimaced.  "If  that's  so,  you'd  better  institute  a
 mandatory daily archery practice for all the soldiers in the castle."
      Macdougalls laughed loudly and irreverently. "Ye don't have to be
 so accurate when you fire into a whole troop, lassie!"
      There  was  a  discreet  knock   on  her  door.  "Come,"  Myrande
 instructed. Mika, her pretty, young  assistant, crept into the office.
 "My lady," the  girl announced, "the lord of Shipbrook  is here to see
 you."
      "My cousin, Lord Warin Shipbrook?" Myrande asked.
      "No, my lady. It is your uncle, the Baron himself."
      "Oh, damn," Myrande  breathed. Louder, she ordered,  "Seat him in
 the solar, and  convey my regrets that I cannot  join him immediately.
 Assure him I  shall attend him shortly." Mika nodded  to the seneschal
 and the assistant Castellan and timidly crept away.
      "What  would the  Baron  of Shipbrook  want  of ye?"  Macdougalls
 wondered aloud. "He knows the lad ain't here."
      Sable's lips twitched with  displeasure. "Yes, he knows." Myrande
 knew exactly what Shipbrook wanted. "He came here because the Baron is
 absent, Macdougalls."
      "I'll set a guard in there," the archer decided.
      "No," Myrande countermanded the order. "I don't want him to think
 I fear  him." She rose  to leave her office.  "But keep an  eye sharp,
 Macdougalls. I don't trust him."
      "Me neither," Macdougalls agreed as she left the room.
      Myrande  sped upstairs  to her  chambers, threw  off the  stained
1muslin overdress  and slipped  into a semi-formal  gown of  light blue
 silk. She  could not  look the  seneschal for  company, and  her pride
 would not  permit her  to look  overworked to  her uncle.  She quickly
 unbraided her hair, brushed it, and wound it behind her head. Hastily,
 she reached  for the two  Bichanese hair ornaments Michiya  had bought
 her. She smiled;  they were beautiful--and deadly.  Although topped by
 exquisite Bichanese artwork, the ivory sticks were tipped with a sharp
 silver point. Michiya  had told her that often these  chop sticks were
 used as weapons for a final defense.
      She  finally slipped  them into  her ebony  hair and  checked her
 appearance in the mirror.
      As usual, she was dissatisfied; she was short, dark of skin, eye,
 and  hair, and  looked capable  rather than  ornamental. Her  face was
 well-formed, but not striking. She glanced  at her body and wished her
 figure were not so pronounced.
      Oh, to  look as  the Duchess  of Dargon  did, tall,  willowy, and
 beautiful, with creamy  skin and blue-green eyes...to  be educated and
 magical, as Lauren was...then, perhaps,  Luthias might have loved her,
 if she were beautiful and enchanting.
      But she was small and dark  and practical, a seneschal and not an
 enchantress. She sighed and hurried from  her room; no matter what she
 felt about her uncle, she would not shame Luthias' house.
      The Baron of Shipbrook, a tall, heavy-set, dark-haired man, stood
 as his neice entered. "You are  looking well, my dear," he greeted her
 with a  bow Myrande found  artificial rather than courteous.  "How are
 you?"
      "Well, thank you, your lordship," Myrande addressed him formally.
 Somewhat gracefully, she offered a curtsey. "And you, sir?"
      "I thank you, well," the Baron  of Shipbrook said. He sat without
 invitation. "I came  to inform you that I have  arranged your marriage
 for the twenty-fourth of Seber."
      "I am not marrying," Myrande told him. Did the man really find it
 necessary to go through this again?
      "But, my child," Shipbrook protested  in a gentle, wheedling tone
 full of a feigned concern, "you must marry."
      "The Baron of Connall says I needn't; he is my guardian, sir, not
 you."
      Shipbrook's eyes narrowed angrily.  "Girl, you have no conception
 of the shame  you bring on your family, and  on yourself, by remaining
 unmarried. Half the Duchy thinks you Connall's whore--"
      All the blood drained from Myrande's face as rage exploded at the
 comment, but she somehow kept silent.  How dare he! Whore? It was true
 that most  of the  Duchy thought her  Luthias' bride  --Fionn Connall,
 Luthias' father,  had started  that rumor  years ago--but  whore?! How
 dare he! When Luthias returned--
      But he wasn't here now. Her words were slow, careful, and formal;
 she must be careful and keep her rage in check. "I am the seneschal of
 Connall, sir,  nothing else, and  you know  it. My guardian,  the Lord
 Baron, has  refused permission  for my  marriage, has  he not?  When I
 asked him  about it,  he forbade  me to enter  into such  a marriage."
 Remembering his absolute refusal made Sable smile.
      Shipbrook's  lips compressed  into thin,  pink lines.  "He wishes
 that you be a spinster, to be mocked by the Duchy."
      "That is not true," Myrande  argued, wondering at the serenity of
 her voice. How  cool and placid she sounded! "The  Baron of Connall is
 doing his best to see I am happy." Within her, something warm lit when
 she remembered the arguement she and  Luthias had had in Dargon before
 the Sy tourney. He  had put his arms around her and  said then that he
 wanted her to be happy.
      "Don't  you want  to  marry Baron  Oleran?" Shipbrook  continued.
1Somehow, he had subdued his anger  and was again employing a wheedling
 tone. "He is a  handsome man; he's rich and owns a  great deal of land
 in the Duchy of Northfield. Granted, he is older than you--"
      "I do not  wish to marry," Myrande informed firmly.  Her calm was
 wearing thin.
      "Oleran has only seen you once,  at a distance, and he is already
 in love with you."
      Myrande  supressed a  desire to  laugh. True,  she had  never met
 Oleran and that she  was judging him by the rumors,  but she could not
 conceive of  a man of  Oleran's evil  reputation falling in  love with
 anyone, let alone a dark seneschal. "I do not love him," Sable replied
 flatly. "And I shall not marry him. I shall not marry at all--ever!"
      "You must  marry!" Shipbrook  demanded, rising.  He was  tall and
 ominous now, his dark, surly eyes wicked. "If you refuse--"
      "What  will  you  do?"  Myrande  challenged  him.  "You  have  no
 authority  over me.  Luthias  has forbidden  the  match--yet you  take
 advantage of his absence to try to  convince me to disobey him. I will
 not marry, your  lordship. And if you think you  can convince me, try,
 but I warn you  that a hundred guards will protect me if  I so much as
 call."
      Shipbrook grimaced and  turned away. "I suppose you  will turn me
 out, then."
      "I would not  think of shaming the hospitality  of Lord Connall,"
 Sable  assured her  uncle  haughtily.  "You are  welcome  to stay  for
 dinner."

      Myrande woke  slowly, woozily.  In confusion,  she stared  at the
 ceiling. It was not the low, beamed ceiling in her chamber at Connall.
 Where  was she?  This was  not  any room  in Connall  Keep or  Connall
 Castle; she would have recognized it.
      Perhaps  she  was  ill.  Yes,  at  dinner  with  her  uncle,  she
 remembered  feeling  dizzy and  sick.  That  was  the last  thing  she
 recalled. Where was she now? What had happened?
      "You dispatched men to  intercept the Castellan's messenger?" she
 heard her uncle's voice say.
      "Yes, my lord. The man was stopped."
      "Good. I  don't want the Baron  of Connall knowing of  this. Make
 sure of it. You may go."
      "Thank you, your  lordship." Myrande heard a door  close a moment
 later.
      "She is  rather lovely, in a  dark way," Myrande heard  an urbane
 voice appraise her cooly. "Like a fairy child. She will do."
      Where was she?!
      "And the bridal  price?" she heard her uncle ask.  "I grant it is
 more usual to receive a dowry--"
      "One thousand, as we agreed,"  Oleran returned politely. "You are
 taking a good deal of trouble to get  me my bride; I am willing to pay
 a good deal for her. Besides, as I  told you, I need a bride to rescue
 my reputation."
      The door--where was the door? Myrande  could not turn her head to
 see--opened and  shut rapidly. "Father,  what is this?"  Myrande heard
 her cousin, Warin, demand. "How did you get Myrande here? Does Luthias
 know of this?"
      "Of  course not,  and  he won't,"  Shipbrook  said firmly.  "Lord
 Oleran, I believe you know my son, Warin."
      "Sir," Warin acknowledged the other  noble quickly. For a moment,
 Warin's  eyes stared  at Myrande's.  "My God,  Father, she  looks like
 death. What did you do to her?"
      "I gave  her a  little callin.  It calmed her  enough to  be more
 cooperative."
1     "Callin?!" Warin  squeaked. Inside, Myrande felt  like screaming.
 That--! He had  drugged her and taken her from  her home. Myrande knew
 of drugs; part of her duties as seneschal involved healing. Callin was
 used to calm people too agitated  to relax alone. But its side effects
 included  euphoria  and  susceptibility   to  suggestion.  Her  uncle,
 that--!, had  probably used this  power of suggestion to  assure their
 escape from Connall, to convince Macdougalls that all was well.
      But would Macdougalls  allow her to get away?  No...they had said
 something about a messenger. Which her uncle had done stopped.
      "You  drugged  her?"  Warin  continued,  outraged.  "Father,  she
 doesn't want to marry!"
      "I'll  convince her  otherwise," Myrande  heard the  urbane voice
 promise. She felt  some of her hair  move, then felt the  point of the
 chop stick on her scalp. But Myrande couldn't adjust her position; she
 was still too drowsy.
      "If  not, I  still have  plenty of  callin," Shipbrook  reassured
 Baron Oleran. "You'll have a wife yet."
      "You--" Warin began, but did  not finish. "Father, you can't just
 kidnap Myrande and marry her off. Luthias--"
      "Is  two weeks  away in  Magnus,  attending the  business of  the
 King,"  Shipbrook reminded  his son  cooly. "Now,  have you  something
 useful to say, son, or am I to take away your birthright."
      There was silence for a moment,  then Warin said, "I did actually
 come to  tell you something 'useful.'  There is a ship  our harbor. An
 ambassador from the Beinison Empire,  one Count Tyago, has arrived and
 asks hospitality."
      Shipbrook  suddenly sounded  interested in  his son's  words. "An
 ambassador from the Beinison Emperor? Where is he?"
      "In the great hall."
      Myrande heard  her uncle rise.  "Come, Oleran, we must  greet the
 man civilly.  An ambassador from  Beinison in my house!"  he concluded
 joyfully. "We must hold a ball in  his honor. Warin, send a message to
 the  Duchess of  the  ambassador's  arrival, and  see  that you  don't
 mention your cousin."
      The room went  dark as the men left it,  and Myrande slipped back
 into sleep.

      Myrande Shipbrook,  Seneschal of Connall, woke  seething when the
 maid came  in to  tend her.  She rose silently,  glared at  girl, then
 regretted it. It wasn't her fault, after all. Myrande smiled sadly and
 allowed the maid to  dress her (dress her? She was  no noble lady like
 Lauren. Sable didn't need  or want a maid to dress  her). Her sky blue
 gown had  been wrinkled  by sleep,  but the  maid provided  another of
 peach silk.  Myrande gazed at  herself in  the mirror in  disdain. The
 garment's color made her skin appear dirty.
      The maid brought breakfast then,  but Myrande shook her head. The
 maid seem  confused and left,  but she  left the tray  behind. Myrande
 gazed at  it, took a  deep breath, and  made a decision.  Ignoring the
 food, Sable went to the window and gazed out. She was high in a tower,
 the highest tower  in Shipbrook's keep. She smiled. She  could see the
 towers of Connall.

      "You must eat!" her uncle raged at her a day later.
      "No,"  Myrande  refused  firmly.   Although  as  furious  as  her
 relative, she refused to raise her voice and lower herself.
      "You'll starve yourself."
      "If I am kept captive."
      "Eat!" Shipbrook commanded.
      "I  will not,"  Sable repeated.  She smiled.  Luthias had  always
 called her  stubborn and prideful;  thank God  she was. She  would not
1allow this toad to win.
      "Oleran will not have a starved bride!"
      "Baron Oleran will have no  bride at all," Myrande corrected him.
 "I refuse to marry him, sir. In the ceremony, I am asked to accept the
 bridegroom. It is my choice. You cannot make me marry."
      "I  pursuaded   you  to   leave  Connall,  my   girl,"  Shipbrook
 threatened. "I can use my pursuasion again."
      "Not if  I neither  eat nor drink,"  Sable reminded  him, smiling
 triumphantly. "How will you drug me again?"
      Her uncle looked shocked at the words.
      A  knock sounded.  "What?" her  uncle shouted  angrily. Myrande's
 cousin Tylane opened the door slightly. "Father, the Count of Tyago is
 ready for the ball. Is Myrande coming?"
      "No," the Baron  of Shipbrook said flatly. He  turned to Myrande.
 "I will  not let you  out of  this room until  you agree to  marry the
 Baron Oleran." Myrande  only smiled at him, and  Shipbrook turned back
 to Tylane. "Where is your brother?"
      "Getting ready. He'll meet us downstairs."
      "Very well. I shall also join you there." Tylane nodded, cast one
 sympathetic, helpless look  at his cousin, and  disappeared behind the
 heavy door. Myrande stared at the  door. She heard the bolt slide into
 place every  time Shipbrook  left, and  she knew  that there  were two
 guards outside  it. Shipbrook  turned to his  neice again.  "You shall
 change your mind," he promised. He whirled and left the room.
      A  ball  tonight.  Perhaps  she could  escape.  Lauren  would  be
 invited; if  only she could  get a message  to her. No;  the servants,
 though sympathetic, couldn't risk  it. Tylane wouldn't. Warin--perhaps
 he would help. But she could depend on no one but herself.
      As night fell, Sable went to the window again and looked out. She
 smiled as she  saw the towers of Connall again,  then she examined her
 own tower.
      Her room was  over four hundred feet high (can't  climb down, she
 decided; not enough bed covers to make a rope); the roof of the tower,
 which was  a flat stone floor  with crenolations, was only  forty feet
 above her. Myrande pulled her head back into the room and examined the
 ceiling. Yes, she could see the trap door, and there were stairs along
 the  walls leading  to it.  Reaching the  roof wasn't  a problem.  She
 looked back out.  The top of the tower was  accessible from the castle
 walls;  she had  an  escape route.  But the  walls  were patrolled  by
 Shipbrook's men  and Oleran's; she would  never get out alone.  If she
 could get  a guard's uniform,  that might be  one thing. She  might be
 able to  trick the guards and  send one away, but  she couldn't subdue
 the other one unless she chose to kill him with her Bichanese weapons.
 No; she would not kill.
      Myrande jolted  as she heard  the bolt  slip back from  the door.
 Perhaps Oleran had  come to beat her, or Shipbrook  to try to convince
 her to marry. Her mouth set; she would not let them win.
      A slim figure slipped rapidly into  the dim tower room and closed
 the door. "Myrande!" it rasped.
      Myrande smiled slightly and came forward. "Warin! What is it?"
      Warin took  her hands firmly, but  the grip was also  frantic and
 frightened. "Why aren't you eating?" her cousin demanded. "Do you know
 what you're doing?"
      "I  know  exactly what  I'm  doing,"  Myrande assured  him.  "I'm
 preventing  your father  from drugging  me again.  He drugged  my food
 before; he  isn't going to  trick me into  marrying Oleran the  way he
 tricked me into leaving Connall."
      "Myrande, you  must eat  something," Warin reminded  her, holding
 her hands so tightly that it hurt. "If you don't, you'll die."
      "I'm so  glad you  went to the  University, Warin,"  Sable teased
1playfully. "I would never know these things if you didn't tell me."
      "I'm serious!" the frustrated Warin cried out, jerking her hands.
 "Myrande, you could die! Do you want to die?"
      "No," Myrande  spat angrily, "of course  I don't! Do you  think I
 want to give up on life? But  I'd rather die honorably than be tricked
 into  a marriage  and beaten  by Oleran.  Luthias would  rather--" She
 stopped.
      Warin  sighed  and,  defeated,  he released  her  hands.  "You're
 right," he  conceded, sounding tired.  "Luthias would rather  you died
 like this  than married to Oleran.  So would I," he  revealed heavily.
 "But I wish there were some other way."
      "Get  me  out of  here,"  Myrande  suggested. "Send  someone  for
 Luthias. Get me a guard's uniform. Anything."
      "I can't get you  a uniform or take you from  here. My father has
 the soldiers watching for tricks," Warin told her, collapsing onto her
 feather bed. "And as  for messengers--Father's already killed Luthias'
 man that your archer castellan sent out." Young Lord Shipbrook sighed,
 was silent,  then sat up quickly.  "Myrande--if I bring you  the food,
 will you eat it? I understand why you don't trust my father, but--"
      "I'll eat it," Myrande agreed. Perhaps there was a way after all!
 "At the ball...can you talk to the Duchess?"
      "My father's after me like a hawk."
      "He'll disinherit you if he finds out about the food."
      Warin smiled weakly. "I'd rather be  right than rich, if it comes
 down to  your life, Myrande."  He was  silent again. Myrande  sat down
 beside  him. Warin  looked up  at her,  his hazel  eyes cloudy  in the
 dimness. "We could get married."
      "No," Myrande said softly, but quickly.
      "Why?" Myrande looked  away. "Is it that man Luthias  told me of,
 the one you're in love with?" Myrande was still, then she nodded. "Who
 is he? Maybe--if he knows you love him--he'll help us."
      Myrande laughed and  turned toward her cousin.  "I wouldn't doubt
 it!" She  sobered quickly. "But  it wouldn't do  us any good.  He's in
 Magnus--"
      "Good God!" Warin  cried out, caught between  laughter and shout.
 "You love Luthias."
      "Yes," Myrande admitted, sighing. "I love Luthias."
      "He doesn't know? You didn't tell him?"
      "I couldn't."
      "He would marry you, Myrande, if--"
      "For the wrong  reasons," she argued. "I don't  want him marrying
 me  because he  feels he  should.  And I  don't want  him pitying  me,
 either. Let it alone, Warin."
      For a long while, young  Lord Shipbrook didn't speak. Finally, he
 stood. "We'll find some way, Myrande," he promised.
      "Thank you," Myrande  said, and Warin knocked on  the bolted door
 to be let out.
      He turned back. "I'll bring something before dawn."
      Myrande assented, understanding. Her  cousin disappeared when the
 door opened.  She took  the chop  sticks from  her hair,  slipped them
 beneath her pillow, then undressed and went to sleep.

      Warin  slipped into  the ball  room once  the music  started. His
 father  snagged his  tunic angrily.  "Where  were you?"  the Baron  of
 Shipbrook demanded of his elder son. "Why are you late?"
      "I was  talking to Myrande,"  Warin explained defiantly.  "Do you
 object?"
      "She will marry Oleran," Shipbrook insisted. "I will see to it."
      "I told her that," Warin  lied. "She's stubborn, Father, like her
 mother."
1     Warin watched his father's face; it  did not move, but he saw the
 flinch  behind his  eyes.  Yes,  that still  hurt  his  ego, that  his
 brother,  who had  no title,  no  wealth, and  at the  time, not  even
 Knighthood, should have  been preferred to him by  the loveliest woman
 in the Duchy of her generation.  Like her mother, Myrande was immobile
 when she loved another.
      "You are  trying to trick me,"  Shipbrook accused his son  in low
 tones. Smiling, the Baron bowed to a passing noble.
      "Not  at all.  I don't  want to  see Myrande  caged. It  would be
 better for  her if she  gave in," Warin  stated, lying again.  A brief
 thought cascaded  across his brain;  if Myrande conceded, would  he be
 able to smuggle her out of the keep?
      His father  looked him over  cooly. "It is  good to see  you have
 come to  your senses," his  father finally  told him. "Come.  You must
 meet the Beinsison ambassador."
      The Baron of Shipbrook led his  elder son toward his younger son,
 Tylane, and Tylane's betrothed, Danza  Coranabo. With them was a young
 man who  looked to be about  Danza's age: fifteen. To  this young man,
 the Baron of Shipbrook bowed. "Count Tyago," he announced himself. The
 young man, blond  and boyish, nodded respectfully. "This  is my eldest
 son, Warin. Warin, Count Tyago."
      "How do you do, sir," Warin said politely, bowing.
      "How do you do," replied the Count in an accent pronounced enough
 to be noticed  but slight enough not to  interfere with understanding.
 He held out his hand to Warin. "A pleasure to meet you."
      "And you, your--" What was the proper term of respect for a Count
 of the Beinison Empire? It  was "excellency" here... "And you, Count."
 Warin smiled at the young man. "What brings you here to Baranur?"
      "The business of  the Emperor," Count Tyago replied.  "I am going
 to Magnus  as an  emissary from  his Imperial  Majesty to  your King."
 Tyago glanced at  Warin's brother. "Your father has offered  to me the
 companionship of Lord Tylane."
      "You're going to Magnus?" Warin asked his brother. Tylane nodded,
 almost  shyly. "And  leaving your  bride?" Warin  teased. His  brother
 blushed, as did Danza.
      "I  would  not want  your  son  to  leave his  betrothed,"  Tyago
 protested. "Please stay."
      "I'll go  in his place,  Father," Warin volenteered,  then cursed
 himself. Who would bring food to Myrande? She'd die for certain!
      "No," Baron  Shipbrook refused  with finality. "Tylane  will go."
 Danza appeared dejected, Tylane sad. "I have given my word." The Baron
 looked over his shoulder and saw  the entrance and announcement of the
 Duchess of  Dargon. He grimaced.  "I must  attend to my  other guests,
 sir," he said to the young Count. "Pray excuse me."
      Tyago bowed to him  as he left, then bowed to  Danza as the music
 started.  "Would you  like to  dance, my  lady?" Danza  blushed again.
 "With your  permission, Lord Tylane?"  Tylane smiled and  nodded, then
 whisked Danza gracefully away.
      Warin grabbed his brother's sleeve. "You're going to Magnus?"
      "Don't get  any ideas,"  Tylane warned him  in a  hiss. "Father's
 like a falcon; he's watching every move I make. If he--"
      "Take a  message to  Luthias," Warin  breathed. "Tell  him what's
 happening. Tell  him to get the  hell back here before  Father marries
 Myrande off to Oleran, before she gets beaten or raped or killed!"
      "I can't,"  Tylane swore.  "If Father  suspects, he'll  refuse to
 accept Danza for me."
      "Would you rather have Myrande's blood on your hands?"
      "I won't give  up Danza!" Tylane vowed angrily. He  smiled as the
 Duchess of Dargon  passed him. "Not for you, not  for Myrande, and not
 for Luthias."
1     "You'd better," Warin threatened,  snagging his brother's sleeve.
 "You *owe* Luthias. You told me yourself that if Luthias hadn't chosen
 to listen to Danza  when she said she loved you and  not him, she'd be
 married to him now and you'd have no hope!"
      "I won't risk losing the woman I love!"
      "And you are willing to risk Myrande's losing the man she loves?"
      "She loves no one," Tylane  stated petulantly. "If she had, Fionn
 Connall would have married her off years ago."
      "She loves  Luthias," Warin  hissed. "Is it  any wonder  the late
 Baron held off?"  Tylane looked at his brother, then  looked away. "It
 isn't hard, Tylane," Warin cajoled.  "Just tell him." Tylane looked up
 again, then shifted his gaze. "You owe Luthias."
      "Yes," breathed Tylane reluctantly, "I owe Luthias."
      "You'll do it?"
      "I'll  tell  him," Tylane  promised,  sighing.  "I can't  promise
 anything else, Warin."
      "It's  enough," Warin  assured him,  and  he went  to dance  with
 Pecora Winthrop.
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              ______________________________________

              A Journal of Fact, Fiction and Opinion
              ______________________________________

 Quanta is an electronically distributed magazine of science fiction.
 Published monthly,  each issue contains short fiction,  articles and
 editorials by authors around the world  and across the net.   Quanta
 publishes  in  two  formats:   straight  ascii and  PostScript*  for
 PostScript compatible printers.   To subscribe to Quanta, or just to
 get more info, send mail to:

                          [email-masked]
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 Quanta is a relatively new magazine  but is growing fast,  with over
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 Electronic publishing is the way of the future.  Become part of that
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 ******   *****            The Online Magazine              ***********
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                       ---------------------------

  >> What is Athene?

     Athene is a free network "magazine" devoted to amateur fiction
     written by the members of the online community.  Athene does not
     restrict itself to any specific genre, but will publish quality
     short stories dealing with just about any interesting topic,
     including (but not limited to):

                  science fiction,           fantasy,
                  religion,                  mystery,
                  computers,                 humor,
                  psychology,                sports,
                  politics,                  business

  >> Distribution

     Athene is published monthly (assuming stories come in at a
     reasonable rate), and comes in two formats -- ASCII and PostScript.
     For those who don't have access to a PostScript-compatible
     printer, the ASCII distribution is a text-only file much like
     the mail you are reading at this moment.  The content of the
     magazine is identical across both formats.

     The ASCII version usually runs about 1300 lines, and the PostScript
     edition typically generates about twenty pages.

     To subscribe, send mail (no interactive messages, please)
     to me at:

                Jim McCabe
                [email-masked]

     Please remember to indicate which format (ASCII or PostScript)
     you would prefer to receive.

  >> Miscellaneous

     Back issues can be ordered on request by sending mail to me at
     the above address.  An index is also available upon request.

     Please contact me at the above address for further information
     concerning Athene's story submission policy.

                                                  Jim McCabe
                                                  Editor, Athene
                                                  [email-masked]
1------------------------------------------------------------------------
    (C)    Copyright   October,    1989,   DargonZine,    Editor   Dafydd
 <[email-masked]> .  All rights revert  to the authors.  These stories
 may not be  reproduced or redistributed save in the  case of reproducing
 the whole 'zine for further  distribution without the express permission
 of the author involved.